Chapter Text
What the rest of the group doesn’t know is that, after a lifetime of constant movement — prodding, plotting, running, surviving — Harry has become a master in the art of doing nothing.
He attends university without actually studying anything, throws over the hottest men for the smallest of reasons, and hasn’t made a single pre-emptive plan for himself in almost two years, unless it’s something his friends are doing, too.
Combine cosmic burnout with an entire childhood’s worth of withheld pleasure, and the contest, for Harry at least, is going swimmingly. They’re one week in, and he’s hardly spared a thought for the flesh between his legs. There have been no longing thoughts or throbs of uncontrollable lust, no wanton touches lingering across his body. The hardest part has been finding something else to do when he’s bored. He’s dangerously close to reading a book.
They haven’t all been so lucky.
“I’m out!” Hermione had said, five days in. She was leaning forward onto the table, her bag hanging haphazardly from her shoulder, her hair sticking out in even more directions than usual.
They were in the coffee shop, and everyone was staring at them.
“Out of what?” Harry asked, because surely it couldn’t have been the contest. Sexual appetite aside, Hermione just didn’t lose.
“I’m. Out,” Hermione repeated. There were deep, purple circles beneath her eyes. “Not that any of you toilet rolls would know a thing about this, but I’m ovulating, and yesterday hot barista got a new forearm tattoo. Of his cat.” She inhaled deeply, gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. “So, you see. Couldn’t be helped. I’m out.” She stood haughtily, smoothing the front of her floral-patterned dress. “I’m getting one hundred coffees. No one follow me.”
Ron spoke first, after they all watched Hermione walk to the counter and toss her hair to one side, hot barista’s arms bulging from his sleeves as he openly stared down the front of her dress. “What the bloody hell was that about?”
“Sounds like Granger’s laid an egg,” Draco said. He took a large bite out of Harry’s breakfast sandwich. “Fascinating. I wonder what colour it is.”
Day eight is a Sunday, and on Sundays they make bacon sarnies. On this particular Sunday, however, there’s an issue: it’s too hot to fry bacon.
The radiator hisses wildly against the wall, punctuating itself with bangs and high-pitched screaming that would put the Burrow’s ghoul to shame.
“I can’t live like this, Harry,” Ron says, fanning himself with a magazine: the all-Veela edition of Playwiz. He notices the cover and groans, throwing it across the room.
“You shouldn’t buy that rubbish in the first place,” Hermione chides, before putting her head back in the freezer. Not even her strongest cooling spell could defeat the Muggle radiator. All it did was make the air clammy and sick.
“I happen to enjoy the puzzle insert, Hermione,” Ron says. Knowing him, that might not be a lie. “And anyway, I—”
A loud bang erupts across the hall, cutting Ron off.
“Potter!”
Draco slams the hall door open. His hair is sooty, the collar of his shirt singed. A small ember burns near his waist; he tamps it out with a bored smack. “Do you have fifty spools of red string?”
“No?” Harry says from where he’s lying on the hardwood floor, his body flat and sweaty. At one point, for a few beautiful seconds, it had felt cool.
“I’ll settle for one spool of string.”
“I have zero to offer,” Harry says.
“What good are you?” Draco tilts his head. “It’s quite warm in here. Are you finally embracing the sauna lifestyle, like I told you?”
“No,” Harry says weakly.
“You know you’re meant to go to the sauna, yes?” Draco says. “That’s where the other men are.”
“I’m aware.” Harry presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.
“What’s the string for?” Hermione asks from the freezer.
“Nevermind that,” Draco says, another scheme retired with no explanation. Harry and Ron spend more time around the flat, and are thus more accustomed to Draco’s endless parade of explosions and fleeting fancies; they know that asking for context is generally a bad idea, unless you have several hours and a significant amount of energy to spare. “Where are the sarnies?”
“Too hot for bacon,” Ron says.
“Bandypuss,” Draco says, one of his odd pure-blood curses. Or possibly just a word he’s made up. “What am I meant to have for breakfast?”
“There’s Weetabix,” Harry offers, pointing at his cabinets from the floor.
“But Sunday’s bacon sarnie day,” Draco says, as though none of the rest of them had considered this. He removes a monogrammed serviette from the back pocket of his blue linen trousers, holds it up as evidence. “You simply must get on with it.”
“Why don’t you make the bloody bacon, if it’s that important to you,” Hermione grouses.
“NO!” Harry and Ron both shout at once.
Draco isn’t allowed to cook. Not after New Year’s Eve last year. Hermione had been on holiday, skiing with her parents. She doesn’t understand why Harry still can’t look at meatballs without gagging.
“I’ll do it,” Harry concedes, unpeeling himself from the floor.
“Take your clothes off,” Draco says. And then, taking in everyone’s confused stares, “What? It’ll cool you down. Nott and I do it all the time, when we–”
“Please,” Harry says, holding up a damp hand as he walks into the kitchen. “No one wants the details.”
“Not a bad shout, though,” Ron says. His voice is muffled, and when Harry turns to look he finds Ron with his shirt halfway off his head.
Harry places the griddle on the counter with a heavy bang, determined to be as petulant about this as possible.
“I’m putting on my bacon t-shirt,” Hermione says, disappearing into her room.
Harry busies himself with frying. If he focuses on achieving a perfect crisp, then perhaps his mind won’t wander to the well-proportioned hunk of muscle currently lying in his pants on the other side of the room.
Damn these modern, open floor plans. A bloke can’t even hide from his own thoughts in the privacy of a fully-enclosed kitchen these days.
Harry flips the bacon, and then has nothing to do except watch Ron’s chest flex as Draco lifts his own shirt overhead.
The bacon sizzles, the scent of it rising into Harry’s nose; he shakes his head. It’s not like this is the first time he’s seen their bodies. He could map the freckles on Ron’s bum with his eyes closed. He’s seen Draco’s chest exposed by a linen shirt dangling open on a warm summer’s day, giving Harry an easy view of small, pink nipples and blond chest hair.
What’s new are Draco’s hip bones. Draco favours loose clothing, so Harry’s never had cause to notice the lines on either side of his stomach, two express motorways routing Harry’s eyes and mind directly to the neighbourhood of co*ck.
Harry watches Draco lean over the back of the couch, the pert curve of his arse mere inches from Ron’s hand. Ron, who is wider and softer but still so clearly defined — and always inexplicably tanner than Harry expects. Harry digs his fists into a tea towel, shoving down the urge to cross the room and physically force them on top of each other.
He doesn’t have to be involved, himself.
Harry likes to watch.
Grease splatters onto Harry’s hand and he jumps, blinking back into reality. He takes the bacon off the hob, freeing his now moderately hard co*ck from where he’d been unconsciously pressing it into the countertop.
He focuses on plating their food, toasting the bread with magic due to his haphazard time management, until his mind clears and his co*ck softens. He glances at the others. They’re all laughing—skin exposed and folding and freckled and hairy. Harry slides a hand down the front of his pants, adjusting himself. The press of his fingers on his co*ck makes Harry’s spine vibrate.
If there wasn’t this bloody contest on, he’d force down his food and then excuse himself, insisting on a shower. He’d pull himself off in two minutes flat, scrub some soap into his hair, and then be done with the whole ordeal.
Alas. The contest. The torture he willingly volunteered for.
Harry carries the platter of bacon out to the group. “Don’t be alarmed, but I think I’ve made a major discovery.”
“Is that so?” Hermione asks, turning to face him, expression open and interested.
Harry nods. Ron’s bare thigh brushes against his forearm, and Harry rolls his sleeves down. “I finally understand what it means to be hoisted by your own petard.”
+++
Harry feels less riddled with despair after returning to lectures and coursework the next day. Not that he himself has much to do, but it’s at least a distraction from Ron, who had spent the entirety of Sunday in his pants, long after the radiator finally shut itself off.
He’d been far too comfortable for Harry’s liking, had made noises about starting a new tradition — pants and sarnies Sunday — forcing Harry to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. If he has to encounter Ron’s belly once a week without being allowed to press his face into soft, ginger-hair covered muscle, Harry is very certain he’ll actually die.
At the very least he’ll lose the contest, and Harry refuses to lose to Ron.
A loss to Draco, he can swallow, odd as that may be. Draco is a bizarre amalgam of a person, his brain clearly addled by a combination of childhood trauma, exposure to great wealth, and access to potions ingredients. Harry doesn’t often append sexual to the list of Draco’s unique personality traits, despite his initial misgivings as to Draco’s proclaimed chastity. Harry has to admit—it’s difficult to imagine Draco doing anything as common as wanking himself off.
But Ron. Ron’s a legend. Ron could win awards for his wanking, and if it wouldn’t have exposed him as a total pervert, Harry would’ve long ago presented Ron with a trophy room of prizes to rival the one at Hogwarts.
Harry respects Ron’s commitment to an interest. He hasn’t had much luck picking up new hobbies, now that the Saviour gig is finished. Harry can tell Ron’s improved—he lasts longer, moans with a deeper vocal range. Sometimes he’s so lubed up that Harry can hear the slick slick noises through their shared wall.
Harry doesn’t know if Ron knows he can hear. If he were to find out, would he pull the bed from the wall? Cast a Muffliato, move to the shower? Or would he be louder? Would he leave his door open? Would he stop when Harry pauses in the open doorway? Or would Ron find himself too far gone, unable to still his own hand as it strokes up and down, wet and slick and—
“Potter! What do you know about water pressure?”
Harry falls off the couch. When he rights himself, Draco is in the open doorway, eyebrows raised expectantly. Harry briefly considers becoming the sort of person who locks his front door.
“Hi,” Harry says, rubbing his face. He hadn’t meant to drift so deeply into his own mind. A dangerous place, not meant to be trod through lightly. “Water pressure?” he says, blinking. “Erm, I know it’s a thing… that people want.”
“Merlin, but you’re hopeless,” Draco says, looking disappointed. Harry’s chest tightens. “Get off your arse, Potter. I’m going to change your life.”
+++
Draco takes him south of the river, past the South Bank and into Lambeth. Draco insists on walking, and Harry wants to whinge about the humidity and Draco’s brisk pace — he’s all leg; how had Harry never noticed? — but the sun comes out as they cross the river and not even Harry can complain.
It’s a weak sun, watery and limpid, hesitant sunbeams casting over them like the cautious first stretch of a recently injured athlete. It’s also March in London, so Harry unzips his anorak and takes what he can get.
Draco turns them from the riverbank, away from the touristy bustle of Lambeth Palace. They’re headed towards Kennington, which Harry’s only been to once, during the month he dated an otherwise pleasant older man who had forced Harry to end things by turning everything into a cricket metaphor.
Harry chews the inside of his lip, concerned they may run into his ex loitering by The Oval when a waving hand catches the periphery of his vision. His heart beats up into his throat, but then Harry’s ears catch up with his eyes and he hears,
“Malfoy! Wotcher, Malfoy!”
It’s a vendor from one of the nearby stalls selling overpriced food. Harry’s heart crawls back where it belongs, and in its place slides the overwhelming desire for a steak and onion pie.
“Stanley!” Malfoy returns the call, grabbing Harry’s arm. “Can’t chat today, important business!” He shakes Harry slightly, as though he’s proof of statement. Stanley touches his cap as they walk away.
“Who was that?” Harry asks.
“Stanley Macasano,” Draco replies. “You know him.”
“How could I possibly know him?”
“He’s a very important part of my life, Potter.” Draco huffs. “He’s in all of my best stories.”
Harry was going to argue otherwise, that surely he himself must feature in a few good tales, but he’s distracted by another, “Malfoy!” This one’s from outside a florist. Shortly after there’s a cheery greeting from a greengrocer, a less than enthused look from the owner of a frozen yoghurt shop, a Long time no see! from the window of a chicken shop. They pass a vintage shop and the door slams open, the shop’s owner staring daggers at them.
“Malfoy!” he says. “Where are the jackets you promised me? I’ve been waiting for six weeks.” He looks at Harry and his anorak. “This isn’t one of them, is it?”
Malfoy snorts. “Please,” he says. Harry zips his anorak up to his chin, self-conscious. “Do I not seem like a man of my word, Martin? You’ll have your jackets.”
Martin-Apparently narrows his eyes. “One week, and then I want my money back,” he says, before disappearing back into the shop.
“What the f*ck?” Harry laughs nervously. “How do you–-what are you doing when we’re not around?” Malfoy opens his mouth but Harry stops him, holding up a hand. “No, you know what? Don’t tell me. The less I know, the better.”
They keep walking. Harry casts his mind back to Stanley and his pie cart. It’s never occurred to him before that Draco would know people he doesn’t know — would know Muggles he doesn’t know. That he might have spent the past few years building a life that has nothing to do with magic or Harry at all. The idea makes him feel unbearably alone.
Harry realises he doesn’t know what magic looks like without Draco. He’s always been part of the larger picture, both of them two sides of the same coin—stuck facing in opposite directions, sure. But pressed together all the same.
“Where are we going?” Harry finally asks, freeing himself from that train of thought. At some point he’s lost not only control of his day, but potentially his entire life.
Draco stops walking, faces Harry and says, “Morgon the Beheader.”
Harry blinks. “What?”
“Not what, Potter. Who,” Draco says, widening his eyes as he holds up a finger.
“Right…” A thought occurs to Harry. “Is he like, a ghost or something? Oh! Are we going to see a vampire?”
Draco gives him a pitying look, his mouth flat. “No, Potter.” He pats Harry on the back and starts walking again.
They travel several more blocks, turning further and further into residential side-streets, when Draco stops them in front of a plain-looking brick building next to a grubby alley. There’s a white van parked halfway down, between bins for rubbish and recycling.
Draco turns into the alley. Harry’s heart rate picks up again. They’ve had enough excruciating talks about the past that Harry feels very certain Draco wouldn’t lead him into harm’s way. Not intentionally, at least. He swallows down the urge to save, to grab Draco by the back of his jacket and pull; to abandon whatever this is and go back to Stanley at The Oval, buy a sausage, and watch the cricket.
As they approach the van, Harry sees the reflection of a cloaked figure in stagnant puddle water. Not a vampire, then.
“Draco…” Harry mutters, unconsciously moving closer. The figure’s reflection begins to move, stepping out from behind the van to meet them. Their cloak is a dark burgundy, pulled down low over their face. They’re much shorter than Harry had been expecting, but he knows from experience that danger can come in deceptively small packages.
“Morgon.” Draco nods solemnly. “Thank you for meeting us. The situation is, as you can see, most dire.”
Morgon the Beheader doesn’t react.
“Please.” Draco gestures to Harry’s head. Harry frowns.
“Morgon the Beheader is feeling most generous today,” Morgon the Beheader says. His voice is high and reedy. “Morgon the Beheader will assist you.” He points to the open back doors of the van.
“I would love to see Morgon the Beheader’s face,” Harry suggests. “And also to know what the f*ck is going on.”
Morgon the Beheader sighs resignedly, as though Harry’s impatience was expected yet still disappointing. “Foolish impertinence,” he says. Draco chuckles.
Harry crosses his arms over his chest.
“Oh very well,” Morgon the Beheader says. The hands that appear from the over-long sleeves of his robes are pale and decidedly human. Morgon the Beheader bows his head and then slowly lowers his hood, a well-practised drama. When he lifts his head, Harry finds himself staring into the defiant face of a bespectacled, spotty teenager.
Harry bites his tongue, keeping his expression serious. “Nice to meet you, erm, sir. Is the Beheader a family name?”
“Potter!” Draco admonishes. “I’m so sorry for him.” He turns back to Harry. “Morgon the Beheader is a dungeon master, Potter. Show him the proper respect!”
Harry thinks he might pop a hernia from trying not to laugh. “What do you think a dungeon master is, exactly?”
“Enough!” says Morgon the Beheader, who Harry presumes is actually called something like Eugene. “You sought my valuable wares for a reason. Come, come.” He gestures at the back of the van.
“I can’t wait to see what this f*cking is,” Harry says, then covers his mouth. “Sorry about the swearing.”
Morgon the Beheader glares at him. Harry wonders if Morgon the Beheader’s mum knows he’s meeting strangers in an alley.
Harry, having recently become something of a betting man, could have put money on a number of ridiculous Muggle items Draco might find fascinating enough to drag Harry down here on foot for: rotary telephones, Magic Eye books, bobblehead figurines that talk when you squeeze them. What he’s found himself staring at would’ve been so far down the list he would’ve had to tack it on with a piece of scrap paper.
“Showerheads?” Harry pinches the skin between his finger and thumb, to confirm he’s awake and this isn’t a bizarre dream.
“Not just any showerheads, Potter.” Draco inspects the cardboard boxes full of shining metal. “These are the best money can buy.”
“And you have them in a van… why?” Harry asks, turning to Morgon the Beheader, who Harry isn’t sure is even old enough to drive.
“Family business,” Morgon the Beheader replies proudly. His glasses slide down his nose.
Harry narrows his eyes. “Is this your dad’s van?”
“Do you want one or not?”
“Of course he does,” Draco says. “Potter, where are your manners today? Give the master of dungeons his money.”
“How much?” Harry asks.
“Ten quid.”
Harry chews his lip. Ten quid is better than any offer he’s ever seen in the shops, and it is true that the water pressure in his flat could be stronger.
“Yeah alright,” Harry says. He takes a ten and a five pound note out of his wallet, presenting them to Morgon the Beheader. “Buy yourself a comic, kid.”
Morgon the Beheader flips Harry the finger, pulls his hood up over his head, and slams the back doors of the van shut. He pulls a bike from where it had been stashed between the van and the brick wall and rides off. Harry waits until the fluttering, maroon robes are fully out of view before turning to Draco and brandishing the showerhead at him, as he asks,
“What’s next?”
“I’ve already told you.” Draco wraps his hand over Harry’s, fist over fist around the firm rod of the showerhead. “I’m going to change your life.” With his other hand, he brushes a rogue curl behind Harry’s ear. “Don’t you ever listen?”
+++
Changing Harry’s life means, apparently, changing Harry’s showerhead. In hindsight that was rather obvious, however in the moment Harry is surprised when Draco emerges from the shower — wiping his hands on one of Harry’s clean face towels — and says,
“There. Life changed.”
“That easy, is it?” Harry puts down the newspaper he’d been mostly just staring at.
Draco points at him and clicks his tongue — Harry wonders which one of his Muggle mates he’s learned that gesture from, because it certainly wasn’t Narcissa or Lucius — then heads into the kitchen to scrounge through Harry’s fridge.
Harry supposes he should check Draco’s work now, while he’s still close at hand to fix it. He shoves his hands in his pockets and saunters into the bathroom, looking for… well. He’s not sure. Leaking pipes? Exposed drywall? Electrical wires and standing water?
The shower looks exactly as it did this morning, only the shower head is bigger. The old one is in the bin. Harry peers at it—the face is scummy, buildup caking the rim of every hole. He pulls a face, disgusted by both the state of the old shower head and the fact that Draco had been right.
Harry slides the shower curtain — yellow flowers — closed, and joins Draco in the kitchen. “Where’d you learn to do all this?”
Draco licks a smear of mustard from his thumb. “All what?”
Harry gestures towards the bathroom.
“Oh, that.” Draco snorts. “That’s nothing, Potter. A mere twist.” He slaps the top piece of bread on the sandwich he’s making with Harry’s food, then lifts a fist and turns it, holding an imaginary rod.
“Erm,” Harry says.
“Come on, I’ll show you.” Draco takes a large bite of turkey and then grabs Harry by the wrist.
“I’ve got the picture, actually.” Harry tries to resist, but Draco is stronger than he looks and Harry can’t pull himself away.
Draco drags them back to the shower, flings the curtain back, and starts removing his clothes.
“Why all this now?” Harry asks, rubbing his wrist, nerves tightening across his chest.
“Well I don’t want to get my clothes wet, do I, Potter?” Draco replies, in a tone like Harry is the thickest person who’s ever lived.
When Draco’s down to his pants — apples and pears on navy boxer briefs — he turns the water on, then looks at Harry expectantly over his shoulder.
“Do you want to get your clothes wet, Potter?”
“f*ck off,” Harry says as he unbuttons his jeans. He’s not sure who he’s admonishing, Draco or himself.
The water is hot and steaming by the time Harry’s down to his own pants, which Draco takes in with an amused smirk. Harry has on his Quidditch boxers today, Snitches and broomsticks chasing themselves around his bum.
Draco bites his lip. “Cute.”
“It’s almost laundry day, shut it,” Harry says, hot all down his neck. He pushes past Draco and, in his haste to escape the situation, climbs into the shower.
“Oh.” Draco raises his eyebrows. “I was going to give a demonstration from out here, but—”
“What!” Harry wraps his arms around himself, gooseflesh rising all over as his body adjusts to the shower’s heat. “Why did I have to strip off, then?”
Draco shrugs, then steps over the lip of the tub, joining Harry. He pulls the shower curtain closed behind him, and steps directly into the spray.
“Merlin that’s sh*tting glorious.” Draco sighs. He lets his head droop forward, and Harry watches, fascinated, as his hair gets darker where it’s wet.
“I wouldn’t know,” Harry says. He’s cold again, without the water on him. “Switch.”
“Mm,” Draco hums. He lifts his head and then stretches his arms; he’s tall enough that his fingertips graze the ceiling. “What’s the password?”
Without his glasses, Harry can’t see exactly the look on Draco’s face, but he’d be willing to let his contest bet ride on it being a smarmy, self-satisfied expression. Real punchable, like.
“Move.” Harry puts his hands on Draco’s chest — Harry’s close enough to see Draco’s eyebrows rise — and then he twists, pinching Draco’s pert little nipples in both hands.
“f*ck, Potter!” Draco gasps, laughing as he doubles over, letting Harry move into the stream.
“Have I done it right?” Harry sneers. “The twisting you were so keen to show me–ee–eeeooohhhh my god, this shower.”
Hot water pelts against Harry’s neck and shoulders, the lower end of the stream cascading down his back. What feels like thousands of years of stress melt off his body. His shoulders drop and his eyes fall closed, unbidden; for a moment Harry loses all sense of time and space. He’s underneath a waterfall in a rainforest, surrounded by tropical birds and pink flowers with dripping vines. Smooth rocks warm the bottoms of his feet; a bounty of fresh fruit — papaya, coconut, mango — awaits his pleasure, fragrant, cut open and ripe. Hot water cascades down his chest, glistening off his perfectly-formed muscles and impressive abs, all the way down to his co*ck which everyone agrees is the exact right shape and size, and which is growing without any effort at all.
Harry’s partner, who is a CEO and also a humanitarian and a single dad, takes a step closer to Harry. Their toes brush underwater. Harry’s hands — calloused and strong, due to how he could play several sports professionally if only he wasn’t so busy running a hospital for foster dogs — reach for his partner, wanting to pull him in close and give him yet another one of his trademark perfect kisses. His partner’s hands find him first, trailing through his chest hair, which never needs grooming, palms warm on smooth, wet skin until—
“Yow!!” Harry’s eyes fly open as he grasps his nipples. Draco cackles and Harry takes a step back, onto the other side of the shower’s spray, and then looks down.
His boxers, which had once been white, are now mostly see-through. Snitches and broomsticks fly gaily over the outline of his limp co*ck.
“Well,” Harry says, resigned. “At least there’s not any shrinkage.”
A wet splat catches his attention, snapping his head up and his gaze to Draco.
Draco, who is now completely in the nude.
“Seemed only fair.” He shrugs.
“You and your famous penchant for justice,” Harry grumbles as he slides his boxers down his wet legs. He scrunches his eyes together as he holds them outside the shower curtain, despising how disgusting it will be to pick the sodden fabric off the floor once they’re finished.
Finished with what, though?
Draco reaches past Harry for the soap, and it occurs to Harry for the first time that this entire day could have been a setup. A trap set specifically to tempt him to wank. Except instead of cheese, the item up for grabs is Draco’s co*ck.
And under any other circ*mstances, well. Harry wouldn’t just grab, he’s not a monster. But now that he’s allowing himself to look he has to admit he’d like to see more. Draco is either a shower or has been burdened with gratuitous excess, as even flaccid there’s enough there to press a pleasant weight on Harry’s tongue. It would be so easy, so simple, to fall to his knees, and run his hands up the golden hair on Draco’s thighs. To nuzzle Draco’s co*ck from his balls, licking and sucking each one, showing them his appreciation too. To open his mouth and let the hot shower water traverse the length of Draco’s shaft and onto his tongue. To swallow.
“Do my back.” Draco shoves the soap into Harry’s hand, turns around.
Harry stares openly at his arse. It looks even better from behind than it did bending over the back of his couch.
Harry nods stupidly, grateful to the hot water for hiding the aroused flush spreading across his chest.
The soap is slippery in his hand, which means Harry has to hold Draco by one bicep and press hard into his skin. It would be easier if Draco were closer, but Harry’s afraid to step forward. It’s taking his entire concentration to keep himself at half-mast.
There’s a scar down the middle of Draco’s back, near his spine. It looks rough, imprecise and shiny where the healed skin stretches tight over the former wound.
“Is this—” Harry asks, following the soap with his fingers.
“What?” Draco’s shoulders tense. “Ah.” He snorts. “Like my core scar, do you? Didn’t take you for a fetishist, given your history, but then again—”
“Shut it.” Harry says, then: “Did it hurt?”
“Oh yeah, loads.”
“Does it still hurt?”
“Only when speccy gits dig their nails into it,” Draco says. “And anyway, maybe I like it, when it hurts.”
Harry blinks. Is that? Does that mean? His brain is too flooded with pent-up sex thoughts to process anything clearly, let alone a proposition. From Draco. He needs to get them back on non-sexual footing.
“You can, erm, wash your own arse,” Harry says, smooth as ever. He holds the soap out for Draco to take.
Draco turns around. Harry focuses very hard on not looking down. “I’ll wash yours first.”
“What!” Harry squeaks.
“Your back,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. He makes a twirling motion with one finger.
Harry does as told, then finds himself in the confusing position of both enjoying Draco’s attentions very much, and also not feeling one-hundred percent comfortable with his back turned. Draco could be doing anything, now that Harry can’t see him.
Like for example what he’s currently doing, which is cupping Harry’s arse.
“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a stellar arse?” Draco punctuates the last words with a squeeze.
Harry spins around, too fast for Draco to move his hands, which means he’s now holding Harry by the hips.
“This is a trick!” Harry doesn’t move away.
“Is it?” Draco doesn’t move, either.
“You’re trying to knock me out of the contest.”
“Am I?” Draco’s grip tightens. “Is it working?”
“No,” Harry says petulantly. He lifts both hands in the air, waving them in Draco’s face. “I’m not wanking, am I?”
Draco leans forward and captures one of Harry’s fingers between his teeth, not entirely gentle. Harry freezes. Draco grins around Harry’s finger, then sticks his tongue out. Harry lets his finger slide into Draco’s mouth.
Harry makes a half-hearted attempt at pulling away — not because he wants to, but because he knows he’s supposed to want to, but Draco pulls him closer, and then they’re pressed together down the front.
“Oh,” Harry says.
Draco drops Harry’s hands. He asks again, “Is it working?”
“Maybe,” Harry hedges. There’s soap sliding down his back and his hands are going pruny, and still this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to him in ages.
Draco’s hard against Harry’s hip and every inch of his body is singing, vibration coursing through his skin like a wire pulled tight. Harry wonders what would happen if they kissed. If he could manage it, or if they’d cascade immediately over the edge and out of the contest. Could he stomach losing to Ron and having a massive pash for Draco Malfoy and his perfect co*ck?
Harry wiggles his toes, preparing to lean up and find out what his stomach can handle, but then the vibration gets stronger. It’s not just in his skin, it’s in Draco’s, too. They’re buzzing like phones.
Suddenly, the front door slams open.
“Someone’s wanking!” Ron yells into the flat. “I’m going off like a spin cycle!” There’s a brief pause, and then Ron’s voice grows louder, “Someone’s wanking… in the shower!”
They never closed the bathroom door. There’s no escape.
“Go,” Harry hisses, pushing at Draco. “Stick your head out.”
“You stick your head out!” Draco hisses back.
“This was your idea!”
“It’s your flat!”
“You basically live here!”
Harry glares at Draco. Draco glares back.
The vibrations, at least, have stopped.
“I wonder who it is…” Ron says. If Harry had to guess, he’s only a few steps away.
Harry debates kicking Draco in the shin, both because it would be fun and also so that he’ll fall out of the shower. He’s absolutely just about to do it, when the front door slams open again.
“Where’s the loser?” Hermione calls into the flat. “I bet it’s you, Ronald.”
“Wanna put money on it?” Ron’s voice is loud, just on the other side of the shower curtain. Harry bites his lip. Hermione says something unintelligible, and then there’s the sound of Ron’s footsteps, walking away.
Harry exhales, his body shaking due to natural causes this time.
Draco reaches past him, turns the water off. Harry uses one finger — the finger that was in Draco’s mouth, Merlin help him — to peer around the side of the shower curtain. He whispers a spell, and the door shuts closed with a soft click.
“Drying spells,” Harry says, after they’ve towelled off. “For our hair.”
“Why?” Draco asks.
“So they won’t know we were in the shower,” Harry explains. Obviously.
“But they heard the shower.” Draco pulls his trousers on over his naked body, leaving his pants abandoned and wet on the floor.
“Fine,” Harry says. “For my hair.”
Draco’s eyes go wide. “But then they’ll think I was wanking!”
“Caliduventus,” Harry casts, voice flat. It gets them drier, but his poor phonology has left them somewhat damp.
Draco frowns at him. Harry doesn’t know why. Draco’s hair, delicate and silky, is already drying in the shower-warm air. Harry’s curls will stay damp for hours. He could do the spell again, properly this time, but that would be embarrassing.
And anyway, there’s no escaping a confrontation. Ron and Hermione are just as bad as he is once they’ve scented out a topic of interest. Especially one that’s none of their business.
Harry sighs. “Judgement time.”
“Is that all?” Draco fluffs his hair. He opens the door and throws himself one more look in the mirror before winking at Harry, saying, “A jury, I can handle.”
Which is how Harry finds himself in his armchair, blindfolded, while Draco and Ron sit across from him in the settee, taking turns faking org*sm.
Draco revealed himself first, sauntering into the sitting room with such grandiosity that Harry half-expected him to take a bow.
Harry followed, hands in his pockets, trying to look neither guilty nor confused, or really any emotion at all.
“Weasley.” Draco nodded. “Granger.” He nodded again, rocking back on his heels.
Harry didn’t know what Draco had to be so smug about. They didn’t do anything.
While Harry was grumbling at the back of Draco’s head — he’d stopped a few steps behind, in an ill-thought out attempt to make them look like less of a pair — Hermione had sidled up next to Harry, and was sniffing his neck.
“You smell of orange body wash,” she stated.
“I was in the shower,” Harry said. No point lying. His damp hair and heat-ruddy complexion was telling enough.
“You also smell orange.” Hermione sniffed Draco’s neck. She returned to Ron’s side, finger tapping her chin. “Thoughts, Ronald?”
Ron mirrored her stance. Harry watched Ron’s fingernail press into his bottom lip.
“The shower…” Ron began circling them. “A likely place for a bit of–” He flashed a hand into both their faces. “--playtime.” He switched sides, circling in the other direction. “The water hot and loud, hiding your dalliance from unintentional interlopers. The nudity, of course. A given.” Here he gestured, nodding. “The inescapable allure of easy clean up… yes. Yes, I’ve seen this before.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Ron, I—”
“Ah!” Ron put a finger, the same finger that had been on his mouth, to Harry’s own lips. “I’m not finished.” He removed his hand, returning it to his mouth, tapping now. Harry wanted to lean forward and bite it, just as Draco had done to him. “The question! The question we must ask is not why, but who. Who tempted fate today! Who nearly lost the contest! Who is the loser, most deserving of our shame?”
“It was Potter,” Draco said, pointing.
“It wasn’t, actually.” Harry felt his heart start to beat in his ears. “I think I’d know. I wasn’t the one who had his hard di—” Harry stopped himself. His eyes immediately swivelled to Hermione, who looked ready to pop with glee. “Nevermind.”
“Perhaps it was both of you,” she said. “Double losers.”
“How could it be both of them?” Ron asked. Hermione inhaled deeply, but before she could explain further, Harry cut back in.
“I’m telling you, it was him!”
Draco swatted Harry’s hand out of his face. “It wasn’t me, and if you saw any evidence to suggest otherwise, well—I was—I was faking it!”
“Faking it,” Harry said dully.
“Intriguing.” Ron resumed the considering position.
Hermione snorted. “Faking it?” She crossed her arms. “Men can’t fake it.”
“I’ve done it,” Ron said, turning his attention back to her. “With you, even.”
“You have not,” Hermione insisted.
“Have too.”
“There is no way I wouldn’t have noticed.” Hermione threw her hands in the air. “I’m sorry, Ron, but I just don’t believe you.”
“I can prove it,” Ron said, which did at least save Harry the effort of demanding Draco prove he had somehow been faking the weighty, firm press of his pink co*ck into the hair running down Harry’s stomach, because Draco followed immediately with, “So can I.”
Harry was voted as judge, having both an intimate familiarity with the male org*sm and also a clean track record vis-a-vis sleeping with either of them — technically, as far as Ron and Hermione knew, at least. Did it count as sex if you were naked but nothing happened and you didn’t even kiss because you don’t like each other like that probably and also no one came?
The blindfold, Hermione insisted, was to focus his senses on listening.
The blindfold, Harry is now discovering, as he listens to his childhood best friend falsify climax with alarming verisimilitude, is actually a torture device.
With his vision blocked, Harry’s mind is free to run wild, his improved hearing only flaming the fire. Sparks fly in Harry’s head as Ron transforms a grunt into a low moan, the exact sound Harry’s heard through the wall for months, now clear and close and for him.
Harry’s co*ck twitches in interest. He places his hands over his lap, hoping it’s not obvious; he’s suddenly very, very aware that he is the only person in the room who cannot see.
“Sounds real to me!” Harry says loudly. Too loud. He tries again. “I mean, yeah… I’d… believe it.”
“Yes, well, you’re hopeless,” Hermione says. Her hand is a firm weight on his shoulder. “I love you Harry, but you’re never going to go against Ron. Let’s hear Draco, now.”
Her fingers claw into his skin, and Harry has the impression he’s being held in a vice.
Draco, somehow, is worse.
It’s too soon, Harry hasn’t had time to digest what happened in the shower, still isn’t sure whether Draco was tricking him or not. What if he wasn’t? What if Ron hadn’t come home? What if there wasn’t this stupid f*cking contest on? What if Harry had been able to wank even once in the past week, and could string a single f*cking coherent thought together? What if he just unzipped his jeans and did it right here, in front of all of them?
What if he pulled his co*ck out and stroked himself until he was a mess all down his chest and his fingers, and he couldn’t see them but they could see him? What if he liked that he couldn’t see their faces? What if, once he was done, a hand unpeeled his sticky fingers from around himself, and what if next there was the hot press of a tongue up his shaft, cleaning every last drop? What if, at the same time, soft lips sliding up his fingers, cleaning there, too?
What if they were silent, so he wouldn’t know who was where? What if he never found out? What if they tried it once and liked it so much they did it all the time?
What if he opened his mouth and suggested it? He could just part his lips, and send air from his lungs up through his vocal chords, shaping his mouth and tongue to form the sounds they’d perceive as words, which would be saying—
“Harry?”
“Erm.” Harry stands, taking several steps before remembering he cannot see. He whips the blindfold off, grabs his anorak from the hook by the door, and walks briskly from the flat, calling out over his shoulder,
“I have to go see a person about a thing for a reason! Don’t wait up everyone is brilliant Ron wins goodbye!”
