Archive of Our Own ^beta

A story in three acts. 

Act I
The issue 

“You see, it’s Harry.”

“I see.”

“Harry Potter I mean.”

“Yes, I gathered, thanks.”

“The Harry Potter, you know?”

“Creevy, we both know who he is. And you know I know who he is. So what are you even doing right now?”

Dennis shrugged, completely unfazed. “Some information is best to repeat.”

“Not this.”

“But you know, I think people think he’s not the real Harry. You hear these muggles using stuff like camerashop, or whatever.”

“I understand he is the real Harry Potter.” Draco said, feeling he was living in an alternative dimension. Maybe he was dead—and this was his inferno, his hell, his punishment. And Merlin, somehow, it was still better than what he thought it was going to be (despite all evidence to the contrary that particular Wednesday morning).

“Ok, good,” Dennis Creevy agreed, nervous hands drying on his robes. They were both standing there, in the cold DMLE room. “You know, I have no control over what happens.”

Draco took a long, steadying breath. Because he was the best, he reminded himself. Everyone knew he was, and so did he. He did.

“Remind me what happens again.”

Dennis Creevy gave him a watery, desperate look. “But—but you know what happens!” 

The Aurors standing by the door shifted uncomfortably.

“Please remind me,” Draco said in his (somehow) best professional voice, which barely made the mark. He himself could feel the irritation; therefore, everyone else could. 

“I—I wrote everything on the report. Since March, weird things started happening, like there was the water colour incident—”

“No need to get agitated, Creevy.” He observed, mostly because Creevy’s tone was getting to him. And so were the nervous Aurors standing there in the corner. Did they have to be present? He hated them.

“I’m not!” He said, tone proving exactly the opposite. “I’'m only here because they asked me--”

“Why Potter?” Draco asked him, raising an eyebrow. Testing a theory.

“What do you mean?”

“Why do you take pictures of Potter?”

“Because he is Harry Potter?” Creevy answered, tone condescending.

“Yes, but like, why?” Draco asked back, tone even more condescending.

Creevy looked speechless as he laughed. “Malfoy, what?”

“Say it.”

“Say what? What is wrong with you?”

“I’m afraid I know what is wrong with me.” He shifted two fingers in the air, dismissing the issue. He looked bothered, “the other thing.”

“Because he is Harry Potter.”

“Ok, I need you to elaborate.”

“He’s our saviour! He is—”

“Commercially.” Draco interrupted him, hand up, “please answer me commercially.”

“Because it sells.”

“Ah,” Draco nodded slowly, satisfied, “was it that difficult now, Creevy?” 

Dennis gave him a scolding look, but Draco was immune to them. Had been, for about 10 years. “How is that important?”

“It’s not, but I wanted to hear you say it.” Draco said with a smirk.

“You know Malfoy, you are still absolutely bloody insufferable.”

“Thanks.”

An Auror by the door gave out a cough. Draco ignored her.

He turned the camera in his hands around. It didn’t really look or feel like a cursed object. And if he had to be fair, he would have to admit that he didn’t know much about cameras. However, he knew a lot about curses.

“When and where did you buy this?”

“It’s my brother’s old camera. You know, the one who died at Hogwarts?” Dennis said, crossing his arms and looking incredibly annoyed. “I am starting to think you didn’t read the report.”

Draco hadn't. 

“Colin, mh?” Draco asked him, raising his eyebrows. He pretended not to, but he remembered each and everyone of them, Gryffindors included. “Annoying, always around Potter like a little puppy dog?” He finished, trying to be as casual as he could.

Dennis spoke to the Aurors. “Do I have to keep talking to him?”

Draco answered. “I’m afraid so. I’ve already tried to get out of it myself but apparently I’m the best cursebreaker in the United Kingdom and so we both have to make this work.”

His hands flipped the camera around, but there was nothing interesting to see. Nothing he felt. He shook it and Creevy gasped—he gave it back, and he snatched it possessively. 

“What sort of film do you use?”

“Standard SpectraPlate 303.”

Draco grabbed the stack of photos that came with the dossier, and flipped through them. Potter was in all of them. Looking insane. 

Dennis’ shoes squeaked as he shifted his weight nervously between his legs. The Aurors’ presence was looming. Draco sighed. 

“Well, that’s all for today. I’ll let you know if I need you again.” He reluctantly said, but also happy to get rid of Creevy. And to leave that stupid place. 

Draco’s gaze was fixed on the pile of pictures featuring Potter, and yet he still felt the other’s relief at being dismissed.

Creevy left without a goodbye.

***

The problem now was that he had to speak to Potter. A circumstance he was trying to avoid like dragon pox, because (and to no one’s surprise), Potter had gone.. Slightly off the rails.

In the first years after the war, everyone had given him grace. Obviously being the Chosen One and dying or whatever had apparently done a number on him. Fair enough. Draco could accept that.

But then.

Potter, in open defiance to common decency and basic self-preservation, decided to not only not give a fuck and be weird about it, but to come back. At all. Draco thought it was borderline masochistic. If he’d Potter’s problems—being a superstar with deeply obvious mental issues tied to the fact of being said superstar—he would have vanished and never looked back. Which is what he thought he had done in the first place.

But no: this was a bizarre timeline, a timeline where Draco Malfoy got a job (a curse breaker! He was so proud of his certificate), and where Harry Potter had gone down a spiral of weirdness. Like, not normal weirdness. Extra weird. 

After a few minor incidents (if you could call them that, rather than downright scenes), he had disappeared. Rumour had it his friends had sent him to the Continent, to some sanitary-behavioural clinic; others claimed he’d started a new life in Colombia. Draco, who was unfortunately partial to gossip, didn’t believe any of it—but, like anyone who wasn’t a bore, he still rather enjoyed the image of Potter in a casita somewhere, screaming at the void.

During Potter’s absence from society, everyone had been gagging for him—as proved by the incessant stream of unhinged theories about where the Saviour might have been hiding. Five years down the line, the Prophet was still running blurbs in the society section, speculating on Potter’s whereabouts. Draco read all of them with avid curiosity. Not that he would ever say. 

And then he came back. Only different.

Everyone had wanted their hero to return, their knight in shining armour. Harry Potter wasn’t that; or at least, wasn’t that anymore. Although, according to Draco, he’d never had any armour to speak of in the first place (unless you counted that picture from last year of Potter in a short chain mail over black tailored trousers, which Draco did not).

Potter came back as an artist. That was his new, renewed self.

Draco, and everyone else for the matter, had been quite taken aback by it. A few articles questioned his sanity (again), but most were busy pointing out just how fit he’d gotten.

And, for Merlin’s sideburns and moustache, he had. Not that Draco would ever admit it out loud—despite what his stupid friends might say, he still had some pride left. But damn it, whatever Potter had done, and wherever he’d been, had suited him greatly.

He’d gotten broad, muscular, and generally delicious-looking in a way that made it impossible not to notice, even when you very much didn’t want to (which was Draco’s case). He still dressed like he didn’t care; but on that body, anything he wore passed for high fashion. Especially when what he wore was so random and so against the grain: a picture of Potter in a fucking skirt and combat boots most probably broke the printers at The Prophet from the sheer number of copies run. And to be completely honest, caught mid-movement, it was impossible not to notice just how well shaped his thighs were.

Potter was still media-shy and still declined interviews, but rather than scowling at the cameras like he used to, he simply ignored them. He stood by his work with quiet confidence, creations The Quibbler described as a ‘remarkable re-invention of bodies through the lens of survival.’

Ew.

Draco had read that article against his will (or so he claimed to his friends, when he stupidly let it slip that he’d read it at all).

Obviously, being Potter, it hardly mattered whether he was any good. In the years following his Return (that’s how the newspapers called it. Return, capital R), people bought whatever piece he put up for sale and flocked to any exhibition that featured his work.

Draco, for his part, was no art connoisseur. 

He had many qualities, and he was culturally inclined (or so he would describe himself) but he was no expert in the sort of art Potter favoured: vulgar and a little too much. Unless overt genital displays and the like were your idea of art.
 
And that was not Draco’s thing.

It was Pansy’s thing though. Apparently. 

When she had proudly showcased a piece that Potter himself had gifted her, Draco’s eyebrows shot up so high he had been briefly afraid of losing them: a Picassoesque canvas representing (or so he was told) the concept of nipples. Whatever that meant. 

Draco had listened to Pansy’s explanation whilst quietly touching his forehead to ensure his eyebrows were still there (they were). When Pansy had asked him what he was doing, Draco had answered truthfully: she didn’t speak to him for two weeks after that.  

Despite how small their social circles really were, he’d never actually crossed paths with Potter. Luckily, really, because what was he supposed to share with him? He couldn’t imagine anyone worse to have small talk with. They were just never good at that. I mean, he had seen him, here and there, but never directly. 

Besides, Draco was a night creature and belonged in expensive, posh bars; Potter probably haunted the V&A, or whatever other strange places art-loving people congregated at. Draco actually didn’t know. He didn’t even know what the V&A really was, but in his current derogatory internal monologue, it sounded good. 

Draco finished reading the report he hadn’t really bothered with before speaking to Creevy. 

He then stared at the wall in front of him and sighed. Much as he wanted to avoid it, he couldn’t work this case without speaking to Potter.

May Merlin give him strength. 

***

Potter himself opened the door to the art studio. “Malfoy?” He asked, surprised to see him. But not as surprised as Draco was at Potter’s outfit: loose yoga pants and nothing else. “Draco, Malfoy?”

“The one and only.” He managed, but his voice came out a bit strangled.

“What are you doing here?” Potter asked again just as Draco’s sight betrayed him: he looked at Potter’s bare chest, and were those nipple piercings?

They were.

“I am—well,” Draco coughed, attempting to regain his composure. Potter always did that to him; which mostly caused him irritation. And he was sure that what he felt right then was irritation. “I’m here for the case?” Unfortunately it came out as a question. Irritated, yes.

“Which case?” Potter wondered with a stupid tone, crossing his arms and leaning on the door frame.

Nipple piercings visible. Flaunted. He was far too casual about his body; he never used to be. The memory of Potter’s thighs from that stupid picture flooded him. Draco hated being alive. 

He closed his eyes briefly. Cleared his throat, and uttered, in his most odious tone: “The Creevy case.”

“Oh, that one.”

“How many cases do you even have pending?” Draco asked, feeling actual irritation. Irritation was better than anything else that had threatened him just a few moments prior. The flaunting had thrown him off.

“A few, actually,” Potter admitted, straightening. He gave him an inquisitive, appreciative stare which threw Draco off. Again.

“Alright.” Was all he managed to say.

“Are you here for the copyright claim?”

“I’m a curse breaker, Potter. Not a lawyer.”

Potter shrugged. “I’ve been cursed so many times.”

“By Elf Vulvas?” Draco couldn’t resist saying, noticing a painting of Potter’s latest art collection hanging on the wall behind him. Potter’s exhibition, From House Elves to Centaur, Anatomy of Creation and Existence was in fact, part of the dossier.

Potter looked surprised. “You know about my art collection?”

“I mean, I—” he swallowed, “never have I ever seen a vulva before in my life, but thanks to you I have seen House Elves vulvas?” He tried.

“And how do you feel about that?” Potter asked, curious.

“Scientifically?”

“Sexually.”

“Vulvas are not really my thing.” Draco conceded, somehow honest. “I mean, I support them. Yay, vulvas.” For some reason, he raised a fist in the air, “you know me.” 

“Do I?” Potter cocked an eyebrow up and his lips quipped into a knowing smile.

Draco lowered his pathetic resistance fist. “Potter,” he began, “you know my best mate has one of them. So, hurray for vulvas!” He half raised it again but with less sentiment this time.

“Parkinson?”

Draco lowered his arm to his hip. He would never ever make a political statement with his body ever again and wondered why he even did it in the first place because now he felt like an idiot. How was it ever a good idea? Had Draco ever, ever, raised a fist in political sentiment? No.  

“Who else?” He asked, trying to forget what his body had just done. He should throw himself in the Thames. He probably was going to. 

“She has a lovely vulva. Big lips.” Potter stated, making a weird gesture with his hand. In a way that did not console him in the slightest, Draco felt less lonely about his prior awkward body statement. 

But also, he stared at him in horror. “What?”

“She posed for me,” was all that Potter said. “Beautiful smell, as well.”

And this is why Draco did not want to interview Potter, amongst other things. 

“Have you ever smelled a vulva, Malfoy?” Potter asked him with an inquisitive look as Draco stood silent. Speechless really. 

“I don’t think I have, no.” Draco answered sincerily after a while, and wondered why he even fucking bothered.

“You should.”

“I’m not going to smell Pansy’s vulva, Potter.”

“A pity.”

“It was great to see you,” Draco said insincerely, because what the fuck was he supposed to say? He took a step back on the landing. 

“Oh, come on.” Potter rolled his eyes playfully behind his spectacles. “Don’t be all prickly. I was only talking about vulvas.”

Draco turned his attention to the corridor of the building where Potter’s art studio was. “We can talk vulvas all you want Potter, but I am not smelling my best friend’s genitals, you understand.”

Potter raised an empathetic hand. “I get it,” he said, closing his eyes and looking sorry, somehow. “You still have a lot to dismantle.”

“Potter, seriously. No. I will never ever smell my best friend’s vulva, and this has nothing to do with my internalised misogyny or whatever you were about to say.”

“I was about to talk about your internalised misogyny.”

“That’s what I thought.”

They stared at each other. Then Draco’s eyes betrayed him (again!) and went back looking at Potter’s pierced nipples.

“Do you like what you see?” Potter asked, amused.

“No.” Draco lied.

“Liar.” Potter rebutted.

Back to staring.

Draco cleared his throat. But there was nothing to clear, so the noise came out strangled. “I think it might be best if I come back again, you know. Maybe this was not the best of times.”

“Sure,” Potter smiled, “I see you tomorrow?”

“Alright.”

Draco raced out of that stupid corridor.

***

The day after, Draco was readier. 

As in, still not ready to confront Potter, but at least aware of how unready he was. Which, all in all, was great self-awareness. Draco felt proud.

Until he wasn’t, because here he was again, knocking on Potter’s studio for a second time. 

Potter was, at least, wearing a violently purple t-shirt. Which was less distracting than his bare chest, if not for that Draco knew the piercings existed and Draco’s imagination did not need much to be nudged in the right (or wrong) direction.

“Welcome back,” Potter greeted him with that new warm tone of his that Draco hated.

“Yes, so, did you take some time to regroup?” He said, as casual as he could (poorly). 

“Me?” Potter asked him, giving him an incredulous stare, “are you sure I had to regroup?”

“It’s corporate lingo, Potter.” He said dismissively, “I only meant: are we more ready today?”

“I was ready yesterday. You needed time.”

Draco took a long breath. “Sure, I needed time,” he conceded, but he didn’t mean it. Well, maybe he did. But Potter now was at least wearing a t-shirt, which was an improvement, and definitely that colour did not suit him (but it really did).

“I know,” Potter stated, understanding, as if he read Draco’s mind.

Draco shook his head, banishing the thought. Potter was a terrible occlumancer, everyone knew that. Right? “Can we talk about the case then?”

“Creevy, you said.”

Draco looked around the landing. Why did Potter enjoy having conversations on the landing, rather than inside? He felt like a door-to-door salesman. 

“Yes. I just have a few questions for you, I won’t take a lot of your time.” He tried to smile, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing to do with vulvas, I promise.” He attempted a joke, because he felt uncomfortable.

“You sure speak a lot about vulvas for someone who doesn’t enjoy vulvas.” Potter quipped, crossing his arms on his chest.

Piercings, Draco’s mind supplied.

“I—Potter.” Draco grabbed the bridge of his nose to anchor himself, “fine. Do you want to talk about vulvas?” He asked, moving a demonstrative hand in the air.

“I’m not into vulvas.” Potter shrugged. 

Draco blinked at him, and Potter stared back.

“Ok, so," he straightened an invisible wrinkle on his robe, "then can we talk about the case?”

“Sure,” Potter agreed, and walked inside. Draco followed.

The foyer of Potter’s study was a mad place. 

There was a red hand-shaped armchair—one finger was chipped, as though someone had sat too aggressively on it, or troubled it too much. Maybe both. Draco didn’t want to know how or why. 

Across from it stood a coat stand made of twisted brass rods that vaguely resembled antlers, burdened with clothing and one extremely pink and feathery boa Draco refused to acknowledge.

The walls were covered in art, including a giant painting of the House Elf vulva Draco had noticed the day prior. He tried not to look at it, but it was impossible for his eyes not to dart back. He never knew a clitoris could look like that. 

There were charcoal drawings of something anatomical Draco chose not to identify. Spinning things dangled from the ceiling and caught the light coming from the window, making the place shimmer and shine. It smelled of paint and.. clean. 

Draco sat down on the normal-ish looking (but bright yellow) sofa facing the hand-shaped chair, so he could have the vulva painting behind him. 

Potter settled on the anatomical armchair, and crossed his legs. His feet were naked. Of course they were. 

“So?”

“So, what?” Draco asked, distracted by the spread of magazines on the coffee table that went from questionable interspecies porno to art reviews. Sometimes both at the same time because what was 'Hornbeetles do-it on 1600s Danish Furniture; Sexuality through History of Interior Design'?

“So.. the case? The one you keep on talking about?” Potter asked, raising his eyebrows, an amused look on his face. And frankly, he looked good. Really good. Which made everything worse.

“Ah, yes. The case,” Draco said, clearing his voice. Irritation, he reminded himself, channel irritation. “About the unfortunate stuff that keeps on happening in connection to photos of you published on the Prophet—”

“Ok.” Potter answered flatly.

“Potter, do you have no empathy?” Draco spat out, surprised at his response. This was not the Potter he knew: righteous, ready to fight anything that felt remotely unfair or unjust.

“I have a lot of empathy! Only, I’m completely checked out. Or so my therapists say.”

“Plural?”

“Yes.”

“Your ego that big, mh?” Draco asked him, cocking an eyebrow up full of judgement.

“No, my trauma is that big. I have a therapist for my general life, you know, adolescence related trauma and boyhood, I have a life coach, I have a—are you following?”

“I’m not sure I want to. I’m only here for the Creevy case.”

“And my nipple piercings."

“And your—no!” Draco screeched in horror.

“Sure about that?” Potter asked him with a smirk and a knowing face.

“Potter, they were just in my face.” Draco defended himself.

“You didn’t just stare though, did you. It wasn't just curiosity. You were licking your lips.” 

“Maybe they were parched.”

“Sure.”

“It’s very dry here, you know.”

“Absolutely.”

That’s when Potter’s humidifier (which had to be sentient, surely) emitted a strangled sound that proved that in fact, it was doing its job.

Potter and Draco stared at each other as it did.

“Or maybe I just had chapped lips,” Draco added quickly.

“They looked very moist to me.”

“I’m not sure I want to hear you ever say the word moist,” Draco told him, running a hand through his hair in an open gesture of nervousness. What was going on?

Potter followed the movement and then laughed in his face. “Alright, then. Tell me how I can help with the case.”

Draco cleared his throat, took out a notepad. “When did you start noticing things getting weird?”

Potter looked at him, amused. “Weird, how, exactly? Things are generally weird around me.”

“Well,” Draco said, flipping a page and trying his best to behave and be bloody professional, “for example: during the vernissage of your—” he waved his quill vaguely at the wall behind him, “—female genitalia series, everyone at the event experienced what the Healers diplomatically called ‘a surge in erotic energy’, and St Mungo’s had to work overtime handing out calming draughts to half of wizarding London.”

Potter rubbed his neck. “Oh, yes. That.”

“That?” Draco echoed, horrified. “Potter, strangers were rutting against each other.”

“Art should move people.” 

Draco exhaled. “Sure. And 42 people got really, really moved.”

Potter shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Look,” Draco pressed on, “that incident wasn’t isolated. There was that picture of you attending that gallery opening in Soho and every magical person in the neighbourhood started compulsively painting—”

Potter straightened, brightening. “Yes! I had no idea people harboured such talent.”

“A wizard was found painting his house door with his own tears because he didn’t have any paint available.” Draco said flatly.

“Moving.”

“No,” Draco corrected him. “Disturbing.”

Potter leaned back on his anatomical armchair, looking far too relaxed for someone who was the reason the whole city was going mad. “Listen, I’ve always done this. You know, influence people.” He made a dismissive hand gesture, “it’s not something that I do on purpose, nor that I have any control over. Remember when after the war people started drawing a scar on their foreheads?”

Draco glared at him. “Potter, this is serious. It’s not just people having poor taste.” Potter scowled slightly at that. Draco relished it. He continued: “these episodes coincide with photographs of you getting published. And if it's not you, then it’s an astromagical coincidence that everything you get photographed doing triggers a citywide magical incident.”

Potter crossed his legs the other way, still trying his best at casual, but somewhat failing. “But why is it on me? I’m not doing anything, I’m just living my life.” 

“This is what I’m trying to understand.”

Potter nodded. “Alright. Okay. Tell me what you need from me.”

Draco felt a rush of something: it was not annoyance, nor despair, but—oh no.

He aggressively ignored it.

“I need,” Draco uttered, clearing his throat, pushing down whatever came angrily at the surface, “your full cooperation. You will have to report what events you attend, and if people will take pictures of you.”

“I thought this was just a Dennis problem?”

“We cannot stop him from doing his work.” 

“Ok. But you cannot stop me from doing mine.”

“And what is your job, Potter, pray tell.”

“I’m an artist.”

Draco rolled his eyes. 

***

Obviously, Potter didn’t keep him informed, and didn’t tell him that he attended a screening of a muggle film where of course he was photographed and of course once it got published the entire neighbourhood of Angel got covered in glitter.

When Draco arrived on the scene, a squad of Aurors was obliviating thousands of people, which required complex magic and even more complex paperwork. Other Aurors were attempting to clear the glitter, but that was proving impossible because every time someone tried to banish it, the glitter multiplied in hissing bursts. He dodged a sparkly fuchsia cloud and it settled in an Auror’s beard like a possessive parasite. He knew better than to point a wand at an Auror, and so he let his colleagues deal with it.

The Aurors had to cast powerful confounding charms before grabbing each muggle and attempting to obliviate them. It was pure chaos, and it was going to take forever. Draco felt a pang of empathy for the DMLE’s comms department, which was definitely going to have to work overnight to spin this somehow. He could already imagine the title on muggle right-wing newspapers: ‘Pride gone rogue.’   

A fresh explosion of glitter blasted from the rooftop of a Pret a Manger. Aurors screamed. A pedestrian emerged covered head to toe in shimmering teal flakes, shouting that this was the best day of his life. A woman was making snow-angels in glitter as two Aurors were trying to grab her. She was singing on the top of her lungs that she could taste colours. 

Draco had seen enough.

He apparated straight to Potter’s study, who opened the door with the nonchalance of someone who didn’t just cause a meteorological event. He was wearing dungarees with embroidered flowers on them and nothing underneath, his strong shoulders and muscular arms visible. 

Unfortunately for Draco, he looked delicious. 

“Oh hey,” Potter greeted him, not surprised to see him at all. He let him in. “Any updates on the case?”

“Potter,” Draco enunciated, trying to control his tone and not think about just how interesting it would be to unbutton the dungarees’ shoulder straps and see if the whole thing came pooling on the floor and if Potter was wearing any underwear. “Angel is covered in glitter.”

Potter sat on his weird armchair. “Oh, what sort of glitter?”

“The avant-guard terrorism kind, Potter. I saw an Auror crying, sitting on the ground, covered in cobalt-coloured glitter.” Draco spat out. Potter wasn’t wearing any socks again. He hated that he noticed. 

“Cobalt is a great colour.” Potter observed. 

Draco sat on the sofa, opposite Potter. He leaned in. “Do you even read the news?”

“Not really, no.” Potter admitted, mirroring him and leaning towards him too. Draco tried not to stare too intensely, and as he lowered his gaze he noticed the magazines again, so he quickly glanced back at Potter’s stupid green eyes.

“So you don’t really know when the Prophet posts about you?”

Potter shrugged, dismissive. 

Draco inhaled. Time to change tactics. “Are you familiar with the concept of cause and effect?”

Potter considered it for a bit. “I’ve heard of it.”

“Excellent,” Draco nodded, leaning on the sofa and giving himself more space. They were going somewhere. “Then perhaps you can explain why every time your face ends up in a printed square of paper, London descends into a state of artistic, sexual, and now chromatic hysteria.”

“Which picture was it this time?”

“The one of you leaving a cinema, Potter. From last night. Where you were photographed, smiling like some deranged centaur, holding what appears to be—” Draco reached into his pocket and produced the printed page, shaking it violently in front of Potter’s face, “—a bucket-sized slush-puppy.”

Potter brightened. “Oh yeah! It was so good, it tasted of blue.”

Draco stared at him, his mouth twisted in irritation. “You do realise that whatever curse is attached to these photographs is taking thematic inspiration from the content?”

Potter blinked. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Draco announced dramatically, getting up and pacing, “that the publication included the caption ‘Harry Potter shines bright leaving local cinema!’ and the curse apparently read that as a literal instruction to turn Angel into a bioluminescent hellscape.”

“There are worse things—” Potter began, but Draco interrupted him. 

“It’s a catastrophe. A flamboyant apocalypse. Your very existence is turning London into an interpretive art installation.” 

Potter pursed his lips, considering this for a moment. “And that’s a problem because—”

Draco gave him a dirty look.

Potter inhaled, raised his hands. “Alright. So we need to stop the photos?”

“Yes,” Draco said sharply. “And you need to stop going around doing your—weird things.” 

Potter scowled. “I will not stop living my life for yet another thing I have no control over, and this is final. My therapists—” 

Draco rolled his eyes so hard they hurt. 

Potter’s gaze sharpened, and he looked determined. “Yes, the therapists, Malfoy. Plural. And they all agree that I am not to limit my movements because of external hysteria. Again.”

“External hysteria?” Draco shrieked. “Potter, I saw with my own eyes a muggle coughing glitter.”

“As I said, hysteria.”

They looked at each other intently. Potter looked resolute. 

Draco lost the staring contest. “Alright,” he gave in, blinking, eyes dry, “I’ll go speak to Creevy again.”

“That would be ideal.” Potter told him with a nod as he got up to walk him out. Draco put away his notepad, stood, and opened the door. 

“Ah, and Malfoy?” 

Draco turned around to look at him, hand on the doorknob, and Potter reached out to softly brush his shoulder. “You have some glitter on you.”

Draco left clenching his jaw and with a beating heart. Completely without his consent, mind you. 

****

Dennis Creevy was in the Prophet’s photo lab when Draco found him. He was elbow-deep in developer potion, humming cheerfully, completely unbothered by the fact that Angel was a chromatic war zone and that the Aurors were probably going to develop some form of colour related PTSD. And that Draco did not have the patience for any of this and that vivid colours looked horrible on him. 

“Creevy,” Draco barked, robes whooshing dramatically. “We need to talk about your camera.”

Dennis turned and made a face. “Oh, it’s you. What a delightful surprise.”

“Yes, yes, same here.” Draco said, dismissing his sarcastic tone with a hand gesture. “Enough with the pleasantries.”

Creevy grabbed his wand and Draco flinched, but the only thing that happened was that the lights in the room became red. “For the development, you know.” Creevy explained with a shrug.

“About that,” Draco began. It was not going to go well. “You need to stop.”

Creevy looked at him and laughed. Then, when he saw how intently Draco stared at him, his face dropped. “You cannot be serious.”

“I am trying to understand what is going on, and you cannot go ahead and take pictures of Potter—”

Creevy interrupted him with a screech. “This is my livelihood, Malfoy!”

“This is public safety!” Draco rebutted, voice also raising. 

Creevy narrowed his eyes. “I know my rights, Malfoy. If you try to stop me from performing my duties as a unionised photojournalist, I will call my representative.”

Draco blinked. “You’re unionised?”

Creevy straightened proudly. “Magi Photographers 7¾. MG7. Some of us say MG7¾, but it’s too long.” 

“That can’t possibly be real.”

“It absolutely is,” Creevy told him satisfied, nodding vehemently. “And we are ferocious. We had a strike last year and everything. No one got news from Blackpool for two weeks.”

Draco blinked at him. Nobody cared about Blackpool; maybe that's why nobody noticed. He tried to be rational. “Creevy, can I at least ask you to consider not taking pictures of Potter? Let’s say, for two weeks? Until I figure this out?”

Creevy crossed his arms, and the red light played on his face and he looked incredibly deranged.  “Absolutely not.”

Draco bit his lip. This was going horribly, even worse than expected. “I will stop you, you know.” 

“You can try.” Creevy said in a challenge. Draco was at least a good foot taller than Creevy, but as he lurched to snatch his camera, Creevy proved to be faster.

“I WILL CONFISCATE THIS CAMERA!” Draco screamed, trying to get it out of Creevy's hands. 

“YOU CAN’T!” Creevy shouted, turning around and protecting it with his body. “I’ll file a grievance!”

They awkwardly scuffled until Draco realised he was not going to win without hurting the other, or taking his wand out. And Merlin as his witness, he was not going to be responsible of ending the entire Creevy bloodline.

“FINE!” He bellowed, surrendering. “FINE!” He repeated, for good measure. But nothing was fine. “But I will make this impossible for you Creevy, I swear on Circe’s tits!”

As he left, stomping and disgruntled, Creevy’s face was flushed with righteous labour solidarity.

****

He apparated straight back to Potter’s study, because unpleasant things were always best to be done immediately. 

Potter was still wearing that stupid sexy dungaree Draco hated. “How’d it go?” He asked, letting him in. 

“Listen to me carefully.” Draco began to say, his voice hysteric. Pacing. “Creevy cannot be stopped.”

“Dennis is a stubborn man.” Potter said, fondly.

“I mean,” Draco said, sinking into the hand-shaped chair without thinking, “that he is unionised, Potter. Unionised. And he invoked his collective bargaining rights.”

Potter nodded. “Good for him.”

“Therefore,” Draco said, rubbing his temples and ignoring Potter’s commentary, “I can only think of one solution.”

“Which is?”

Draco lifted his head, defeated. “I must be with you. When you go out. To prevent additional catastrophic incidents.”

A slow smile spread over Potter’s face, which was really not what Draco expected. “Oh,” Potter said softly. “So you’re my bodyguard now?”

“Don’t.” Draco warned, raising a finger in a silent threat. 

Potter didn’t add anything else, but his smile spread to his eyes and he had a cute dimple on his left cheek that looked like it was shaped for Draco’s thumb. “It will be fun.” 

“I fucking doubt it.”

****

And so now he had to be with Potter at all times every time he went out. Which was terrible. Because Potter was out all the time.

And Draco hated it. Because people were stupid. 

Instead of enjoying his evenings like he liked to (sometimes with the harpies he called friends, sometimes with himself and a book and a glass of wine or two), he spent most of his time loitering outside buildings like some sort of bodyguard indeed. He absolutely refused to be part of whatever Potter was doing (which, frankly, was always batty), and so he just waited for him to emerge so he could fling himself in front of Creevy’s camera like a shielding spell. 

Potter, for his part, seemed completely unbothered by this arrangement. To Draco’s irritation, he looked possibly slightly amused. He always insisted for Draco to join in his activities, and Draco always refused. He was not going to quilt pillows with fabric embroidered with the names of ingredients for anti-menstrual pain cramps potions.

Creevy would pop up when one would least expect him, which is exactly why Draco expected him at all times. He was developing full paranoia. But then Creevy would fuel this paranoia because he seemed to be everywhere: popped behind rubbish bins, hanging off lampposts, crawling from under parked cars. 

“Absolutely not!” Draco would always shout, putting himself in front of Potter, and Creevy would always kick and scream, but Draco would always manage to apparate Potter back to safety in his studio.

Of all the enemies Draco had ever had in his life, and of all the curses he had to break in his career, Creevy was the most annoying, pathetic antagonist he had ever had. 

****

In no particular order, Potter had: crochet classes, embroidery appreciation clubs (Draco learned that the dungarees Potter had been wearing a few days prior had been hand embroidered by Potter himself), painting lessons that Potter gave, and various other courses that were one off; like Sculpting Body Parts 101, or Cross Stitches for Revolutionary Acts (advanced), and Watercolouring Grief (which, ironically, specified that no prior experience was required). Draco's skull started hurting, he suspected it was because he started rolling his eyes too much that it messed with his bone structure.

And then, of course, there was therapy. Therapies. A lot of therapists Potter was seeing, all in different parts of London. Mondays was a Muggle therapist in Bank, Wednesdays a regular Mind Healer, Thursdays somatic something, and twice a month Potter saw a woman near King’s Cross who claimed trauma was best addressed through breathwork, chanting, and controlled screaming into a cushion shaped like a dragon. Not that Draco ever saw the exchange, but when Potter came out of the dingy office Draco had been waiting in front of, his voice was hoarse and his eyes red rimmed. When Draco raised an inquisitive brow, Potter had explained that it was important for the pillow to be dragon shaped because dragons embody humans’ raw emotions. 

Draco didn’t ask further questions, but still encouraged Potter to get some latte or something, to ease the throat ache. Potter got a pumpkin spice for both, and Draco had to admit it was nice.

And then there were the exhibitions Potter would want to see, the vernissages, the galleries, the openings, the matinées. Draco was dragged to all of them, and because the weather turned cold, that afternoon Potter managed to successfully convince him to come inside, which was the reason why he now was staring at a statue of a troll which was ejaculating green gunk.

Potter was looking at it with serious intent, chin in between fingers, taking it in. Nodding and mumbling his assent.

The troll’s spunk erupted regularly. 

It didn’t bother Potter. Quite the opposite in fact. “Magnificent.” He said with a breathy voice.

Draco would have called that art display many things, but magnificent was not one of the adjectives he would have used. 

Potter turned around to look at him as if he wanted to hear his opinion on it.

“Yes?” Draco asked him, raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t you think?” Potter asked, expectant.

“Not really,” Draco admitted, looking back at the troll and taking a step back as another wave erupted from the giant (and somehow star-shaped) penis of the statue. Draco had no idea if it was anatomically correct. He didn't want to know. 

“I might want to purchase this for my collection,” Potter told him, earnest. “It’s so.. Full of meaning.”

“Why are you obsessed with sexual art, Potter?” Draco asked, staring. Surely whatever curse the Dark Lord had hit him with must have gone incredibly wrong. 

The statue moaned, and another wave of troll spunk landed just by their feet. 

“What?” Potter turned around to look at him, surprised.

“The other day you were crocheting testicles.”

“There is nothing wrong with celebrating sex and genitalia of all shapes and sizes.” He gave him a suspicious look. “Why are you scared of sex, Malfoy?” 

“I am NOT—”

The statue climaxed at their feet again.

Draco closed his eyes. He was a respectable curse breaker, for the love of Merlin. “I am not scared of sex,” he finished, clearing his voice and straightening his robes.

If he was so scared of sex, would he think about fucking Harry Potter constantly? 

“Let’s go,” Potter told him, “you ruined my mood, now.” 

“Oh I ruined your mood? How about my mood?” Draco asked indignantly. 

“You are always in a foul mood.” Potter rebutted, looking irritated which is a look that was familiar and yet wasn’t, as Potter 2.0 was all about glans statues and whatnot. 

“Fine, let’s leave this hell hole.” Malfoy said, but something was churning inside him and he hated it. 

****

Disaster struck on Monday, because Mondays were Draco’s most hated day. Surprisingly, it was Potter that broke the news via floocall early in that morning, before he had to see his muggle therapist. 

Draco had rushed to his studio, barely throwing on a robe and grabbing the Prophet without reading it. When he arrived, Potter looked slightly put out.

“What’s wrong?” He breathed as soon as he was out of the floo. Potter was sitting on the hand-shaped armchair. 

“It’s my shadow.” He said, pointing in front of him, “it started doing its own thing, look.” 

As on cue, Potter’s shadow was marching around the walls doing weird, jerky things and not respecting the natural order of things—which were to actually shadow what Potter’s body was doing.

“Merlin’s arse cheeks.” Draco exclaimed, and took out the newspaper he had stuffed in his robe’s pocket. On page five, there was an article titled ‘Potter’s Only the Shadow of His Former Self’, accompanied by a photograph of a brooding Potter staring out of a window. Draco squinted and recognised it immediately as the window of his studio.

Potter appeared to be naked, and thank Circe the window frame cut off just above his groin, but the abs and the sharp jut of his hip bones were clearly visible. And his nipple piercings, too.

Draco exhaled, steadying himself. You are a respectable professional, he told himself for probably the millionth time since he started working on the case. He looked back at Potter’s shadow, which he realised was fighting, the image of old Potter duelling an invisible foe.

“It’s..” Draco was about to say it’s horrible, but when he saw how sad Potter looked, what he said instead was “it’s original.” Because for some inexplicable reason he felt like cheering him up. 

Potter made a pouting face that truly did wonders to showcase just how plump his lower lip was. Draco forced himself to look into Potter’s eyes. 

“It’s irritating.” Potter corrected him, “and it’s a stereotype. I’m not this person anymore, and I was only that person because I had no choice.” 

The shadow chose that moment to attempt a pirouette and then brandish its shadow wand at a lamp in the corner, which emitted weird sparks. 

“Did you try and do something about it?” Draco asked, giving him an earnest look. 

Potter nodded. “I tried a few spells, including finite, but it doesn’t bloody stop.” 

Draco nodded and took out his wand. He uttered a few spells at the wall. Now the shadow was trying to fight him, and whilst Draco did not manage to stop it, he at least truly confined it to the walls, avoiding any interactions with objects around it. The shadow seemed outraged at this, and began twirling and jumping around madly. 

Draco composedly sat down on the sofa, eyebrows scrunched in concern. Potter gave him a sad look. 

“At least Creevy does not know where you live.” Draco observed, trying to find a positive angle. “Maybe it’s just best if you avoid your studio for a bit.”

Potter blinked at him. “This is where I live.” He gestured towards a door at the end of the foyer. “My flat is there. I cannot leave my art unattended, I have to live near it, you know. Immersive experience.” 

Draco realised with horror that he wasn’t surprised by any of this. “Of course.” He said, nodding, as if it made sense. He looked around the deranged room, and wondered how weird the rest of the flat must be, beyond that door. 

They stared at each other in silence, and Potter grabbed his mug as if it could console him. Draco was going to regret what he said next; yet, he said it anyway.

“Right.” He brushed his knees from invisible lint, “new rule: you’re not allowed to be alone inside, as well.”

Potter blinked at him, puzzled. “You’re kicking me out of my flat?”

“No, Potter,” Draco exhaled, “I’m moving in.”

Potter brightened. “Really?”

“You obviously do not know what’s good for you, looking out of your window in the nude.” He gave him a look that he hoped came across as judgy. Because it wasn't. “I need to make sure you don’t expose yourself like this.”

The shadow lunged dramatically towards them. They both stared at it. “Do you think it can hear?” Potter whispered. 

They watched as the shadow slowly raised a finger to its nonexistent lips, shushing them.

****

Potter’s flat, beyond the foyer and the art rooms (which Draco had yet to see) was incredibly normal. 

Small, with most of the space given over to Potter’s art studio. The cosy living room had, to Draco’s relief, a normal-shaped sofa which was littered with colourful fluffy looking cushions. The kitchen was tucked into one corner of the living space, small, open, and distinctly muggle, and Draco gathered that the other door led to Potter’s bedroom. It was charming and warm and so incredibly mundane.

Potter almost looked shy as he had walked him through his flat, which was a weird look for someone who thought a troll jizzing statue was magnificent. 

“I don’t really have space for guests, you see.” He told him, leaning on the kitchen counter. 

Draco refused to sleep on the hand shaped furniture in the foyer. “It’s fine, Potter. It’s a lovely space.” He said, and unfortunately he meant it. It must have been the relief talking. 

The shadow of course followed them in Potter’s flat, and was casting a mute spell behind the sofa. 

Draco stared at it. “It sure is giving its all, mh?” He observed. 

Potter looked sad again. “I hate it.” 

Obviously, Potter saw the shadow as a reminder of what he probably saw all his therapists for. 

“What’s on today’s agenda?” Draco asked to distract him. Surely Potter was due for a bricolage nipple class, or something. 

“I don’t want to go out,” Potter whined. 

“Would you rather stay here and—” Draco nodded towards the shadow, which was now waving its wand arm hysterically. 

“But outside it's worse, no? Here at least we can keep the curtains shut. Maybe turn off all of the lights.” 

Draco’s throat worked at the idea of being in Potter’s flat with all of the lights off. He tried to regain composure because he wasn’t a teenager. And he was a professional. 

“It’s ok, Potter. You’re with me.” 

Potter gave him a long, inscrutable look. “Ok, then.”

****

Potter dragged him in and out of shops around London all day, mostly to get “art supplies” and talk to muggle shop keepers he was apparently really friendly towards. By the time they reached Potter’s flat it was past 6pm, and Draco collapsed on the small sofa in Potter’s living room. 

He was physically tired from walking all day; psychologically tired because he kept expecting Creevy at every corner and, inexplicably, Potter’s shadow bothered him too.

And he was sexually tired, because Potter had chosen that day of all days to wear jeans that did unforgivable things for the thickness of his arse and thighs. Draco had endured three hard-ons in total, all spectacularly ill-timed: one of them triggered when Potter bent over in a random muggle shop in Bethnal Green to purchase some papier-mâché.

Draco had never thought he’d get a stiffy in Bethnal Green, let alone that it would be the place where his dignity finally gave out.

And so when Potter told him to “make himself comfortable,” Draco almost whipped his dick out to wank himself some peace, but obviously Potter was referring to something more appropriate, like taking his shoes off, or something like that. 

Potter was standing by his fridge, probably trying to gather some food. His shadow was currently somersaulting and flipping around the coffee table. Draco glared at it. Potter turned around with a flabby courgette, and gave a sorry look to Draco. “I actually don’t have much." He then took notice of the shadow, and Draco saw him scowl. 

Draco reached out for the lamp and turned it off, and now they were standing in complete darkness. 

“Oh,” he heard Potter mutter from the kitchen space. “Thanks.”

Draco took advantage of the darkness to close his eyes, lean on the head rest of the sofa, and try to compose himself without exhaling too heavily. He was exhausted. And he already hated that sofa, he knew he was going to suffer on it. 

Potter opened the fridge again, and its light cast the shadow anew in the cold, sinister glow, only for it to die as the door closed once more. Draco heard Potter busying himself with what sounded like glassware, then moving around the small living room.

He sat down next to him on the sofa, and tentatively sought Draco’s hand, which was limp on the cushions next to him. Draco’s heart stammered.

“Here, some wine.” Potter announced as Draco’s hand grasped a glass. 

He took a sip before thanking him. He blinked, but he couldn’t really see much even with his eyes open. “Do you think we need to go to a hotel?” Draco asked him, taking another sip. It was actually good wine. 

He felt him shaking his head. “I need to be here.” Potter said with absolute certainty. 

They stood in the darkness, drinking.

“I’m sorry about this,” Potter said.

“It’s not your fault,” Draco replied immediately, admitting it (for the first time), even to himself. He wasn’t entirely sure whether it was Potter’s fault or not. It was easier to think it was; it helped him keep his distance. Just a client. A hot one. Potter. A hot client. 

“Thank you,” Potter said quietly, unaware of Draco's internal struggle. 

They drank in silence. 

“I’ll bring you some sheets,” Potter told him after he finished his glass. 

“A blanket will be fine.” Draco said, gathering all the courage he could muster (which wasn’t a lot) at the idea of sleeping on Potter’s sofa. 

When he was finally alone, Draco got rid of his robes and fell asleep, resisting touching himself. 

****

The morning brought light, and the light brought the shadow. Draco woke up before Potter, because he barely slept. He spent the 30 minutes it took for Potter to appear from behind his bedroom door fighting the shadow, throwing at it any curse breaking charms he could think of, to no avail. 

Potter was due one of his therapists, the muggle one, and so they apparated out and then walked around Bank circumspect.

His neck was killing him, because despite the charms, Potter’s sofa was not meant to be slept on. In fact, Potter's sofa was probably considered against the Geneva Conventions it was that uncomfortable and Draco did not deserve it. 

Creevy of course had Potter’s therapist schedule because he was deranged like that, and Draco spotted him hiding behind a telephone box as he was waiting for Potter to come out. 

“You little vermin,” Draco seethed, marching towards him. It was full of muggles around and so he couldn’t just hex him on the spot. He would have, union be damned. What were they going to do about it? Refuse to report news from Hull? The country would have been thankful. 

Creevy jumped out of his skin when he saw Draco had clocked him. “IT’S A PUBLIC PLACE AND I HAVE EVERY RIGHT TO STAND HERE!” He screamed, immediately going from 1 to 10 without even trying to conceal that he was there for nefarious reasons. He held on to his camera, securing it between his hands. 

Draco got into his face. “Don’t you get it, Creevy?? It’s bloody dangerous!” He told him, trying to keep his voice down as a few passers-by turned around to stare when Creevy had yelled for no reason.

“YOU CANNOT STOP ME—”

“STOP SHOUTING!”

A few people gawked.

Creevy gave him a dirty look. “You cannot stop me!” He repeated whisper-yelling, as if that made it better.  

“I can and I will!” Draco told him in his most threatening tone. “Unexplained things are happening connected to the pictures you take that are being published and we do not want to see how things escalate—” 

He took advantage of a moment of distraction to try and snatch the camera from Creevy, but once again he was faster, the weasel. However, this time Draco managed to grab the camera with a hand, and let out a victorious AH-HA! But Creevy clasped it in a mortal grip Draco had no idea he was capable of mustering. 

“Leave it, Malfoy!” Creevy screeched, and they started faffing about pulling the camera in each other’s direction. 

“Oi! A robbery!” Draco heard someone shout. “Call the coppers!” 

“Look what you’ve done!” Draco hissed, “you’ll get us both arrested!” 

“No, they’ll arrest you, you’re the mugger!” Creevy said with a devious smile. 

“What’s going on?” Potter’s voice came from behind them. Therapy must have been over, then. 

Draco stopped struggling, and Creevy fell flat on his arse as he recoiled from Draco’s pulling. 

“Run, Potter!” He ordered, grabbing his hand and taking off, weaving through the screams of muggles calling for someone to stop them.

To his surprise, Potter didn’t hesitate. He clasped Draco’s hand right back and ran like the wind. Draco wasn’t sure who was leading whom, but he was damned if he was going to let Creevy get a photograph—and equally damned if he was going to get arrested by muggle coppers.

They slowed as the Thames came into view and finally stopped by the river. Draco braced himself against the cold stone balustrade, chest heaving.

Despite the cold he was sweating, and something warm bubbled in his chest as he turned to Potter, who had one hand on the river wall, head tipped back and struggling for breath as well. They looked at each other, and the warmth burst free in helpless, bubbling laughter, growing until they were both laughing hard enough to tear up.

****

The shadow was waiting for them at home, sparring at no one. Potter turned off the lights as soon as he grabbed a wine bottle and two glasses and sat with a sigh. 

In the darkness, Draco kicked his neck down on the head rest like the night prior. He tried to exhale silently.  

“How is your neck?” 

“My neck?” Draco asked back, surprised. "What's wrong with my neck?”

“It’s been hurting you all day,” Potter supplied. 

“Mh,” Draco conceded. “It’s.. Well, it hurts a bit, yes.” 

The atmosphere changed, either because of Draco’s admission or because Potter took a while to answer. It felt like Potter wanted to say something but didn’t. 

And then he did. 

“Want me to sort it out for you?” 

“How good are your healing spells, Potter?” Draco dubiously asked. And then Potter’s hand was on the crook of his neck, his fingers pressing down in a devious way. 

Draco moaned, somewhere between pleasure and surprise. When he didn’t complain, Potter’s hand ran down the muscles of his neck, and then back up to his nape, giving him goosebumps. A guttural, embarrassing sound escaped him. 

“Is this ok?” Potter asked, arm stretched out but not getting closer. 

“Yes,” Draco said, breathless. “Yes, it’s ok.” 

It was more than ok. And just like that, his erection was arrogantly back. He cleared his throat and thanked Merlin that it was dark. 

And then Potter’s hand was gone, and he suddenly got up. 

“Alright, then. Good night?” And it almost sounded like a question, and the answer was no, Draco was not going to have a good night. 

Act II
The escalation 

To no one’s surprise, it wasn’t a good night.

Draco barely slept at all, drifting in and out of shallow, fragmented sleep until he woke with the blankets twisted so tightly around his legs he feared he might have lost their use. When he finally got up, and almost tripped over them, he cursed the state of his neck. And then noticed that Potter’s bedroom door was open.

He tiptoed closer and glanced inside. The room looked painfully normal, the bed unmade. Draco found himself, once again, puzzled by Potter’s bizarre existence.

The flat was so small that if Potter wasn’t in his room, he wasn’t in the flat at all. And, in fact, neither was the shadow.

Anxiety crept in. Draco stepped back into the main living space, and from behind one of the doors off the small lobby, faint music drifted through the space. Draco opened the door without knocking and found Potter painting in the nude.

He was standing with his back to him, and Draco was afforded a clear view of a perfectly round, muscular arse; one that confirmed, with infuriating accuracy, the contents of his imagination.

“Oh,” Draco said faintly, “fuck!” 

“Oh, hey! Good morning!” Potter said, cheerful, turning around. He held his palette strategically over his crotch; curtains had been charmed across the walls to keep the shadow at bay. And while his dick was not visible, the rest of him was. Draco closed his eyes briefly, the image of Potter’s body forever burned into his eyes. 

“Why are you looking so fuckable?” Draco blurted out. He froze, hands flying to his mouth.

What?

“What?” Potter echoed, genuinely confused.

“I—” Draco looked at Potter with a mix of horror and disbelief. “I said, you look positively—”

“Fuckable,” Potter supplied, steady as a statue.

Before Draco could stop himself, he answered. “Yes.”

They stared at each other, Draco’s heat rising from shame and embarrassment. He should have thrown himself into the Thames when he first threatened to. He would have been spared this moment. 

“Well,” Potter said finally, scratching the back of his neck with the hand not holding the palette, “that’s.. er, new?”

“It’s not new.” Draco’s ears were on fire. He turned around, staring at the open door. He was probably about to die, right? Surely. “It has to be the curse.” He peeked back at Potter, then closed his eyes again, because what the fuck was that body. 

“That’s your professional opinion?” Potter's sarcastic tone made Draco open his eyes again, out of sheer pride. 

“Yes,” Draco snapped. 

Potter smiled awkwardly, a little uncertain. “So what, you think the curse makes people say embarrassing things?”

“Obviously,” Draco said, pacing now, rubbing his face, trying not to stare. He was a bloody professional. “Some sort of shame-based compulsion hex maybe. Probably feeds on humiliation.” 

But something churned unpleasantly inside him besides humiliation, because Potter did look fuckable, and Draco did think that. Echoing his thoughts like he took a badly dosed veritaserum, he added, “I think.”

Potter raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Yes.” He trained his mind to empty, and not to indulge in other theories. He had the feeling that if he thought about them, he would have to probably blurt them out loud. And he didn’t want that.

“Is that why you’re standing six feet away like I might explode?”

“Yes.”

“And covering your eyes?”

“No, that’s not why.” Draco breathed. Empty your mind. You are a professional. 

Potter snorted, amused. “Alright then.”

Draco rushed out of Potter’s art room and marched into the flat. He grabbed that morning’s edition of the Prophet that was waiting for him on the kitchen counter and flipped it open.

Nothing. No headline, no feature, no picture: no mention of Potter at all. Draco frowned, flipped pages faster: arts section, opinions, letters. Nothing. It couldn’t be. 

Potter arrived in the kitchen, mercifully wearing a nightgown. Draco swore under his breath, and then, before he could stop himself: “You look good in that.” 

“Thanks?”

Draco’s eyes were so wide they hurt. “I—” He shut up, closed his eyes. He fought something that gripped his throat. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was strong. He coughed. “Can you stay put here, please? Don’t go out until I come back?” 

“Sure.”

Draco kept his eyes shut, and fumbled towards where he remembered the fireplace being. 

“Why are your eyes closed?” He heard Potter ask, confused. 

“Because I cannot look at you like this.” 

“Why?”

“Too hot.” He muttered against the strain of just saying stuff. “STOP ASKING ME QUESTIONS!” He yelled, the pitch of his voice just shy of neurotic. 

He stumbled over the sofa, but managed to get to the fireplace. He reached out for a handful of what he hoped was floo powder, threw it in the fireplace, stepped in and mercifully (or maybe not) didn’t burn alive, and announced with a shriek: “The Prophet’s Headquarters!” Before disappearing. 

****

At the Prophet’s office, he finally opened his eyes. He had shut them so firmly he could see sparks. Oh Merlin, what the fuck was going on? He realised, distractedly, that he was panicking. 

He went past the suspiciously empty lobby and went straight to the archives, where a bored, old looking woman sat, doing absolutely nothing if not for whistling an off key tune. 

The archivist barely looked up as Draco stormed in. “I need anything,” Draco said breathlessly, “anything ever published about Harry Potter and truth.” Because this wasn’t really about embarrassment, was it? He had been forced to say what he was thinking, as if he had no control over it. 

“Truth?” The woman echoed, not looking bothered in the slightest about Draco’s emotional state. Which was distressed. Severely distressed. 

“Yes. Honesty. Confession. Authenticity. Emotional exposure.” Draco paused. “Possibly nudity, but that’s secondary.” His mouth said, before he could stop it. 

The archivist gave him a long look. “I really don’t feel like working,” she rebutted, but waved her wand anyways towards the infinite shelves behind her.

Stacks of old papers fluttered into the air, elegantly landing on the desk before her. “I always enjoy reading about Harry Potter, I never miss an article.” The archivist shared, looking surprised at the fact that she had.  

“It’s because it sells. And because he is fascinating. I also read them all the time.” Draco responded, horrified. 

They stared at each other, both with shocked faces that matched.  

“I have pilates in two hours.” The archivist stated out of the blue, “makes my arse sweat.” 

“That’s really unnecessary for you to share.” Draco commented.  

“I have no idea why I did that. I was just thinking it looks like you do pilates, what, with that frame.” 

“I’m going to take these papers with me.” Draco announced, trying not to think about the archivist’s thoughts on his body. 

“You really should not, but I really don’t care. I will retire soon. So you may, but if anyone asks please do say I made a scene.” 

“I will not.” 

Draco grabbed the papers and quickly left the archive room. He stopped in the corridor and dropped on the first bench he saw, and quickly scanned the headlines. 

Finally, he found something of interest published two years prior.

A small feature, buried in the arts section: ‘Harry Potter: Bringing the Truth to Surface’

Draco’s stomach dropped. It was indeed about truth, and not necessarily about embarrassment, if also his interaction with the archivist was anything to go by. 

He took a long, steadying breath.

Not that the truth wasn’t embarrassing at times. 

****

“We have a problem,” Draco announced as he returned to Potter’s flat.

“More problems?” Potter asked. He was dressed now, which was at least one problem fewer. Possibly.

“There are so many problems,” Draco’s traitor tongue supplied. He shut his eyes, willing himself not to add anything else. Empty your mind.

“Did you find the embarrassing headline?”

Draco opened his eyes and held up the yellowed article. “Do not read too much into this, Potter,” he managed, though he started to sweat.

Potter leaned in, read the headline, and went very still. “Oh,” he softly said, after entirely too long. “This is why you told me I look positively fuckable.”

Draco exhaled. “I don’t really want to talk about it.” 

“So it’s not about embarrassment?”

“No,” Draco blurted. “It’s about truth.”

Potter studied him for a long moment, biting his lower lip. “So now it’s about old articles too? It’s just articles and photos about me? It doesn’t matter whether they’re new?”

Draco closed his eyes painfully, and waved a hand vaguely. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

Potter took a moment to digest that. The silence stretched. 

Draco wiggled his toes inside his shoes, desperate to feel something other than the slow, crawling dread climbing up his spine. He fixed his gaze on a spot just past Potter’s shoulder and focused on breathing, jaw clenched, the act of keeping his mouth shut a physical strain. He was sweating. 

Potter gave him a concerned look. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” 

“Oh yes please, the coffee you make is absolutely delicious, I—” Draco cut himself off with a low growl, squeezing his eyes shut. The strain was immediate and intense, like holding back a sneeze made of words.

“Right,” Potter said carefully. “No questions.”

Draco nodded, eyes wide, unwilling to trust his mouth. He coughed a bit, the grip on his throat vicious. 

Potter moved into the kitchen to put the coffee on, and Draco sagged on the sofa, exhaling heavily. 

There was absolutely no way he was making it out of this alive.

Potter seemed to sense his discomfort and sat down beside him. Draco immediately scooted a few inches away, as if even the warmth of Potter’s presence were too much.

And it was.

“I’m not going to hold this against you, Malfoy,” Potter said, earnestly. “It’s okay to have sexual feelings—”

Draco emitted noises like a wounded animal. “Stop talking,” he pleaded, covering his ears. “If you finish that sentence I am going to make things really awkward and ruin my professional reputation.”

Potter laughed. “Noted,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “No supportive statements.”

“Thank you,” Draco said hoarsely. “Please now, for the love of Merlin, just make the sodding coffee.”

Potter stood, still smiling. “You’re doing remarkably well, considering.”

“I am not,” Draco said. “I am not doing well at all.”

The curtains shifted. Draco froze, and Potter’s smile faded.

“Did you see that?” Draco asked, uncomfortable.

“Yeah.” 

****

The day after, Brick Lane sank two centimeters. 

Draco checked the paper three times, but there was nothing about Potter. However, he had found an article from six months prior that reported how Potter had visited an art gallery, with a title ‘Potter Shakes Foundations.’ 

The Ministry issued a statement assuring the public that Brick Lane was ‘structurally sound in spirit.’ Nobody was immune to the truth curse, and so they couldn’t just say that it was not a problem, hence the loophole of being sound ‘in spirit.’ 

Well played on them. But no one was reassured. Draco, even less. 

The newspaper that morning had been completely deranged, with articles detailing a diplomatic dinner that had apparently gone to shit after the Minister for Magical Communications launched into an unfiltered rant at their French counterpart that turned out to be spectacularly xenophobic. 

So many Ministry workers spoke badly to their supervisors that mass firings were briefly considered (then quietly abandoned when it became clear the Ministry would simply stop functioning if people got sacked).

There was a particular favourite article of Draco’s, in which a journalist apologised for having a lover and blamed it entirely on ‘his dick’ (verbatim). Draco found it so funny he reread it several times with professional interest. It was consoling to see that he was not the only one severely affected by this. And he was. Deeply. 

They were having breakfast in Potter’s small kitchen, after they charmed the walls to be curtained, just like Potter had cleverly done the day prior in his art room, so that the shadow’s incessant spurring wouldn’t drive them spare. 

The morning began horribly. Obviously because of the Brick Lane situation, but mostly because Draco was directly affected. 

When Potter emerged from his room and told him good morning, Draco replied that “It’s not a good morning, and my neck is killing me because your sofa is a lumpy excuse for furniture.”

Potter stared at him with that stupid look of his.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, closing his eyes. And, regrettably, he actually was. 

“But you did mean it.”

“It’s the curse.”

“You know I’d be happy for you to share the bed with me—”

“DO NOT FINISH THAT SENTENCE!” Draco yelled, getting up from the sofa as if he had been jolted. 

“Ok, ok!” Potter quickly said, raising his hands. “I just don’t know what to say around you anymore!” 

“Just—what do you have planned today?” 

“Well, my yoga with baby snifflers got cancelled. I received an owl this morning and Sandrine basically told me that she is on the verge of a breakdown and she hates snifflers and she doesn’t even know why she was doing it in the first place.” 

Draco nodded. Seemed about right. “Why do you do it?” He asked before he could stop himself. 

“Yoga?” Potter asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“Yes,” He answered. Then, “Potter, please let’s not talk and do not answer my question.”

Potter nodded, serious. 

An awkward silence fell. 

****

Potter spent the rest of the day shut away in his art rooms. Naked or not, Draco didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Who the fuck painted naked? Potter, it seemed.

Draco spent it buried in books, trying to understand the curse. What it was, how it worked, and, ideally, how to make it bloody fucking stop. 

The truth aspect of it, in particular, was doing measurable and (possibly) irreparable damage to his mental health. In his career, he never had to deal with a curse that affected him that much personally; he now understood his clients desperately looking for a quick solution to their curse-related issues. 

Several hours in, he had learned a great deal about the history of compulsive enchantments, and especially, absolutely nothing useful. Eventually, desperation won out over dignity, and he decided that if he couldn’t break the truth curse, he could at least dull its effects.

Which was how he found himself in Knockturn Alley, standing inside Sam’s Dangerous Apothecary. A shit name for a commercial entity, but at least straight to the point, because that man was (if not dangerous) at least unpleasant enough to count as such. 

“I need something with the essence of zambrose,” Draco blurted once he reached the counter, “anything. Better if pure. I don’t care about the price.” Which was, objectively, terrible business practice. Unfortunately, it was also the bloody truth.

Sam himself stared at him from behind the counter the way one might observe a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Then, a slow, delighted, and entirely too dangerous smile crept across his face.

“Mr Malfoy,” Sam said slimily, “what a treat.”

“Essence of zambrose,” Draco repeated flatly.

Sam leaned back on his dodgy chair, folding his arms. “That depends.”

“On what.”

“On why you need it.”

Draco inhaled sharply. “You fucking know why I need it. To suppress involuntary verbal honesty.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up, smile getting wider. “Oh, how splendid.”

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. He tried to fight the grip on his throat for about one second, and then decided it wasn’t worth it. “I am under a truth curse of some sort. Well, we all are, and you would know this if you had interacted with a human being in the past 24 hours. Which somehow I doubt.” Draco gave him a poignant look, incapable of stopping the truth pouring out. He took a long breath. “It’s a very aggressive one. I need something that will allow me to stop saying things that are actively ruining my life.”

Sam nodded, entirely too pleased, and entirely unbothered by his rant. “You know, most people come in here asking for love pills, poison antidotes, highly restricted substances, or something to dissolve a body in a barrel.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Not sure you should have shared that.”

Sam barked, his old face coming alive with delighted malice. “Oh no! What ever are you going to do about it? Call the Aurors?” Sam pretended to shake in fear, “I fucking doubt it. I have more on your family than the fucking DMLE itself.”

“I assure you,” Draco exhaled, trying to ignore how theatrical that had been, and more importantly, how fucking true it was. “That this is worse than anything you might know about my family.”

Sam made a happy sound. He reached under the counter and pulled out a dusty binder that had  probably been new in 1824. “Zambrose is rare. Expensive. Mildly addictive. I’m old enough to remember your great-grandfather being hooked on it.”

“I do not care.”

Sam peered at him. “Addictions run through families. Not really ideal innit.” He said, entirely too gleeful about Draco’s misfortunes.

“I am already past ideal,” Draco snapped. “I told Harry Potter he looked fuckable before breakfast.” He blurted out. Oh, fuck.  

Sam’s eyes widened. “Before breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Harry Potter?”

“Yes.”

“The Harry Potter?”

Were there other Harry Potters that people felt the need to specify which one they were referring to with the use of an article? 

Draco nodded, also dramatically. Sam was getting to him. 

“Merlin’s left ear,” Sam breathed, “rough morning lad.”

“Yes. Now, can you fucking help or not? Because I’ll go somewhere else.”

Sam flipped a few pages. “As if anyone would take your insufferable family,” he told him above his binder. He cleared his throat, pretended to be professional. “Zambrose is a good shout, however,” he peered at him, “you would have been a good potion master.”

“Yes, if only my application for the mastery wasn’t sent back in confetti.”

Sam was incredibly pleased at that. “War crimes are difficult to shake off,” he commented, hands like spiders on the book. 

“Alleged war crimes,” Draco rebutted, “that’s the official take.”

“Sure,” Sam told him, “but we both know that war crimes were indeed committed, and by yours truly.”

“I was under age.”

“Of course.”

“And forced to.”

“If that’s what our Ministry says.”

“This fucking zambrose then?”

“Yes,” Sam began, entirely too happy at the exchange. Some people thrive on other’s embarrassment, and the apothecary was one of them. “Indeed, it might be your best solution for a temporary fix.”

“I’ll take it.”

“There are side effects.”

“List them.”

“Well, you could develop headaches.”

Draco laughed hysterically, as if that was a side effect that could stop him. He slapped both hands on the counter. “Give. It. To. Me.”

Sam sighed and reached for a handful of vials. “Dilute it. Do not take more than recommended. Not that I care, but I have to say it, you understand.”

Draco tossed a pouch of gold on the counter. Zambrose was expensive, and Draco had every intention to have dibs on it. “I’ll pay you double what others are willing to pay. Keep your stash for me. Any new zambrose, on my tab.”

Sam weighed the pouch, smiling. “Pleasure doing business with your money as per usual, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco grabbed the vials. “If you ever repeat any of this—”

“Oh, I won’t,” Sam said sincerely. “I live for repeat customers. And their descendants.”

Draco paused at the door. “You are truly awful.” He told him before he could stop himself. 

Sam beamed.

****

He tumbled out of Potter’s fireplace with all the grace of a sack of bricks enchanted to be heavier than usual. He was covered in soot and in the worst of moods.

Potter, who was sitting on the sofa with one leg tucked under himself, glanced up from what appeared to be a glossy magazine devoted entirely to intricate knots unmistakably not for sailing. He raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “Eyes open this time?”

Draco ignored him. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

“Take off your shirt,” Draco repeated, already exasperated. “And then ask me something.”

Potter stared at him as if trying to determine whether this was a delayed side effect or a completely new problem. “Is this the curse,” he asked carefully, “or—”

“Just take off your fucking shirt and ask me a question,” Draco snapped. “I’m trying to prove something here.”

Potter opened his mouth, and then stopped. He studied him for a moment longer, then, to Draco’s surprise, straightened on the sofa. Without breaking eye contact, he crossed his arms and pulled his t-shirt up and over his head in one smooth motion, mussing his hair in the process.

Draco’s brain short-circuited briefly.

Potter’s chest was unfortunately exquisite. Broad, warm-looking, skin dusted with paint smudges he hadn’t bothered to wash off. His nipple piercings caught the light, small, infuriating glints. And his abs. Merlin, those abs flexing as he removed his clothing—

Draco felt the pressure at the back of his throat, the itch to blurt out. But it was resistable. 

“Well?” Potter prompted, looking irritated. 

“That’s not a question,” Draco stated with a triumphant smile tugging at his mouth. 

Potter frowned. “Why are you asking me to take my t-shirt off?”

The curse surged, Draco swallowed hard. “I didn’t ask you,” he managed, every word dragged out through slight resistance, “you chose to.”

Potter’s expression shifted. “Oh.” He leaned back against the sofa, abandoning the t-shirt beside him like it had never mattered.

“You took it off voluntarily,” Draco continued, unable to keep the edge of victory out of his voice. The pressure was still there, but he could totally work around it. 

Potter’s eyes narrowed. “You found a way to counteract the curse?” He stood, abs flexing deliciously as he did, and crossed the room to tug one of the charmed curtains aside (Potter cleverly had draped curtains all over his walls). The shadow immediately sprang to life, twisting and pirouetting with manic enthusiasm.

Potter let the curtain fall back into place and turned, faint disappointment flickering across his face. “So it’s not lifted.” 

“No,” Draco replied. “But I found a way to counteract the truth part. At least temporarily.”

“Entirely?”

“No. A serum. Roughly twelve hours, give or take.”

Potter tilted his head. “Only you?”

“For now, yes.” Draco held his gaze with deliberate effort. “It’s still there. I can feel it.” He tapped his throat, “but it’s easier to fight. Maybe Sam is also taking it now, but Merlin knows that man is probably enjoying an excuse to be officially horrible.”

“Who is Sam?”

“No matter.” 

Potter sat down again, and folded his arms (unnecessarily, and entirely too gorgeous), “alright, and?”

“And maybe,” Draco added carefully, “it’s not just about truth.” He tried with strain. 

Potter hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Sure,” he said, in a tone that suggested he absolutely did not believe a word of that.

Draco winced. It had been worth an attempt, at least for his pride. 

****

The serum worked. 

Which Draco defined as: he no longer announced (aloud and unprompted) how hot Potter was at all times. The thought was persistently there, but it stopped at his front teeth now, pressing there like a badly behaved guest but who could, at least, be ignored. 

Draco’s incisors hurt: Sam had not listed that as a side effect, but Draco had every intention of going back and telling him what a shit apothecary he was. 

Potter moved around the flat with infuriating domestic ease. He hummed, off-key, while rummaging through a cupboard for tea bags. An accio would have been more efficient and less sexual than what Draco was being subjected to.  

Draco sat on the ground, avoiding the lumpy sofa and pretending to work: he had turned the same page three times.

Potter reached up to a shelf, stretching. Draco’s eyes followed the movement automatically, then snapped back to the page. You look good like that, he unhelpfully thought. Draco swallowed and said nothing, which felt like a victory worthy of note: internally, at least. 

Potter eventually found the sodding teabags and set two mugs on the counter. One of them was chipped rather savagely; Draco opened his mouth, you should reparo that. He closed it again.

Potter poured water, splashed half of it onto the counter, wiped it up with a tea towel that had definitely already been used for months without a much-needed wash, and carried the mugs over after adding milk. He handed one to Draco without comment.

“Thanks,” Draco said, because thanks was safe. Neutral. Acceptable. The curse agreed, and didn’t fight him.

Potter smiled at him in that easy, unthinking way of his.

That smile did things to him. That dimple, the curse gripped him, stronger now as the zambrose was wearing out. Draco took a careful sip of his tea. It was too hot, and it burned his tongue. The sensation was a welcome distraction.

They sat in companionable silence. Potter leaned back on the sofa, a foot hooked under his leg, slightly swinging. 

Draco noted the loose thread on the hem of Potter’s yoga trousers, the faint smudge of paint on his wrist, the way his hair refused to lie flat. After a few minutes, Potter glanced at him. “You’re very quiet.”

He felt the familiar pressure stir, testing; he considered several answers. Instead, he took a sip of tea. “I’m conserving my strength,” he said finally.

Potter snorted. “For what?”

The truth rose, bright and immediate. For you. Instead, with difficulty he said, “For work.”

Potter looked amused. “You know—”

“I’m not sure I want to,” Draco chimed, and Merlin: where was the line between truth and his snarky self? 

Potter laughed, throat exposed, and fuck. He wanted to fuck that throat. He wanted to bite on it. Bite it and fuck it; or–fuck it and bite it. Both, in any order. It didn’t really matter as long as he could do both. Draco bit down on his lip, scared he might utter his desires as the serum was wearing off. 

“I just wanted to say something, especially now that you are not bound to blurt out random thoughts.”

Draco made a non comital sound, still sitting on the floor. He wasn’t sure he was going to like it considering Potter’s serious tone, and also, the serum was fighting its last minutes. But Draco’s curiosity trumped his worry. He raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Well,” Potter smiled meekly, and for some reason he diverted his gaze and stared at the draped walls. His hand bothered the tassels of a sequin cushion he held on his lap. “I find you hot, too.” He said, after entirely too long. 

Draco coughed. “I beg your pardon?”

Potter turned his head around, and stared, determined. He looked good from that angle, sprawled on the sofa like he didn't care. “You heard me.” 

“I have,” Draco confirmed, because the curse’s grip was becoming firmer, and he couldn’t be as cool as he thought he had been thus far.

They gazed at each other, but neither of them said anything. Until Draco did. 

“What sort of hot?” He stupidly asked.

Potter shrugged, pragmatic. “The I would happily sleep with you sort.” 

“Sleep in what sense?”

“The non-resting kind.”

“As in, sex?”

“Yes, Malfoy. As in sex.” Potter answered, rolling his eyes. 

Draco struggled to swallow his tea. He was unsure if what he was fighting was the curse or the boiling liquid. Both, probably. His hand was gripping the mug so tightly he was scared he was going to break it. He noticed with a frown that he got the chipped mug. Not that it mattered right now. 

Potter pushed the cushion from his lap on the side, and slid (smoothly and impressively) down from the sofa, and all of a sudden he was also sitting on the floor, and now they were eye to eye. A bit of distance, still. 

Draco felt a note of panic. 

Potter blinked, slowly. Draco’s panic became desire so rapidly that it gave him a headache. He found himself blinking back. 

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” 

Draco shook his head. He took another sip of the scorching tea to have something to do. The pain didn’t distract him. 

“Are you really scared of sex?” Potter asked him, provocatively. 

Words escaped him before he could stop them: “I want to fuck your throat.” He darted his eyes at Potter, who looked slightly startled at the confession. Then, his face changed to something utterly pornographic. 

“Oh, my throat, mh?” He said, brazenly. He brought a hand to his own throat, caressed it, his Adam’s apple bobbing at an invisible resistance.

Draco’s attention was entirely, disastrously fixed on the slow movement of that hand. He forced himself to look away, but couldn’t. Potter reached the neck of his own t-shirt and pulled at it lasciviously, showing his collarbone as he did.  

And as if that wasn’t enough, Potter slowly got on all fours, and moved towards him with purpose, calculated. “Why don’t you stop me?” he challenged, his voice barely a whisper. “We could pretend this conversation never happened.”

Conversation?? This was bloody more than that.

Potter’s hands were already beside Draco’s crossed knees. His legs spread involuntarily, and Potter took advantage of his reaction like a spring; he settled between them, arms braced outside his thighs.

Draco tore his gaze away from Potter’s arms (which were flexing beautifully) to look up at him. “I don’t want to,” he whispered back, letting the truth blurt out, and just how good that felt. “I just—just don’t trust what I’m going to say.”

Potter smiled, softer now. “Then don’t talk.”

Draco’s pulse thudded in his ears at Potter’s suggestion. Or at Potter’s body. Or at fucking both. He set the mug down on the coffee table slowly, as though any sudden movement might shatter the moment and send Potter scampering. 

Surely, he couldn’t be doing this, right? He was a professional. Never sleep with clients. 

“All right,” he said quietly. Well, so much for this professional code of conduct. 

Potter didn’t scarper, in fact, he was still there; his answering smile was slow and unmistakably pleased. “My throat, mh?” He repeated, so close that his breath tickled Draco’s face. 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, “but everything else, too.” His brain tried to remind him (again!) that he was a professional. It failed utterly. All he could think about was the warmth of Potter so close, the way the space between them felt suddenly too small and yet entirely too much.

Draco raised a tentative hand and brushed his thumb along Potter’s cheek as if by its own accord. Potter leaned into the touch at once, eyes fluttering shut as he exhaled. 

“Are you,” Draco swallowed, then tried again, voice dropping to a whisper that was far too honest to be smooth. “Are you about to,” he paused, and he felt like a loser, “are you about to blow me?”

Potter nodded, face still cradled in Draco’s hand, soft and lustful. “If you want.”

“I’ve never wanted anything more,” Draco heard himself answer immediately. The truth came so easily now, spilling out without resistance, his body already betraying him. His erection was so evident there was no way he could deny it. 

Potter’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. “That’s what I thought.”

He shifted closer, bracing himself with his left arm, his right hand pressing down on Draco’s obvious bulge. Draco moaned shamelessly, and closed his eyes for half a second; he then snapped them open again, heart pounding. He refused to miss a single second of what was about to come next. 

And next came Potter’s dive towards his crotch. The warmth of it made Draco jump slightly: he looked down at the pool of Potter’s dark and messy hair covering his erection. Potter bit down through his trousers and Draco sighed pathetically. 

Potter nibbled at his hard-on through his trousers until Draco’s hips thrusted upwards, relentlessly; Potter giggled and the warmth of his breath tickled the wet patches his attention left on the trousers. 

“Are you going to suck me off or are you going to drive me mental?” Draco asked him, entirely frustrated and not fighting the fact that the anti-truth serum was long gone now. 

Potter chuckled, the breath of it tickling him. He raised his head and was all of a sudden in Draco’s face. He cocked an eyebrow up. “How much do you want it?” 

“Potter,” Draco bit his lower lip, not to contain himself, but to not sound as pathetic, “I’m currently in a rare position to be willing to beg for it.” 

“Oh,” Potter said, his face mollified. “Beg, mh?” 

“Don’t make me.” 

Potter’s hand pressed down on his trousers, Draco’s dick twitched in desperate anticipation. “What are you doing?” 

“Torturing you,” Potter answered, entirely too rapidly, a devious smile on his face Draco had never seen before and absolutely cherished. 

“Please don’t.”

“Or?”

“Potter, please.”

“Please what?” Potter asked, searching his face, far too close. 

“Please suck me off.” Draco responded, his eyes searching Potter’s face back. His smile became ever more deviant. 

“More.”

“I beg of you,” Draco uttered, closing his eyes briefly. “Please suck my cock, Harry.” 

“Ah,” Potter nodded knowingly, his hand pressing even more, “now we’re talking.” 

In a second, Draco’s button and zip were undone, his underwear lowered. He raised his bottom to  allow for Potter’s greedy touch to get his hips naked, but now the V of his legs previously occupied by Potter felt busy. 

“I’m going to point my wand at you,” Potter explained, as he grabbed it. And Draco found himself not giving a fuck, because all he could think about was being blown. Potter pointed his wand at him, disappeared his trousers, and then his dick was sprung free. 

“Just, please,” Draco moaned, pathetically. 

“I’m getting to it,” Potter said, amused. He looked down, and saw Draco’s flushed dick. “Oh fuck,” Potter said, moving his head just so. He then looked into Draco’s eyes, locked in. “You have beautiful cock and balls.”

“What?”

“You have gorgeous genitalia. You should let me paint them.” Potter affirmed, looking far too serious.

“Potter, what?” Draco asked, rutting mid air. “Could we have less art talk and more sucking off? Sorry to be crude.”

Potter laughed, throat working. And if everything was going to go to plan, that throat was about to be fucked. “It’s just that you’re so beautiful.”

Draco felt warm at that, but also, really wanted to be sucked off. He raised his arm and locked it on Potter’s nape.

Potter gave him a last look, winked at him, and went down.

He swallowed him whole, in one gulp. Draco’s breath itched, then came out all wrong.

But then: Potter’s warm mouth, his tongue doing things, and Draco realised—felt, really—that Potter had a vicious tongue. It was sending the head of his cock into overdrive; then it went up and down his length, and Draco’s legs buckled, his breath catching.

Potter moaned in response. Draco tugged at the hem of Potter’s t-shirt, and Potter lifted himself just enough to allow Draco to pull it off, before going straight back to his cock. And so now Draco stared at his shoulders—just there, looking gorgeous, flexed like that. Draco cursed out loud, staring at Potter’s deltoids, because no muscle had the right to look so beautiful under strain. But then again, all of Potter’s body seemed to come alive under pressure.

Draco’s hand went back to Potter’s nape; the other slid up into his hair. He tugged it so ferociously that Potter’s chin lifted, a line of saliva dripping down. Potter smiled, and swallowed Draco’s dick whole again.

Draco’s hips bucked forward beside himself, and he gasped loudly as he did. Potter behaved like the shadow he didn’t have anymore, echoing everything Draco did: he gasped right back, mouth full of cock.

Draco’s hand slid lower, to Potter’s throat, thumb just above his Adam’s apple; he had every intention of fucking that throat deep, if Potter would allow him, and he wanted to feel himself do it.

Draco lifted his right arse cheek to push further, exploring Potter’s mouth from that angle. Potter moulded around his touch and leaned into it, and Draco thrusted. He pushed until he felt his throat and went deeper. A sound escaped him; it was pathetic. Potter echoed it, once again, mouth full.

Potter’s throat was open and eager; Draco was just as eager. There it was—the spot that brought that sweet resistance. And then down, and down further, and Merlin, did that feel good. His thumb pressed viciously over Potter’s throat, and he felt his own cock beneath Potter’s thin skin.

In and out, deep; Potter retched, and Draco tried to stop, but Potter clamped his hand around his, and so Draco felt encouraged and pushed further.

His thumb was still pressing down at Potter’s throat, still feeling the head of his cock. His other thumb rested by the dimple at Potter’s cheek, and he’d been right: it was perfectly shaped for him, as if Potter had been made of clay and Draco had left his own thumbprint there.

Potter’s eyes were tearing, but every time Draco recoiled to give him space, Potter chased him. He wanted to be choked, and Draco was far too happy to comply, and so there he was again, going further down.

Draco was going to come down Potter’s throat, and that thought sent him into overdrive. Because what? He was fucking Harry Potter’s throat, and what? Potter’s tongue lapped his length as he pulled back, and what? Potter hollowed his mouth just so. 

“I’m going to come, Potter,” he announced, strangled, only now fully realising just how focused he had been on Potter’s face. His forehead was dripping with sweat, his hands on Potter’s body, pressing down meaningly.

At that announcement, Potter doubled his efforts. His head bobbed up and down relentlessly, his mouth warm suction, his throat open, Draco’s grip unforgiving. The sounds were driving him spare, wet and humid. He only needed one thrust—he moaned. 

Well, he screamed. Well, he dignifiedly came. 

But actually, not dignified at all, because he rutted and crashed his hips into Potter’s face as he held him in place, his own thumb feeling his own dick pulsing down Potter’s throat—and he could have come all over again just from that.

When Draco came back to himself his legs were shaking. Potter was still there, close and solid and unmistakably real. Potter didn’t spit him out, and Draco chased his orgasm far past what was ok to do, and his dick softened into Potter’s mouth.

Potter, Draco thought dimly, was going to be a problem. Again. Not that he was surprised by the realisation. 

Potter finally pulled away and leaned his cheek against Draco’s thigh, staring.

Draco collapsed backward onto Potter’s carpet. His chest heaved as if he’d been running, instead of just being sucked off. Wow. How embarrassing.

Potter stayed by his thigh. “Fuck you,” Draco muttered at last, as soon as he had some breath to spare.

“I mean, I would love for you to fuck me,” Potter said, earnest.

Draco’s abs hurt as he hauled himself upright like a vampire rising from a coffin. “What?”

“You heard me,” Potter said, nibbling at his inner thigh.

“I’ve heard you all right, Potter. But—er—not now?”

“You could do a few things in the meantime,” Potter suggested, getting up. And suddenly they were standing face to face again, like fifteen minutes earlier.

“Potter,” Draco said, a mixture of truth curse, post-orgasm haze, and general vibe, “there is a shit-ton of stuff I could do to you while I wait for my dick to be ready again.”

“Oh yes?” Potter said, lascivious again, fluttering his stupid green eyes like weapons of mass destruction. “Show me.”

Draco took a deep breath, because part of him wanted to go back down and sleep on Potter’s carpet, completely sucked out. But part of him also really, really wanted to do things to Potter. He stood, grabbed Potter and pushed him on the sofa. 

Potter sprawled like before, an indecent smile on his face. “What do you want to do?” He asked, spreading his legs, bulge arrogantly exposed under his yoga trousers that left very little to the imagination (which surely should be illegal). 

“That’s a good question,” Draco observed, realising he wanted to do so much he didn’t know where to begin. “Everything?” He told him, which earned him a laugh. 

Draco’s eyes lingered on Potter’s pierced nipples, and he wanted to suck on them, feel the metal in his mouth. He also wanted to see Potter’s arse again, only this time bury his face in it. 

He grabbed Potter by the arm and hauled him up. “Turn around,” he ordered, and Potter complied at once. He braced himself on the armrest and stood there, legs straight.

“This won’t do,” Draco commented, tugging Potter’s trousers down. He kicked them aside once they hit the floor and stared at the arse presented to him. “Of course you’re not wearing any underwear.”

He pushed Potter forward until he was kneeling on the sofa, then slapped his right thigh to prompt him to spread his legs. Potter did, pliantly.

“Circe’s right tit, Potter,” Draco murmured, staring at him. “You have the best arse I have ever seen in my life.”

“I do a lot of squats,” Potter replied.

But it wasn’t just his arse: it was the definition of his back, the way his muscles shifted and moved as he wiggled.

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco muttered, leaning in and biting his shoulder harder than he’d intended.

He kissed and nipped his way down Potter’s back until he knelt in front of the sofa. He planted his hands on Potter’s arse, one on each cheek, and Potter moaned.

Draco was spent out but completely inflamed: he wanted to touch all of Potter at once, bite everywhere, fuck his arse, fuck his throat again. He wanted to manhandle him, possession a monster inside of him he hadn’t known the name of, but that somehow felt like an old friend. 

He delicately kissed the small of his back, and then down his crack and he was rewarded by a waterfall of goosebumps on Potter’s thighs. “Ah–god,” Potter mumbled, jittery. 

Draco spread Potter’s cheeks and licked at Potter’s hole. He tried to pace himself, but Potter’s moans short circuited his brain, and he didn’t resist much before burying his face between Potter’s arse, spreading him deviously with his hands. 

Merlin, it was good. His face was so flush against Potter’s body that he barely could breathe, suffocated by the pressure he himself was applying he had been gagging for it so much. He fucked Potter with his tongue, in and out, and Potter was wriggling and moaning deliciously. Draco kept him in place, a hand up his hip, holding him just there, pushing him against his own face. 

Draco had no idea how long he devoured him for; but Potter started shaking. He lifted his face up, bit down on one of Potter’s cheeks. “Do you have lube?” He managed, and Potter didn’t answer and Draco would have loved to look at his face. He leaned a bit on his heels, a finger circling on Potter’s hole, the other hand blindly tapping the carpet until he found his wand. “Accio lube.” He said, and of course Potter had lube in his living room. A small bottle full of clear liquid landed on the sofa. 

“You want to be fingered, right?” Draco asked, his voice delirious.

Potter nodded and turned around. His face was red, his lips parted, his eyes glassy. “Yes,” he said. “Please,” he added meekly.

Draco moaned at the enthusiastic consent. His dick was ready for action again, but he didn’t want to skip anything. “You’re so hot,” he said, because of the stupid fucking truth curse.

He grabbed the lube, and Potter leaned his forehead against the headrest. “Your tongue is devious,” Potter said.

“Wait until you see what my other body parts can do,” Draco replied, cocky. If he’d been any less turned on, he would have been embarrassed.

He spread the lube over his left hand, coating his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it. He was vibrating with excitement, struggling to regulate his breathing, so turned on he was almost panting.

He was about to finger Harry Potter. His dick twitched in anticipation.

Draco ran his thumb over Potter’s hole and pressed. Potter responded by pushing his arse back toward him.

“Take it slow,” Draco murmured, stopping Potter’s movement by bracing his right hand against him.

“Are you kidding me, Malfoy?” Potter complained. “You rummaged my arse with your tongue like you were trying to bury yourself inside me.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to do,” Draco confirmed. “But I want to finger you slowly. Take you apart.”

Draco felt himself blush—whether from embarrassment or arousal, he didn’t know. Probably both.

He replaced his thumb with his index finger and applied pressure.

“For the love of God, Malfoy, do not—” Potter began, turning his head, only for a moan to escape him as Draco’s first finger slipped inside a little.

“Yes?” Draco asked provocatively, a devious smile on his face. “You were saying?” His finger pushed further, and Potter froze, fringe falling into his eyes.

“Ah,” was all Potter managed.

Draco withdrew his finger slowly, then pushed back in, sank deeper, then pulled out again.

“Feels good?” Draco asked. “Merlin, you’re so warm and tight.” He had no idea how he was supposed to keep quiet now that his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied; he knew he was ruined if he started saying everything he was thinking.

Potter nodded, clearly uncomfortable from the position, folded over with his head twisted so he could look at him.

Draco moaned at the heat around his finger and the fact that Potter was staring. He added a second finger, and Potter’s mouth fell open, lips full and parted, hot and ruined.

Draco slowly fucked Potter’s arse with two fingers, and Potter began rocking his hips in time with them until they slid in and out with ease. Draco found Potter’s prostate immediately and began pressing there carefully, using minimal pressure so as not to overwhelm him.

Potter groaned and moaned at every movement. Draco added a third finger, and he couldn’t stop talking—telling Potter how hot he was, how well he took his fingers, calling him greedy, describing exactly what it felt like to hold him like that, a hand firm on Potter’s hip bone, fingers deep inside him. 

Potter took everything Draco gave him; he teased his prostate more deliberately, and he was rewarded with louder, broken moans.

“Can you please fuck me already?” Potter asked after a while, voice broken. “I can’t take this anymore without coming all over my sofa,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, really?” Draco said. “I would love for you to come all over your sofa.” He realised dimly that he could probably come just from touching himself while fingering Potter.

“Later,” Potter said. “Now fuck me.”

Draco leaned down, still moving his fingers, and bit Potter’s arse again—the mark of his earlier bite bloomed red. Now there would be one on each cheek. His. He thought. “Mine,” he said. 

He withdrew his fingers slowly, and Potter complained at the loss. Draco repositioned him on the sofa, Potter still clinging to the armrest holding on for dear life.

And Draco realised that while he very much wanted to fuck him like that, he didn’t want to do it today. He had other plans for today. 

He ran his clean hand up Potter’s spine to the nape of his neck and closed his fingers in his hair, tugging gently to prompt him upright.

Potter looked surprised, but complied. Draco sat down on the sofa and tapped his lap, smiling up at him, inviting. Potter smiled back.

“I want to see your face the first time I fuck you.” 

Potter straddled him. “Dirty bastard.” 

“Oh, you have no idea.” Draco told him, voice deep from arousal. From expectation and anticipation. 

Potter grabbed the lube bottle, squeezed a generous amount into his hand, and tugged at Draco’s cock, spreading it carefully. Then he reached behind himself and reapplied it there. He shifted closer until their chests were nearly flush. His hands came to rest on Draco’s shoulders, and Draco realised he was still wearing his shirt, crumpled and in desperate need of a wash.

Potter lowered himself onto Draco’s cock; slick, hot, deep. Draco closed his eyes at the sensation, then snapped them open again, unable to look away from Potter’s face, focused and wrecked with desire. After a few moments, Potter’s arse was flush against Draco’s hips, sitting on his lap completely. 

Draco stayed still, giving him time to adjust. He stared at him bewildered: he couldn’t believe this was happening. The sensation of pleasure was almost trumped by the sheer amount of shock he was feeling, somehow. 

But then Potter rolled his hips and moaned and Draco was brought back to reality. Potter closed his eyes briefly, his lashes fluttering like butterflies as he experimentally lifted himself just enough for Draco’s cock to slide partly free, before sinking back down again.

Draco groaned, hands snapping to Potter’s hips, thumbs digging into his hip bones. Fuck, he thought. “Fuck,” he murmured. 

Potter leaned in, and Draco thought he was about to be kissed: instead, Potter rested his cheek against Draco’s, and moved his body again, slower this time, letting more of Draco’s cock slide free before burying it again. He felt more than heard Potter’s noises. He was so warm and tight, his body entirely on Draco’s. 

Slowly, inevitably, the rhythm picked up, and Potter began to fuck himself on Draco’s cock. Potter’s face was still hiding in the crook of his neck, and Draco peeled a hand from Potter’s hip and slid it under his chin, tilting his face up just enough to meet his eyes. 

They were beautiful, unfocused and so big. Draco must have said it out loud, because fuck this stupid truth curse, and Potter smiled at him. His hands went from Draco’s shoulders down to his arms and squeezed, then up again on his chest, and he started undoing a few buttons in order to touch his skin.

The rhythm Potter was imposing was relentless. He was fucking Draco’s cock like a starving man gobbles food down at a all-you-can-eat buffet, like he could never be satiated, like he would never have it ever again.

Draco had no choice but to slam himself inside of Potter in response, and just as Potter was pliant before, Draco was pliant now, giving to him everything he wanted and more. His abs hurt so much from the strain of it all, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.

He was holding Potter down so tightly he was sure he was going to leave a finger-shaped bruise on his hip. Another hand went to Potter’s throat, and Potter tilted his head up, giving him full access. 

Draco intensified his efforts, ignoring the dull ache of his muscles. He was eager to impress, and eager to keep Potter moaning like that, over and over again. The noises Potter was making were forever going to be embedded in his brain, and he was a ruined man because he had never ever had a shag this good in his entire life. 

Potter was greedy, and not afraid to be. He leaned in and their foreheads were touching, both sweaty and warm. Draco was breathing in Potter’s spent air, and sending his right back, and they were groaning in each other’s faces, echoing each other. 

Potter’s hand slid between them, and he started to wank himself desperately and sloppily. “I am going to come soon,” he whispered in Draco’s face, and Draco choked out a sound. He was possibly completely delirious at this point. 

And then Potter came, his cock gushing all over Draco’s belly. The warmth and the filth of it and the fact that Potter’s eyes were rolling in pleasure set Draco’s desire on fire. 

“Ah, fuck Potter that’s so hot,” he uttered. The hand on his throat lowered, and now he was holding Potter’s arse as he slammed into him. Potter’s hip bone was now a tattoo on his other hand. “Can.. Can I come inside you?” He asked, searching for Potter’s eyes. 

Potter nodded, his body jelly. “Come inside me, Malfoy.” 

A few more thrusts and that was it. The world narrowed to heat, to the press of bodies, to the steady pull of something inevitable drawing tighter and tighter. Draco wanted to close his eyes but refused, and he came with such violence that he was unsure if he was still alive. He stared at Potter as he did, at his eyes, at his mouth, at his sweaty fringe. 

Potter lulled his hips slowly as Draco came. Now it was Draco who was shaking, slowly releasing his death grip on Potter’s body as he did. 

Potter collapsed on Draco’s shoulder again, flushing his own stomach on the mess on Draco’s, and Draco held him close, panting as he did. 

They stood there for a moment, catching their breath, until Draco finally slipped out of Potter, his dick completely spent and probably on strike for the amount of work it had been made to do in less than an hour.

The sound of Potter’s satisfied chuckle pulled him back to reality, and as Potter straightened, Draco let go of him.

They stared at each other, and Potter’s chuckle turned into a laugh. “Well, you’re definitely not scared of sex.”

Draco shook his head and found a smile tugging at his own lips; he gave it no permission to be there. But it was impossible not to smile when Potter was looking at him like that—naked and fucked out.

Potter got up, and Draco immediately missed his warmth. He watched Potter’s body as he turned to look for his wand, and noted with unguarded satisfaction the bite marks on his arsecheeks.

Potter was so bloody fit, and Draco couldn’t believe he’d just got to fuck him.

“What are you staring at?” Potter asked, turning back once he’d found his wand.

“You,” Draco said, truth now just pouring out.

“You look good,” Potter said, stepping closer and casting a cleaning spell over him. “On my couch. Fucked out.”

Draco flinched slightly at the spell, then laughed. “You always look good,” he replied.

Potter walked into the kitchen still naked, and Draco was far too exhausted to do anything but remain sprawled on the sofa, his shirt ruined and missing a button.

“Takeaway?” Potter called, holding up a colourful leaflet.

****

They ate pizza mostly in silence, the telly on some muggle tv show that Draco found to be perfect white noise in order not to speak. He could see why the muggles loved it so much, it was so brain numbing and easy to just passively listen and be entertained. 

Potter cleaned his hands on a plastic looking napkin that came with the order. “So,” he said eventually, “you okay?”

Draco thought about several answers as if he had a choice other than the truth. “Well, I just had the shag of my life on your shitty sofa and now I’m eating the greasiest thing known to man.” He paused. “I’m really ok, all considered. In fact, I feel quite spectacular, if not for a slight exhaustion.” Draco hated that he used the word spectacular. 

“The serum,” Potter said, looking at him suspiciously, “is it still working?”

Draco shook his head. “Absolutely not.” 

Potter hummed. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I could be, if we keep on talking.” Draco admitted. 

“Alright then,” Potter said, shifting on the sofa, “one last thing before we go to sleep.” 

Draco gave him a curious gaze.

“I did offer you the bed,” Potter said, “you’re old you know, I don’t want to be responsible for your bodily harm.” 

“We’re the same age.” Draco told him, voice full of judgement. “And a bit late for bodily harm after the strain—”

Potter interrupted him. “You don’t want to talk too much, so maybe best if you don’t finish that sentence.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Draco said, relieved. 

Potter nodded. “I’m talking actually sleep. No expectations. I promise.”

Draco glanced at him, suspicious. “You’re very good at saying things that sound like traps.”

“I know,” Potter said. “It’s a gift.”

“Is it now?” Draco told him, because Potter had many gifts, including being magically talented, fit as fuck, and pretty good in bed. So the idea of actually going to bed with him sparked all sorts of sensations and feelings, which he really did not want to share. 

He opened his mouth to talk but Potter pressed a finger on his lips. “My bed’s bigger,” he said, “and my pillows aren’t lumpy. Also, you won’t wake up unable to turn your head.”

Draco laughed, something warm coiling in his chest for the care Potter was putting in not letting him say things he might have regretted. His neck throbbed obligingly, as if lobbying on Potter’s behalf.

“And where would you be?” Draco asked, moving Potter’s finger away, but holding it in his hand.

Potter shrugged, wiggling his finger in Draco’s fist. “Same place I usually am, in my bed. Sleeping.”

Draco raised an eyebrow.

“Actual sleeping,” Potter repeated, “I swear on… whatever. Gryffindor honour.”

Draco snorted. “That’s not reassuring. You were breaking the rules as if they didn’t exist.”

Potter smiled deviously. “I know.”

Draco hesitated. He was tired. His neck hurt. In fact, his whole body was probably going to scream at him tomorrow. Why would it be a problem to share Potter’s bed with him, after they had fucked? For some reason, it felt like an even bigger line to be crossed, as if sharing a bed required more intimacy than sharing bodies. 

“All right,” he said finally. “But if you so much as snore..”

“I absolutely do snore,” Potter said cheerfully. He stood and held out a hand. “Come on, then. Let’s save your spine.”

Draco took it.

And, to his surprise, he didn’t immediately let go. Potter’s fingers intertwined with his, and he liked the feeling. 

****

The night before, as he laid in bed in his underwear and his crumpled shirt (which deserved a state funeral at this point, and maybe an Order of Merlin, second class at least) and Potter looked at him with an inquisitive look, he had blurted out that he had no pyjamas. Potter had laughed in his face. 

Which is why now he woke up completely naked, flushed against Potter’s also naked body, which was warm, and soft, and toned, and inviting. 

In all honesty he kept on waking up during the night because of the sheer comfortableness of it all: the warmth of the duvet, the warmth of Potter's body, the skin on skin contact that was novel and yet somehow completely fine—in fact, more than fine, it was glorious. 

Draco knew he was wrapped around Potter before he opened his eyes, because holding on to Potter came quite natural to him, it seemed. 

Potter made sleepy noises, shifted, and then rolled between Draco’s arms. Draco was met with a spectacles-free drowsy gaze. 

“Damn,” he said, because he hadn't taken his serum yet, “are your eyes gorgeous.” 

Potter chuckled, soft and sluggish. “Good morning to you too,” he mumbled, his eyes fluttering, his body stretching. “Did you sleep alright?” 

“I don’t think I could ever sleep without you in arms ever again,” Draco blurted out before he could stop himself, and Potter’s eyes snapped open. 

“You want to get that serum?” He asked, and Draco nodded violently. He got out of bed as if he had been cursed to do so (which, I mean, wasn’t that far off), and ran to the kitchen to rummage through his bag, and downed one of the zambrose vials.

He gripped the kitchen counter counting down the minutes for the antidote to settle. After a while, he said to the kettle: “I’m.. I’m straight.” 

The kettle remained unmoved by his declaration. Draco felt the curse tugging at his throat, but was reassured that he managed to lie. 

He straightened, rolled his shoulder blades. His abs hurt—no surprise there. In fact, his thigh muscles felt sore too, a reminder of the fact that he should work on his body more if he wanted to keep up with Potter’s crazy sex drive. 

Were they going to sleep together again? The non-resting kind, as Potter had put it. 

He left the kitchen before other thoughts of insecurity took hold of him, sure at least that he was not going to blurt out his thoughts without approval. 

In the bedroom, Potter was still buried underneath his duvet, head on the pillow. When Draco settled back in the place he so quickly abandoned a few minutes prior, he stared at Potter. 

“Better?” Potter asked him. 

“Yes.” Draco said, convinced. “Sorry for the abrupt escape.”

“I am all for self-preservation,” Potter told him, and he raised an elbow on the pillow and leaned on it, staring down at Draco. 

“The fuck you are.” Draco told him, stifling a laugh. “You are literally the poster child for reckless self-sacrifice and extremely questionable decision-making.”

Potter grinned, unabashed. “Not anymore.”

“Sure about that?” Draco muttered. He shifted closer without thinking, the mattress dipping under the movement. “You still make terrible choices. What would your therapists say?”

“That I’m putting myself and my desires first.” Potter’s smile softened. He reached out, hesitated, then rested his hand on Draco’s arm as if checking whether that was still allowed in the light of day.

It was.

They lay there for a moment, the morning creeping across the room, Potter warm and solid beside him, the duvet a tangled mess around their legs.

“So,” Potter said eventually, voice still thick with sleep. “Neck better?”

Draco rolled it carefully. “Infuriatingly, yes.” He wanted to say just how much the rest of him hurt, but he managed to swallow down the truth. 

“Good,” Potter said, “I’d hate for you to suffer because of my furniture choices.”

Draco huffed. “Your sofa should be reported.”

Potter laughed, quiet and fond, and shifted closer again. Draco’s heart stammered; his dick swelled. 

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Draco asked, because Potter hovering over him made him want to kiss him. 

“Is it?” Potter said, attempting to shrug but failing because of how he was sat. “Doesn’t really feel weird. Maybe that’s what’s weird.” 

“Astounding eloquence, as always, Potter.” Draco told him, but there was no bite to his words. 

“I never claimed to be a poet,” he told him in response. 

“No, just an artist.” Draco took the piss. “Our generation’s Matisse” 

Potter snorted. “Matisse is overrated.”

“Tragic lack of ambition and poor taste,” Draco said in his most patronising tone, “you could’ve been incomprehensible and pretentious. People would’ve eaten it up.”

Potter smiled, eyes unmistakably flicking down to Draco’s mouth and back up again. “You say that like it’s not still an option.”

Draco arched his brow. “You’re still on time I suppose. I could describe some of your takes as pretentious, but I am no art critic.”

“Like?” 

“Nipples as concepts.”

Potter laughed, clearly delighted. “They are, though.”

Which reminded Draco that he still had to taste Potter’s nipples. Merlin bless zambrose essence. He might have been too harsh with Sam.

“I’m sure,” He said instead, dryly. 

“I guess Parkinson showed you my gift?”

“She has.”

“I’m glad,” Potter said, his feet scooting to Draco’s and caressing them delicately. 

“I need 20 minutes of my life back.” 

“You’ll survive I’m sure,” Potter told him fondly, “I haven’t really been involving you into my artistic work, so you’re all good.”

“If you drag me to another exhibition of ejaculating creatures, I’ll have to pretend not to know you.”

“That would be a shame,” Potter whispered, settling a hand on his chest. Draco’s skin burned under it. “You seem very invested.”

Draco met his gaze, and fought the grip on his throat. “Professional hazard.”

“Right,” Potter said, entertained. “Your profession famously requires you to fuck me stupid.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late.”

Potter’s hand started moving; from his chest, down to the flat of his stomach. “Want to fuck again?” Potter asked him as if he was wondering about his coffee order. 

“Yes,” Draco responded immediately, and not even the serum could really help with how eager he sounded. 

Potter fell back on his pillow, and dragged Draco on top of him. He was hard, and so was Draco, and holy fuck could this be the best assignment he had ever had in his life?

Sure, he was nowhere near close understanding this curse, and sure, London was in ruins, but his dick was happy where it was; currently in between Potter’s thighs. 

Potter blindly looked for his wand on his bedside table, and spelled himself ready. 

“Straight in,” he ordered, and Draco was far too happy to comply because he also could not wait to be inside him. 

He pinned himself with his elbows, looked at Potter, and boy was he fucking gorgeous. When did he become so gorgeous? He let his eyes scan his face, and then Potter lifted a leg, inviting, and Draco grabbed his thigh, possessively, wrapped it around his waist, and aligned himself with him.

Potter made eager noises, and Draco took his time going in, closing his eyes as he did. Potter’s satisfied hum got muffled with Draco’s groan, and when he pushed in, Potter pushed back. 

Draco snapped his eyes open to stare at Potter who looked dishevelled already and so entirely agonisingly fit. Draco’s gaze fell on Potter’s nipples, and couldn’t resist the temptation. He craned his neck just enough so he could first lick one, and he took the other’s whimper as an invite to continue. 

He licked at it again, feeling it hard on his tongue, the metal delightfully different. He sucked on it, and it tasted exactly how he had imagined, only ten times better: he probably couldn’t stop doing anything else. He moved his attention to Potter’s other nipple, despite his neck really, really not enjoying the position, and despite how hard it was getting to keep his hips moving just like that. 

Potter grabbed Draco’s arse, commanding him to pound deeper. Draco stopped nipping at Potter’s nipples and pushed both of Potter’s legs down, so that he could have deeper access. Potter groaned, encouraging him. 

With Potter almost folded underneath him, it was easy for Draco to believe a muggle paradise existed: only there was no land of milk and honey, but Potter's body, occupying every inch of his mind. 

They breathed and moaned in each other's faces, a mess of limbs and hands gripping, until they both came. 

****

One could think that the curse would stop, eventually. Especially now that Potter barely left his flat, save for a quick nip to a shop (and always with Draco). Or maybe Draco hoped that, as if he didn't have extended knowledge on the subject matter. 

Instead, things got worse. Of course they did.

Pigeons started convening and… unionising. Not that Draco ever thought he would see the day he would describe them as such, but there was no other way about it. They only shat on Ministry workers, and on people who said that the hundreds of pigeons holding placards (somehow—Draco was unsure about the science behind it) that read ‘BREAD OR ELSE’ were “probably just nothing.” Tourists in Trafalgar Square were delighted by the art installation. Someone called Banksy denied being involved. 

Shoelaces refused to cooperate, and Aurors fell down stairs constantly; one of them had to be rescued from a lift.

The Floo stopped working unless you really had good reasons to see someone, which meant people had to scream their intent out loud before travelling. According to the Prophet (‘MINISTRY FULL OF CHEATERS!’), it got particularly awkward when people had to shout why they wanted to visit their secretary well past working hours.

Documents refused to accept signatures, clocks began showing different times so nobody could arrive at meetings punctually. Street signs pointed in the wrong directions, and shops kept receiving the wrong sort of customer because people were convinced it was the right shop. 

Things escalated when a witch named Barbara insisted that Sam the apothecary cut her hair, and Sam stunned her. A few Aurors arrived on site, but they were so overworked and exhausted that they admitted (partially due to the truth curse) they couldn’t really care. Sam gave them all free Pepper-Up Potion. The journalist who reported the story cried corruption: the day after, a piece on the great potions at Sam the Dangerous Apothecary came out after Sam gave the journalist a few samples of his best potions. Barbara sued.

This, combined with the truth curse, created what could only be described as a collapse of public decorum.

And Draco couldn’t care less, because he was having the best sex of his life. As the world around them burned and crashed, all he could think about was new ways of fucking Potter.

Which in this particular moment, had him with Potter’s dick in his mouth, eager to impress. Merlin, had Potter impressed him, and he was not going to lose to Potter’s great sucking abilities. He tried his best and went beyond that, and from the noises Potter was making, he was delivering. He was doing that: he was making Potter whirl and pant and shake and thrust like a mad man. 

Potter’s hands in Draco’s hair (which was probably a mess but he couldn’t find the strength to care), his jaw cramping, and his own dick in his hands, wanking himself as he kneeled in front of the sofa (and oh, had Draco's mind changed about that sofa).

Definitely not how he thought this assignment was going to turn out, at all. Not that he was complaining. 

****

Eventually, they would stop fucking and Potter would go to his art rooms, doing Merlin knew what. Draco would work, or tried his best to, and was incredibly frustrated: it didn’t matter how many books he consulted, he could not find any curse that resembled this in the slightest. 

“Any news?” Potter would ask, and Draco would sigh. 

“None of this makes sense to me.” He would answer, unsure if he was referring to the curse or the two of them having wild sex everywhere. Maybe both. 

Potter didn’t look bothered at all by any of it. At times he would make him a cup of tea, others he would just sit on the sofa and stare at him pretending to work. Draco tried not to notice the quality of Potter's gaze. 

The days went on but Draco did not even notice. 

****

Inevitably, Creevy managed to sneak a picture in. And neither Draco nor Potter realised he had. 

‘New Love Interest’ blared at them from page five, and with horror, it was a picture of the two of them blatantly flirting by a fridge aisle of Waitrose. Potter was buying sausages and had cooked bangers and mash for dinner (and it had been delicious, unfortunately for Draco who was partial to a good cooked meal). 

Draco was horrified. Because his parents read this rubbish. His friends read this rubbish. And because whilst his younger self dreamt of glory, he never, ever, wanted to be on a newspaper ever again. 

At least the blurb read Draco Malfoy, curse breaker and not former death eater. After a short but intense argument, Potter agreed to ward his flat against owls. 

Draco, still braced for judgement and too worried about what people’s reaction to the picture might be, was completely unprepared for what happened next. When Potter turned on the telly he was surprised to hear that it was snowing in London. 

..but petals. 

The screen filled with footage of central London blanketed not in snow, but in flower petals. Blue, red, orange, yellow. An alarming number of yellows. “At least 40 shades,” a specialist was in fact saying, somewhere between delighted and concerned. 

Draco stared at the television, jaw slack. Potter, who had been cooking in the background and aggressively stirring something, stopped. “Oh, fuck.” Draco heard him say. 

Draco was still not able to process, not even swear words. BBC switched to a botanist panel. Draco turned around to look at Potter, who blinked slowly at him. They stared at each in silence. 

“Are you going to say something?” Potter asked him with concern as he walked around the sofa to gently lift Draco’s jaw and close his mouth. 

“Petals?” Was all he managed with a strangled voice. 

Potter shrugged and looked at the curtained walls, avoiding his gaze. 

“Potter?” Draco asked. “Why petals?”

“Well, according to you because of cause and effect? Because of the stupid headline they used?”

“PETALS?”

Potter shrugged, “Well, you’re the fucking curse breaker here.” 

“And I am glad I am,” Draco snapped, “given the amount of work the Aurors are about to have!” He looked back at the television. “Isn’t this channel viewed by a—well, few people?”

“What, the BBC?”

“Yes the bloody BBC! Even I heard of it!” 

“I mean, yes, people watch it.” Potter answered casually. 

“Potter,” Draco took a long steadying breath. And failed. He did not feel more steady. His zambrose was wearing off, he needed to be careful, “London is covered in petals. It’s on the BBC.” He recapped.

“I was here with you, watching it. I know.” 

Draco got up and peered outside of the window, and there they were. Petals everywhere. 

A knock on the door. 

Potter gave Draco an accusatory look. “Why are you looking at me like this!” Draco asked him with outrage. 

“You were the one that convinced me to put an owl repelling charm on the flat!!!”

“You AGREED!” 

The knock got violent. In fact, it sounded like several knocks. A collective of knocks, coming all the way from the foyer where the door was. 

“I told you people wouldn’t be happy.” Potter said as he got up, walking towards the entrance.

“And I told you to sort it out.” Draco snapped as he followed. 

They kept on arguing all their way to the door, only to look at each other in horror when their argument got shushed by the even louder argument on the other side of the door. 

Potter stopped dead in his tracks. “Is that your mother?” He asked, eyes wide. 

“I’m afraid it does sound like her.” Draco admitted, taking a step back and going even paler than usual. He looked at Potter with growing fear. “Is that Granger’s voice?”

“It sure is.” 

“Should we even open?”

Potter looked reluctant. “I believe we either open, or this door will be opened against its will.”

Draco nodded, and dry swallowed. Potter, who at the end of the day was the Gryffindor between them, opened the door. 

Chaos ensued. 

Voices, noises, screams. Several people marched in a puff of petals, speaking and yelling at the same time. Draco closed the door, still trying to process what was going on. And then his mother slapped him, even if he was pushing 30s, right across the face. And in front of his school friends! 

“Speak to me, Draco!”

“Mum, what the fuck!”

“Language!” She reprimanded him. 

“I’m actually surprised he calls her mum rather than mother,” said Ronald Weasley to the small crowd. Draco didn’t have time to react to it, because Granger doubled-down on Potter, tone severe and face of disgust: “I thought you got rid of that,” she said, pointing at the hand-shaped armchair. 

“Why would I?” Potter asked her, defiant. 

“Draco, my darling, are you ok?” His mother asked him, tone of worry. A voice of reason. Because he was not ok. 

“WHAT IS GOING ON?” Draco screeched with a note of panic, instead of answering properly. Merlin, was that Pansy?

It was. 

The foyer got busy: Granger, Weasley, mother, Pansy, and for the love of Circe’s left tit, Lovegood were standing in it. 

“Mum, what are you doing here?”

“Did you hear him?” Weasley asked, “he said mum again! He’s human!”

Narcissa ignored him and looked at Draco. “Are you quite alright my darling?” She asked, as if she hadn’t just slapped him.

“I was doing better before this.. Invasion?” He tried, and he had. He realised with panic that none of this crowd was immune to the truth charm. 

“Owl blocking charms!” Pansy screeched like a banshee. “After the picture of the century!”

“You better shut the fuck up,” Draco supplied, strong of the last effects of the zambrose; truthfully, he really did not want Pansy to shut the fuck up, he wanted to debrief that picture with her so much. 

“They just took a picture of us at a supermarket,” Draco explained instead. “Nothing alarming!” 

Voices piled over one another, a mad, badly sung madrigal. Draco caught fragments drifting out of the cacophony.

“—the way he’s looking at him—”

“—absolutely smitten!”

“Why are your walls covered?”

“I mean, look at his face—”

“—and I’m sure he’s up to no good!”

Weasley was pointing at the Prophet held by Granger with both hands. “Harry,” he said, with devastating sincerity, “you look like you’ve got a crush. On Malfoy!”

Lovegood nodded. “You look like when someone’s favourite colour is nearby.”

Pansy looked delighted and horrified in equal measures as she peered at Draco “Oh, you’re gone gone.”

“You’re blushing,” Narcissa observed. 

“I am warm,” Draco snapped, not wanting to be around any of those people during a truth curse.

“I’m just so concerned!” Granger squealed. “With all of these things happening, and the petals!”

Draco turned to look at Potter who seemed overwhelmed to say the least. And he was still his bodyguard. No, wait, he wasn’t a bodyguard, he was a damn curse breaker. “Right!” he announced. “Thank you so much for coming to check on us, as you can see we are alive.”

“But—” Pansy began.

“No,” Draco said, grabbing her by the shoulders and physically turning her toward the door. “Out. You can analyse the photograph later. Preferably somewhere else. Preferably not within a hundred metres of my person.” He lied, hoping he could debrief it with her anytime soon, just not in front of Potter. 

He herded Weasley next, who protested loudly while being bodily escorted. “I’m just saying, Harry’s got that look!”

“I will sue you,” Draco muttered, shoving him through the threshold with more strength than necessary.

Granger hesitated. “Harry..”

“Out,” Draco barked, pointing at the door. 

Lovegood drifted after them on her own, waving. “Congratulations,” she said vaguely.

Narcissa paused last, cupping Draco’s cheek, the same she had smacked. “Do try to rest, you look tired,” she murmured. “And perhaps avoid supermarkets,” she gave Potter a judgy look, “and war heroes turned into.. artists.”

Draco closed the door behind her, and leaned his forehead against it. From the other side, Pansy’s voice rang out: “DID YOU ALL SEE WHAT I SAW?”

He groaned. Behind him, Potter cleared his throat. “So,” he began,“about the crush thing..”

Draco straightened, turned slowly, made a dismissive hand gesture. “One catastrophe at a time, Potter.”

Potter smiled. Which, Draco realised with a sinking feeling, was exactly the problem.

****

On the wireless, the Aurors were now recruiting any magical being who could assist in charming the petals invisible, considering nobody could banish them. The Aurors had managed with the ones over central, but had no luck elsewhere. Potter had wanted to help, and Draco had talked him out of it. The last thing he needed was for Potter to be photographed in a petal storm: what was going to happen next? He would sprout roots? 

No, they were better at home, away from Creevy, away from everyone. 

He flipped through the old newspapers the old archivist had given him (Draco had gone back to claim more, and yes, the archivist was still inappropriate), and he stared at pictures of Potter from articles that still had to materialise, worrying about worst case scenarios. 

Until he found another picture he had missed, of a really young Potter, papped on the streets of Brick Lane. It must have been taken at least 10 years prior, and Potter looked incredibly sad and vulnerable. He didn’t know he was being photographed, and he slowly walked across the street with plastic bags like a common muggle. 

“When was this?” Draco asked Potter, who was sitting on the sofa, crocheting a whip for his sex positive club that he was sure was going to resume once the curse was lifted (apparently it was impossible for the members to meet at the same time, considering the clocks had gone crazy. Also, Potter told him that apparently Sandra hated Chris, who hated Erik, and Hans told everyone that he was sick of meeting in London and from now on he could only be found in Newcastle, club be damned. Draco didn't ask further questions). 

Potter craned his neck and removed his crochet magnifying spectacles and put his normal ones on. He squinted at it. “Ah,” his face darkened. “Straight after the second memorial ceremony for those who died at Hogwarts. My last one, as well, I just couldn’t bear doing the speeches any more, and I don’t want to remember people like that.” 

Something in Draco churned unpleasantly. “What were you doing in Brick Lane?” 

“Buying Hermione’s favourite curry.” 

His heart started beating slightly faster as a theory formed, strong. “And how were you feeling?” 

“Crushed, really.” Potter said, biting his lip. “I was so down, and angry, and frankly, this was before I discovered myself—” he stopped his train of thought. “Oh.” 

“Did it feel like everything was.. weighing you down?” Draco asked him. 

Potter nodded. “Brick Lane.. do you think this is why it sank?” 

Draco shrugged, but something inside him told him he was on the right track. He flipped through  more pictures. “And here?” He asked him, raising a picture of Potter leaving the Ministry in a fury. 

Potter slid down the sofa, sat next to Draco. He took the picture and looked at it. “I was angry.. These politicians, they don’t really care, you know. It’s what made me lose it, back then.” 

He looked at him with his sincere green eyes, and Draco bit back a snarky joke. “Sorry Potter, I don’t want this to be a therapy session, but I feel you will have to open up a bit.”

Potter diverted his gaze to the curtained walls. “I was constantly watched. I mean, I still am. But back then, people were expected to use me. They didn’t really want to implement change, they only wanted me to join the Aurors and be the face of their propaganda.” He took a heavy sigh. “They are liars, manipulators, and cheats.” 

Draco took to heart what Potter was saying; he agreed. And he was sure that if Potter would have allowed it, the Ministry would have used him as a propaganda machine. He didn’t say it out loud, and he put a hand on Potter’s thigh, exhorting him to continue. 

“I felt like I was brought up with the promise that things were going to improve once I sacrificed myself.” He turned around to look at Draco, and his eyes were so big and naked. “I felt abandoned, overwhelmed, angry.” 

Draco flipped through more pictures, found another where Potter was photographed at Hogwarts in front of Dumbledore’s tomb. Potter took it. “They never allowed me any privacy, ever. My feelings were always up for grabs, public, theirs.” Potter tossed the picture on the coffee table. “When my position was made clear, that they couldn’t just use me, they just abandoned me and used the media to their advantage. From hero to scapegoat, again.” 

Draco nodded. “This could explain the pigeons.” 

“What?” 

“Humans domesticated pigeons, and when they couldn’t use them anymore, they let them go wild again. Only it doesn’t really work, does it? We treat pigeons like shit, like pests, but really, we abandoned them when we couldn’t use them anymore. And now, they cannot really fend for themselves.” 

“I didn’t take you for an ornithologist,” Potter said, smiling. 

“And I’m surprised you know the word ornithologist.” Draco rebutted, smiling back. 

They stared at the collection of pictures in front of them. Could it be? That the curse wasn’t tied to the blurb of the article, but Potter’s emotional state in the picture? 

“Does any of this make sense to you?” Potter asked him, leaning his head on his shoulder. 

“I’m not sure.” Draco conceded, the touch warming him up. “Why is the time not matching on clocks?” 

Potter thought about it for a second. “Could it be that I think the Ministry is a joke and that meetings are silly and there is no need for them to meet?” 

“It could,” Draco observed, “or it could mean that they are late implementing real change.” He lifted a hand to caress Potter’s cheek, distractedly. 

“Could this explain the truth part of the curse? How I feel about all of them?” 

Draco hummed. “The truth aspect of it is the easiest to explain, really.” He gazed at the walls. “And so is the shadow.” 

Potter sighed on his shoulder. Draco continued. “You were right when you said it was a stereotype.” 

Draco’s hand rose, and slowly caressed Potter’s hair, massaging Potter’s scalp just so. Potter groaned in appreciation. “Maybe don’t flirt with me as we’re cracking the case.” 

Draco laughed, softly, and leaned his head on Potter’s. “It’s the image of you they wanted, always active, always.. You don’t fit the image they had of you, you were never allowed to rest. It had nowhere to go, so it just.. Detached.” 

“Mmhh,” Potter said, “so what, am I supposed to use soap to attach it back?” 

Draco leaned and Potter scooted and looked at him. “Peter Pan, really?” 

“You know it?” 

“Yes, it’s one of those books that made it to the muggle world, it’s wizarding to begin with.” 

“That makes sense.” Potter observed. 

“And it wasn’t soap that worked, Wendy had to sew it back.” 

“I didn’t have much time in childhood to watch the film.” 

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “The film?” 

“I’ll show you one day.” 

“Right,” Draco conceded, not wanting to push the matter forward. One day, mh? He looked back at the pictures. Things did make sense from that lens, Potter’s emotional states affecting things, rather than the actual blurb. The camera nor the prophet were cursed, and Creevy wasn’t cursed either. Draco had been at wit’s end, and Potter wasn’t cursed either: he was the curse. 

Draco had been too busy fucking him to realise: that was a first, fucking a curse he was supposed to quash. 

Neither of them mentioned the petals, because now they made a lot of sense. And Potter’s friends had been right, and Draco hated that they were. His heart beat faster. He looked back at the picture of the two of them in Waitrose. 

He felt Potter observing him, and Draco decided that it was too early, surely!, to be dealing with that. 

“I suppose now we know it’s not really cause and effect, it’s just your—well, emotions.” 

“Why now though?” 

“I don’t know. Curses can be weird. Maybe something triggered it. I don’t know what yet.” 

Potter didn’t say anything to that, but instead put his hand on Draco’s crotch. He looked at him, raised his eyebrows in a silent invitation, “May I suck you off?” 

And Draco said yes, because weak is the flesh. 

****

When he woke up, he felt like he was exactly where he wanted to be: enveloping Potter, nuzzling his nape, arms and legs crossed and hooked together as if they were one, with different parts. 

Shagging Potter — or the curse, it seemed— had made him lose his reasoning. His professionalism (what professionalism? A malignant internal voice asked him) had been forgotten, put aside. He had to do something about it; he was the only one that could, he had been hired for it. But really, he didn’t want to leave the bed. Was it really that bad, if he just ignored the world outside? 

He looked at Potter peacefully sleeping next to him, naked, gorgeous. Draco couldn’t take all of him in, but he tried. His eyes stopped by his lips, so full, and arg, that dimple. And how was it that he still had to kiss him?

He secretly thought about kissing him then, as he was sleeping. But that would be unfair on Potter, unfair on him—but gosh, he wanted it so much. Why didn’t Potter kiss him? He caressed Potter's dimple with his thumb (still perfectly shaped), and kissed his neck instead. He got up with a groan, because he really didn’t want to. 

After a shower, he went to Potter’s living room. There was no space for him to analyse the material he had, which he often charmed so that it would hover over him to ease readability. He always checked on the shadow in the morning, like a sick routine. It was still there, sparring and annoying. “Calm down,” he told it, and the shadow pointed its wand at him and did its bit. Draco rolled his eyes. “You truly are such a nuisance.” 

He closed the curtain and sat on the floor (he felt better about the sofa, generally, but still did not like to sit on it) with a cup of coffee, although Potter did an extraordinary brew– could it possibly be because he didn't use magic to do it? Draco banished the thought, because he couldn't think of Potter now: he had to work. 

Only his work was Potter. He sighed. His initial labelling of the pictures had to be revisited: they made no sense now that they both agreed that the pictures were attached to Potter's emotional states. He lazily flicked through the archival newspapers, picture after picture of Potter. 

Then Potter woke up, and Draco got distracted. 

His brain stopped reminding him that he was a professional, which was alarming, considering he had been hired to work on the curse, and all he could think about was—well, nothing at all outside of Potter. 

He would find himself staring at him every time he was around, Potter a magnet and Draco a crappy piece of iron with no choice but to yield. He would get some reprieve only when Potter would go to his art rooms, but even then—alone, in Potter’s living room—he would flip pages without being able to concentrate, wondering what Potter was making in his art rooms. 

Potter, Potter, Potter. 

And so he took the habit of following Potter whenever he could not resist, sitting in the corner of Potter’s art rooms as Potter was doing something mad like sculpting a giant pair of tits. And instead of reading, really, he found himself constantly staring at Potter. Sometimes Potter would stop doing what he was doing to tease Draco, and Draco always complied and never complained about the clay stains on Potter, or about the drops of paint that ruined one of his favourite shirts. 

****

What more could happen?

Well, it got incredibly warm. So warm in fact, that Draco would definitely call it hot, and when he tried opening the windows, petals would fly in in huge waves, but the temperature wouldn’t change. Draco closed the window, and tried a cooling charm. Nothing. 

He walked into Potter’s study (he could hear Potter whistling an off-tune melody in one of his art rooms) and opened the door to the landing, the difference in temperature was an immediate relief. 

Draco crooked his neck, suspicious. He walked down the stairs and into the cold of London’s winter, where it was drizzling petals and rain. It was freezing. He opened his palms and raised his head up to the sky, letting the cold air cool him down.

“What are you doing?”

Draco lowered his head and turned around to look at Potter who was leaning on the main door, feet bare. Potter looked apprehensive, and Draco’s heart skipped a beat because he was gorgeous, and he hated that worried look on his face. 

Draco’s own face responded to Potter in a way that made him feel naked and uneasy, and yet, far too easy to mirror. “I was hot,” he said simply, “looking for cold.” 

Potter grabbed the door, did something more with his face. “Ah, you felt it too?”

“Impossible not too, Potter. That apartment feels like the Bahamas.” 

“Yeah,” Potter said, looking sheepish. “Well, er—sorry?” 

“No need,” Draco said, peeling his eyes away from Potter and turning his face back to the sky, and putting his hands out again. 

“I think the curse wants you to be naked in my apartment,” Potter said meekly. 

Draco opened one eye and darted at him. “I think you want me naked in your apartment.”

Potter took a tentative step outside, and then he was next to Draco. “I do, yes.” 

“Mhh,” Draco commented, then went back to closing his eyes and facing the sky. “The lines between what you want and what the curse is are getting blurrier and blurrier.”

Potter said nothing, and Draco kept his eyes closed, enjoying the cold. 

“Are you going to leave?” Potter asked after a while. 

Draco lowered his neck, and gazed at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t.” 

Act III: A solution 

Pansy’s voice shrieked through the living room, and Draco jumped, newspaper articles scattering around madly. 

Potter stared at Pansy’s head in his fireplace with alarm as she was sobbing her eyes out, her voice so shrill that even Draco could barely understand her. 

“What is she saying?” Potter asked as he sat next to Draco. 

“That someone left,” Draco said, versed in translating Pansy’s tantrums and crying fits, “I think.”

Pansy ignored them and kept on crying. “Hold on woman, let me through.” Draco told her, as he got up to grab a pinch of floopowder. He turned around to look at Potter who was already standing up, ready to follow. Draco’s heart warmed. 

They landed in Pansy’s living room and she threw herself into Draco’s arms, shrieking. 

“I’m here,” he told her, wrapping her in a hug and leaning his chin on her head. “Now tell me what’s going on.” 

Pansy gripped him even stronger, and shook her head. After a moment, she pushed him back slightly. “Why are you wearing a tank top?” 

“It’s very hot in Potter’s apartment.” Draco justified himself, but he was as horrified as she was. 

That’s when Pansy noticed Potter was there too, and her face changed from desperation to looking like a cat that had free access to cream. “Ah,” she said, “you truly are inseparable mh?”

Potter blushed, and Draco came to his rescue. “It’s work,” he said swiftly, “the whole city has gone mad, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“Oh yes, the city,” she beamed, “the city has gone mad.”

“Pansy—” Draco warned her, but of course she was unstoppable. She was on a regular basis, the curse was doing her no favours.

“Not the two of you flirting in a muggle supermarket. That’s not mad at all.” 

“We weren’t flirting,” Draco corrected her, zambrose strong. 

“You’re lying!” Pansy said, pointing a finger at him. “You can lie!” 

“I am not lying!” Draco lied.

“You are doing it again! How?” 

“I’m not lying you witch—”

“AH!” Pansy screeched, emergency completely forgotten. “You found a way around the truth curse!” 

Draco brusquely grabbed her by the arm and sat them both on the sofa. Potter stood, staring at them both. He was also wearing a tank top—the one Draco was wearing was Potter’s, after all. Another one of his genius ideas, and Draco was half mad because not only he said yes, but he was wearing Potter's clothes. 

“I knew something was afoot the moment I told Potter you were a curse breaker,” she babbled. 

“What?” Draco asked her, giving a look to Potter. 

He shrugged and scratched his neck. “Hours get long when you pose, you have to chit chat.” 

“And it’s even longer when you are standing there pulling a spready with the saviour painting your genitals, let me tell you.”

“I would rather you hadn’t.” Draco commented. 

“Did you see my vulva painting, Draco? Did you recognise me?”

“How would I recognise you???” 

Pansy shrugged. “I don’t know. Friendship.”

“I should have recognised your vulva because of friendship.” He repeated. 

Potter sat down on Pansy’s normal looking armchair, something simple but that Draco could not help but notice, because he noticed everything Potter did.

“What do you mean you felt something was afoot?” Draco said, returning to what Pansy had said, not letting the vulva talk (nor Potter doing mundane shit like sitting down) distract him. 

“He kept on asking about you. He was surprised you were a curse breaker.” 

“Why were you surprised!” Draco said to Potter, irritated, “what, you think I cannot be a curse breaker?”

“No!” Potter said, putting his hands up as if to stop where the conversation was going, “I was surprised because I hadn’t heard you were!” 

“And you’re a shit curse breaker by the way,” Pansy commented, eyes going large from the confession, “because the whole city is going mad!” 

“Do not steal my lines and use them against me!” Draco told her, getting miffed. 

“My gardener quit today and called me a despicable nepo baby who has more money than common sense!” She screamed at him, and tears were flowing again. 

“Is this why you called us?” Draco asked her, raising his eyebrow. “Because he wasn’t wrong.” 

“Us?? I was looking for you, but you’re always with Potter now!!”

Draco blushed at the faux pas, calling them ‘us’ was terrible practice to play it cool, especially because Potter hadn’t kissed him yet. 

Pansy began crying again, putting her face between her hands. She mumbled something that even Draco couldn’t get. 

“So this is the emergency?” He asked her with a soft tone, putting a comforting hand on her leg. “That the gardener quit and insulted you?” 

“He also told me that I have a cracking pair of tits,” she said, wiping a tear away. 

Potter laughed. “Well, he’s not wrong.” 

Pansy smiled at him. “Thank you Potter, you’re hot yourself.” She looked horrified as she said it.

“Don’t worry, he won’t hold it against you.” Draco reassured her, patting her thigh. 

“Ew,” she made a face of disgust, “why are you defending him.” 

“I’m not defending—”

“Is it because he’s hot?” 

Draco got up, “right, enough. I cannot be around you when you are just saying everything that is on your mind.” 

“Now that you’re with Potter you don’t have time for me anymore!” She screeched, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“I’m on assignment.” Draco told her. He looked at her mantle piece and saw she was out of floopowder. 

“My cleaner also quit,” she explained. 

“What did she say?” Potter asked, because he obviously still had a penchant for danger. 

“That I’m a spoiled little brat,” She said, “with cracking tits.” 

“So what, we’re supposed to walk home??” Draco asked her, scandalised. 

“Don’t be silly," Pansy told him, "you can apparate. Just out of the perimeter." 

“I’m wearing a tank top!" Draco said, showing her what he was wearing, "it’s November!”

“And whose fault is that?” 

Potter’s really. But Draco didn’t say anything. “Alright, if your emergency is quite done, we’ll be on our way.” 

“On your way to have hot sex in Potter’s studio.” She sighed. 

“We are not having sex!” Draco lied, but his blushing surely must have given him away. 

Potter looked taken aback at that. 

“Sure, and you’re wearing a tank top in November!” Pansy retorted, but it looked like the emergency was quite over.

Draco stormed off, and Potter followed. 

****

Outside, it was cold. But it was also snowing petals. “For the love of Merlin!” Draco screeched, “We’re in Dorset!” 

Potter looked upset. 

“What’s wrong with you!” Draco snapped, because his patience was wearing thin. How was it now snowing petals outside of London? He truly was the worst curse breaker in the history of curse breaking. 

Potter's brow was furrowed and he seemed hurt. “Why didn’t you tell her we’re sleeping together?” 

“What!” 

Petals were violently hitting them, and Draco was wondering exactly how he found himself in this position. 

“I said, why didn’t—” 

“I heard you!” Draco interrupted him. “I—why does it matter?”

“What do you mean why does it matter!” Potter said, looking completely pissed off. “She is your best friend!” 

“She is my—” Draco got distracted by how good Potter looked with petals all over him. Also, nobody should look that good in a tank top. He got irritated twice more. “Yes, and so?” 

“So if you don’t tell your best friends who are you going to tell?”

“Potter, you’re my assignment. I’m being completely inappropriate sleeping with you!” 

“I’m your assignment??" Potter exclaimed, completely angry now. “Is that what I am to you?” 

“No—” Draco grabbed Potter by the arm as he threatened to leave. “You know you are not just that to me.” 

“I have no idea what I am to you," Potter said, but not shaking Draco's hand off, "you just fuck me stupid and then bury yourself in books!” 

“It’s because I’m working!!” Draco screamed, not wanting to say that he barely read a thing, “in case you haven’t noticed the whole of Dorset is now covered in fucking petals!” 

“You’re the worst curse breaker, ever!” Potter told him, furious. 

Draco’s ego took a hit. “About that,” he said, and Potter pushed him away, but Draco held on to Potter’s muscly arm. “Why were you asking about me?” 

“We were having conversation!” 

“About me!” 

“So what! Do you never talk with former school friends about people you know in common?” 

“Not really,” Draco said, thinking about it. 

“Easy for you to say, I’m always all over the papers!” 

“What makes you think I was interested in information about you??” 

Potter looked frustrated. “Pansy told me about you being a curse breaker and I just found that curious and asked about you! I saw you a few times out and about and I thought that we would never have conversation and she was talking so I was just curious—”

"Out and about?" Draco asked. He never really saw Potter out and about. They didn't frequent the same circles, this was clear. Well, before they became their own circle, that was. 

Potter looked angry and embarrassed. Draco was unsure if he was blushing or freezing. "Yes, I saw you and thought you were hot, ok? I always thought you were. Bloody sue me!"

“Potter,” Draco said, struck by realisation, spitting out some petals. “When was this?” 

“What?”

“When did you ask Pansy about me?” 

Potter looked confused at the question. “Well, a few months ago, when I painted her—”

“Vulva, yes Potter, I get that. But when?” 

“It must have been—oh.” 

“Yes?”

“March.”

“March.” Draco repeated, “when things started going slightly crazy.” 

They stared at each other, realisation hitting Draco like a ton of bricks. Had this been all a complex magical phenomenon to get him to work on the case? He didn’t want to ask, but had to, because truly, this had to do with work. He was going to ask professionally. 

“Potter, do you fancy me?” Draco felt stupid asking. But he was doing it out of professional interest. 

“OF COURSE I BLOODY FANCY YOU!” Potter screamed, “we fuck twice a day! Not that you care, considering you are not telling your friends and you don’t kiss me!”

“WHAT????” Draco screamed right back, professionalism quickly forgotten. He pointed an accusatory finger in his face. “You don’t kiss me!” 

“The whole country is covered in petals, what do you think???”

Ah, they were finally going to talk about the petals. Which was ironic, considering they were currently covered in them. The Aurors were begging people to help make the petals invisible, but they only needed to stubbornly ignore them just like they both had been doing. What petals? 

The same petals that were now on Potter’s hair, and he looked like he was wearing a colourful crown. He looked so gorgeous that Draco felt his heart was going to explode. His throat worked.

“So what, are you telling me the petals are because—”

“Because I fucking like you!” Potter said, completely exasperated. “I have no idea how clearer I can be!” 

“What do you mean how clear you can be?” Draco asked him, “You don’t control the curse..”

“I don’t control it but it clearly stems from how I feel!” Potter said, crossing his arms, defiant. “You told me! And I feel a few ways about you!” 

Draco wanted to say something smart and witty, but instead he just stood there, staring at Potter. Potter fancied him. Potter liked him. Potter had a crush on him! Potter hexed the entire city because of him.

“Are you going to say something?” Potter asked him after a while. 

“Kiss me, you stupid idiot.” 

Potter lunged at the same time Draco did, and suddenly they were all over each other. Draco’s hand was firm at the nape of Potter’s neck, Potter’s palm warm and steady against Draco’s cheek. They hovered there for a heartbeat, eyes searching, breath tangled, petals clinging on them.

Then Potter closed his eyes, tilted his chin, and kissed him.

It wasn’t delicate: it was messy and immediate, like something that had been lingering there, ready to explode. And it had. Draco made a small, involuntary sound against Potter’s mouth as the kiss deepened, his fingers tightening in Potter’s hair, soft and full of petals like a deranged king of flowers. Potter’s hands slid to Draco’s hips and pulled him closer, unapologetic.

The petal storm intensified, swirling around them.

Draco didn’t know how long they stood there, kissing like that, but then the world lurched, and Potter apparated them without warning.

They landed on Potter’s bed in a rush of heat and breath and limbs, the petals following them even there, scattering across the sheets. Draco laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, before Potter kissed him again, slower this time, grounding.

Draco proceeded to remove every piece of clothing on Potter, trying not to break the kiss. It got hungry and desperate, and then slow again. Potter’s hands were everywhere. Draco left Potter’s lips only to go down on him, and Potter moaned, between frustration and pleasure, and Draco took his time to prepare him before fucking him stupid on the mattress.

In the semi-darkness of the room, Draco was sick with passion and drunk on Potter’s noises when he felt a freezing grip on his ankle. 

He froze.

Potter’s hands were tangled in his hair, and gripped it exhorting him to continue.“Why did you stop?” He murmured, confused and breathless.

“There’s a hand on my ankle,” Draco whispered. “And it’s not yours.”

Potter stilled too, every trace of softness gone. He reached blindly to the bedside table and closed his fingers around his wand.

The grip tightened. Draco looked down, even if he really, really didn’t want to.

The shadow was pooled at the edge of the bed, darker than the darkness of the room, shaped wrong, fingers too long, too solid for something that wasn’t meant to exist. It crawled upward, deliberate now, like it had been waiting for permission.

“Oh,” Draco breathed. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” His erection disappeared in an instant, and he rolled on to the mattress as Potter was getting up ready to—fight his own shadow?

“Expelliarmus!” Potter cried and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Really???" Draco let out, exasperated, "on a shadow?” 

“I don’t know!”

Draco grabbed his wand, “Lux!” he commanded, but the lights didn’t turn on. “Lumos!” he then cast as he pointed the light at the shadow, which shrieked briefly, but still launched at them. 

“Protego!” Potter bellowed, and a huge shield protected the bed: the shadow stubbornly hit it, ignoring the fact that it couldn’t penetrate it. Potter frowned. “That feels personal.”

“It is personal!” Draco told him, getting up. “It’s literally you!”

“I did think you were up to no good back then,” Potter conceded, still lying on the bed, “it possibly doesn’t like us sleeping together!” 

“Well, fuck your shadow!” Draco exclaimed, and pointed his wand at the shadow again, “incarcerous!” Ropes shot out, wrapping around nothing, and then suddenly something, as the shadow convulsed, half-solid, thrashing like an angry cloak.

“It’s confused!” Draco said, teeth chattering from adrenaline, “and so am I!”

The ropes strained, snapping one by one as the shadow howled, a sound like wind through broken glass. It was fucking creepy. 

“It’s not going to hold!” Potter said, stating the obvious.

“No,” Draco agreed, trying to think quickly. He never found himself in this situation. “We cannot contain a shadow!”

The shadow reared back, gathering itself, ready to prove Draco right.

“Alright, so what’s your brilliant idea, oh curse breaker?” Potter asked sarcastically.

“Very funny.” Draco commented, “I think you need to stop running from it.” 

The shadow froze: so it could fucking hear them, Draco knew it. 

Potter swallowed. “Now?”

“No, we’ll have a cuppa first,” Draco deadpanned, “yes, now!” 

The shadow lashed out again, shattering the bedside lamp.

Potter groaned. “I loved that lamp.” 

“That lamp was ordinary at best, now, please concentrate?” 

“What do I have to do?” Potter asked him, not lowering his wand and keeping it pointed at the shadow. 

“I don’t know, fucking talk to it?” 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” 

“Just—reassure it?” Draco tried, “you’re the one who goes to therapy!” 

“Alright, alright,” Potter said, and took a long breath. “I’m here,” he said, voice firm. “I see you.”

The shadow faltered, its edges blurring. “I’m not ashamed of you,” Potter went on, louder now. “We don’t have to fight anymore. We can rest.” The shadow shrieked, collapsing inward, thrashing wildly. Potter continued. “The two of us are one and the same.” 

Draco seized the moment: he stepped forward, wand raised. “Finite Incantatem!”

The shadow unravelled, thinning, stretching, and then, with a very underwhelming poof, it was gone.

Silence. Petals drifted lazily to the floor.

Potter coughed awkwardly. “Is it—” 

“Yes,” Draco said faintly. “Gone.”

They stood there, panting, surrounded by lamp bits, petals, and one very crumpled duvet.

“Lux,” Draco whispered, and the lights came on. 

Potter turned around to look at Draco, his cheeks pink from the fight, if you could call it that. He laughed, a little hysterical “Well,” he said. “That was… something.”

“First time I’m duelling in the nude.” Draco said, collapsing on the mattress. 

Potter laughed some more, settling next to Draco. “You looked dazzling doing it.” 

“You are fucked in the head.” Draco told him, and Potter rolled onto him. 

“Let’s get me fucked somewhere else, shall we?” 

****

The next time Draco saw Dennis Creevy, he was with a union rep. 

He looked smug and the rep looked vicious. Draco felt a little stronger knowing that he at least was zambrose strong, which wasn’t a blanket immunity, sure, but at least he had a filter. 

“Mr Malfoy,” the union rep said sharply, before Draco could open his mouth. She was wearing dragon-hide boots and an expression that suggested she enjoyed litigation recreationally. “My client will not be intimidated or prevented from doing his job.”

Draco nodded. The union rep continued. “Are you free for dinner?” 

“Excuse me?”

“You are handsome, I would like to take you out for dinner.” She blurted out, eyes wide. She covered her mouth in shock. 

Dennis gave her a dirty look. “Him? He is all pointy, Andrea!” 

Andrea shrugged. “I don’t know, he has beautiful fingers. Looks like he could finger me good.”

Draco blushed. Dennis scoffed. “He’s gay.” 

“What does that have to do with anything! And how do you know I’m gay!” He asked, outraged. He could romance a woman! Not sleep with her, maybe! But romance her, sure. 

“Everyone in school knew you were gay, Malfoy. Even if you tried to hide it.” 

“I didn’t try to hide it!” Draco exclaimed. He didn’t, truly. “I was confused!” And that he had been.

He thought he had a foot over them because of the zambrose, but he was obviously sourly mistaken. It was hard to focus on something when everyone around him blurted out the truth. 

“Sure, confused.” Creevy deadpanned, “we all saw how you were ogling Harry Potter.” 

“Oh look who is talking!” Draco rebutted. 

“Are you really gay?” The union rep interjected. “A little bisexual, maybe? Curious?”

“That’s so inappropriate!" Draco exclaimed, feeling outraged about his sexuality becoming a topic of conversation in the most surreal of backdrops. 

“You are right,” She conceded, “it is inappropriate.” She fluttered her eyelashes suggestively, “however, you cannot fault a girl for trying.” 

“You can if this girl,” Creevy gave her a dirty look, “is supposed to be a scary union rep.” 

Andrea shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“It’s useless for you to be here if you don’t act scary!!” Creevy complained, looking frustrated. 

“There is no need to act scary,” Draco told them, trying to stop the antagonism. “I’m not here to ask you to stop doing your job.” 

“Well, my job has been incredibly difficult to do thanks to you!” Creevy snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Harry is nowhere to be seen!” 

“The last picture you took created a petal blizzard.” Draco observed. “And I’m sure, because the tabloids were desperate for Potter, that you were paid a great deal.” 

“I was,” Creevy said, looking like he hadn’t wanted to share that fact. “That’s beyond the point!” 

“It is not, but thank you for sharing.” Draco said, indignant. 

“What do you want you insufferable little shit?” Creevy asked him, exasperated. 

“A normal picture of Potter. A boring one. One that says everything is boring. Potter’s life is boring.”

“Well that’s absolutely impossible!” Creevy said. 

“We can make it possible.” Draco rebutted. “We have to.” 

Creevy's face changed. “Are you talking about a.. Feature?”

“Yes. Full access.” 

“In his study?”

Draco thought about it. “His study is a bit mad. I don’t think it’s boring enough.” 

“Harry could never give boring!” Creevy protested. “How can we make this happen?”

“I’m thinking beige colours.” Draco said. 

“You would look good in beige.” Andrea commented. 

Draco ignored her, because he did not think he would suit beige in the slightest. “Maybe at the Prophet? I’m sure you must have a photography study.” 

****

Potter looked great in beige, of course he did. He stood, looking nervous, and like he did not want to be there in the slightest. “I don't like this,” he said.  

"Well, toughen up big boy." 

“Why do we have to do this again?" Potter whined. 

"Because the curse was triggered by you wanting me in your business, but it is still connected to the pictures that Creevy takes of you, and we need to make sure we address that."

Potter made a face, his lower lip pouting. Draco wanted to kiss it off him, aggressively.  

"I think everything should be fine now that we both agree that in order to save the city we have to be together." Potter offered. "Officially and all." 

“And I think I'm the curse breaker and we do as I say." Draco snapped, but really, his heart was swelling. 

Creevy arrived, putting an end to the conversation. Draco thought he heard Potter whispering something that sounded incredibly similar to "a shit curse breaker" but he let it go. 

He stood looking as Creevy took incredibly boring pictures of Potter doing nothing, but still serving face. Creevy was trying to direct Potter to do something else than just standing there, but every time Draco would stop him. 

“Come here,” Potter ordered after a while, hooking an inviting finger in his direction. 

“Me?” 

“You.”

Draco’s throat worked. He did not want to be on a newspaper. “I don’t think this is a great idea.” 

Creevy stared at them both, a light in his eyes. “Oh, I think it’s a great idea!” He said, beyond excitement. “We could do boring pictures but the article could be about the two of you solving the case?” 

“Sure,” Potter said at the same time that Draco said “no.”

Potter’s eyebrows furrowed. “We did solve the case.” 

“No, we’re trying to see if this works.” 

“We sorted out the shadow!” 

“What shadow?” Creevy asked. 

“No mind,” Draco told him. 

“But it will bring in so much money!” Creevy complained, truth pouring out of him. “You owe me!” 

“I do not owe you shit, Creevy!” 

“Your bad decisions are what led to my brother’s death.” Creevy stated, folding his arms on his chest, defiant. 

Draco opened his mouth a few times, and looked at Potter indignantly. But the traitor shrugged, willing to sell his dignity as long as Draco was going to pose next to him. 

When he saw there was no way out of it, Draco pushed his arms up. “Alright. But I’m not happy about this.” 

Potter beamed insufferably. 

****

Draco woke up at dawn; the bed was empty. He found Potter nursing a cup of coffee in the kitchen, wearing a tired smile. Draco noticed the walls were curtain-less, and he could see the warm white of colour they had been painted in. No shadow. 

“Tell me a lie.” Potter asked him. Draco gazed at the last vial of zambrose on the kitchen table next to Potter. 

“You look absolutely disgusting.” Draco tried, and there was no pressure on his throat. 

Potter smiled. “Tell me another.” 

“I don’t like you at all.” Draco got closer to him, touched his arm.

“I know,” Potter said, putting a hand over his, as if they hadn’t fucked until the early hours of the morning. 

“In fact, I am positively appalled at—”

“Alright, enough.” Potter warned him. He passed him the newspaper. 

Draco peered at it, and on the front page, their very boring picture all in beige. 'Curse Breaking and Heart Throbbing: Potter and Malfoy on the Case.'

Draco’s mouth twisted in annoyance, but he did look good sitting next to Potter, his arms crossing like he meant business. “You look good in beige.” he said, and Potter hummed. 

“I do prefer colours.” 

Draco took a few steps to the window—the absence of petals evident. “That’s it then.” 

“Yeah.” 

“That’s really a complicated way of telling someone you like them.” Draco said, sitting down on a stool next to Potter. “Cursing the whole town I mean.” 

Potter shrugged. “I didn’t do it on purpose.” He then poked Draco in the thigh. “It worked though, didn’t it.” 

Draco nodded, a small smile escaping him. “Yes, it did.” 

“And now what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find another gig.”

“By the way, who is paying for this one?”

“The Ministry.”

“Hope you’re expensive.”

“Quite.” Draco told him, winking.

They looked at each other. Suddenly, there was no reason to be together all the time anymore. 

“You’re moving in, right?” Potter asked, without blinking. 

“Of course. Who is going to keep you safe?” Draco asked, puffing his chest out proudly.

Potter laughed, grabbed Draco by the nape, and kissed him. 

****

All was well.

And also: pigeons were treated better. A few muggles went on about the days when it snowed petals, but nobody believed them if not for a few nut-jobs on what people called the internet—whatever that was. Sam the Dangerous Apothecary now did business with the DMLE.

Brick Lane remained slightly uneven.