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The skin along Harry's neck is still stinging from Malfoy's five o'clock shadow when Robards calls them into his office right before the Ministry's regular business hours end.
"Urgent matter, gents," he says as he waves them inside. The silencing spell on the door muffles the noise from the bullpen but doesn't get rid of it entirely. Harry's heartbeat seems louder, though, still raised from five minutes ago and the rush of sneaking back from the corridor near storage, the one that no one ever uses (except for them, and they're certainly not making use of the space as intended).
Malfoy looks completely unfazed, as neat and tidily put together as he was when he walked into the office that morning. Harry'd spent the entire day wanting to ruin it, and his gut twists that he failed.
Again.
There is a bit of reddened skin on Malfoy's neck, though, a barely-there blemish that would perfectly fit the curves of Harry's mouth. It's enough of a mark to both soothe Harry's nerves and set them on fire.
He wants to leave more.
"I hate to do this at the end of the day," Robards says, dragging Harry's inappropriate concentration back to where it belongs, "but the Minister himself has requested our best team be put on this, and that means the pair of you. Do you remember that smuggling ring Weasley was looking into?"
Malfoy nods, but he's frowning as he does so. "I thought they'd gone to ground, sir. The most recent reports of their activity are from six months ago."
"Well, we've gotten a new one, and it's big." Robards pushes a pair of identical folders across his desk and barely waits for Harry and Malfoy to pick them up. "One of our informants contacted us about a wizard named Zeddicus Rathmore. He's recently come into more Galleons than Croesus, and he's throwing an estate party to celebrate. At the end of the party, there's going to be a massive auction of stolen goods as a financial finale to the event, goods procured and provided by the smuggling ring. We're talking millions of Galleons worth of magical artefacts, most of them stolen or procured in other illegal manners, and the Ministry needs eyes inside."
Harry flips through the report, his eyes widening with each successive page. Gold, jewels, charmed and cursed objects, ancient statues and paintings, every valuable object he could possibly think of and a few more besides, all for sale to a group of people with few morals and more money than they know what to do with.
"Won't we be a bit"—Malfoy glances meaningfully at Harry—"conspicuous, sir, for an undercover operation?"
Robards laughs, then pulls two black jewellery cases from his desk. They're small, big enough for a pair of cufflinks or a bracelet. When Harry opens the one that Robards pushes his way, though, all he finds is a paperclip, covered in some kind of yellow plastic sleeve that's peeling at one end.
"I don't know what to say," he says, deadpan. "What a thoughtful gift."
"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy says, though repressed laughter is threaded through his voice. "Can't you feel the magic?"
"They're glamours." Robards gestures for Harry to pick up the paperclip. "Once you slide it onto your clothes—doesn't matter where, really—you'll be completely unrecognisable."
Malfoy turns his own paperclip—blue and twisted into an S-shape—over in his hand, then slides it through a button hole. There's a rush of magic that Harry feels but doesn't see, and then where Malfoy had been sitting is a perfectly normal looking man with mousy brown hair and bland eyes and a mouth made interesting by Malfoy's smile beneath it.
"That's a nice bit of work." Malfoy pulls the paperclip from his clothes and places it back in its box, turning back into himself in an instant. "I'm assuming there are some kind of limitations on the spell?"
"Well, there's that initial rush when it engages, and they require at least four hours a day of recharge time, so there's some risk that you could be found out."
That draws Harry's attention again. "How long are we going to be there, sir?"
"One week. There's more information about your cover story in the files. I expect you both to be fully briefed and ready to leave in two hours. You'll Floo to the main atrium, where my assistant will be waiting with a Portkey." He folds his hands on his desk, tilting his head forward so he can stare pointedly at the both of them. "Don't be late."
---
It's not the fastest Harry's ever had to pack, but considering he also had to review the file to know what to pack, and that Grimmauld was being a bit of a brat and refused to give him the right clothes anyway, he's nearly late. He falls, panting, out of the Floo, his half-shrunk suitcase banging into the brick fireplace hard enough to jar Harry's arm. A bit of a shirt hangs out of the opening, and Malfoy appears to have the decency to not say anything until Harry takes a few stumbling steps forward, and then the prat opens his mouth.
"Honestly, Potter. You'd think you would have learned by now how to pack properly." His wand slides easily from his sleeve and into his elegant hand, and with a quick wave, the shirt zips into the suitcase, which then shrinks to the size of a mint tin and floats languidly into Harry's pocket. "Much better."
"Bite me, Malfoy."
Harry can see the sharp gleam of want flare in Malfoy's grey eyes. "Not enough time for that, I'm afraid. We're going to miss our Portkey."
The Head Auror's assistant, Miriam, arrives a few moments later. Her brown hair is in tight curls around her head, not a strand out of place. And though her thick glasses make her eyes seem overly large, her gaze is incredibly astute rather than myopic as she gives Harry and Malfoy a once over.
"Good, good. Here, your Portkey is set to leave in two minutes." She hands Malfoy a boot with its sole pulling away from the upper. It flaps a bit like a mouth as Malfoy takes it, and he frowns at the thing like it's made of something toxic rather than scuffed leather. "Do have a nice time."
Harry wraps his hand around Malfoy's wrist rather than grabbing onto the Portkey, and he hears the start of an annoyed "Potter, what do you think you're—" before the familiar, disquieting feeling of a hook in his navel latches on and drags him and Malfoy from the Ministry Atrium to some remote corner of Scotland.
Of course, it's pitch black out when they arrive, and the weather is that awful spitting mix of rain and fog that leaves all of his clothes damp after a few seconds. The only point of warmth is where Harry's hand is still wrapped around Malfoy's wrist.
"You can unhand me at any time."
Harry glances up into Malfoy's annoyed—and slightly damp—face. For a moment, he considers tightening his grip and pulling Malfoy close, but the wind whips up, sending cold rain down the back of Harry's neck, and he lets Malfoy slip free.
"We should get moving." Malfoy flips his collar up and shrugs his shoulders closer around his ears. "My Impervius won't stand up against this nonsense."
"Mine might," Harry says before casting one over the both of them. It doesn't help with his damp jacket, but it does stop it from getting worse. Malfoy nods his thanks, and then the two of them set off across the empty field they landed in and towards the hulking mass of Rathmore's manor house.
They're silent as they trudge forward, though Harry keeps shooting hesitant glances at Malfoy. They haven't discussed their cover, which was spelled out fairly clearly in the briefing files, or what they'd been doing before Robards called them into his office—what they'd been doing for months now, actually.
Rubbing at his neck, Harry takes a breath to speak, but Malfoy beats him to it.
"It'll be fine, Potter," he says, eyes forward and shoulders hunched against the rain. "You're overthinking it."
"There's quite a bit to overthink. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time the Ministry's had Aurors pretend to be in a relationship, but—"
"There's no but."
Harry glances at Malfoy again, at the smallest bit of red peeking out over his collar. "Isn't there, though?"
"We fool around sometimes, Potter. It's not like we're in love or anything."
Harry's stomach dips at the word. "No, of course not."
"So, there's nothing to discuss. We'll pretend to be a couple, we'll gather the information the Ministry needs to put these people away, and then we'll go back to whatever it was we've been doing. It doesn't have to be more complicated than that." He finally looks at Harry, Malfoy's eyes indecipherable in the dark night. "Unless you've a problem with that?"
Harry considers it for a moment, then shakes his head. "No, no problem. Like you said, it's just physical. There's nothing more to it than that."
Malfoy's easy nod shouldn't make Harry's hands clench, but it does. Harry knows where they stand, and he knows that if there were an opportunity to change it…
"Better get your glamour on," he says, pulling the paperclip from its case and slipping it onto the cuff of his jacket. He feels the magic wash over him, warm and chilling at the same time, and waits for Malfoy to do the same. The mousy haired man appears a moment later, and Harry ignores the pang of loss.
The manor house is a majestic bit of masonry and money. Even though it's the dead of night and the world around them is so dark as to be impenetrable, there are lights scattered around the edge of the gravel drive and sidewalks that cast the building's facade in a warm glow. It's made of a smooth limestone that glows like moonlight in irregular patterns that draw Harry's eye, even though he should be scouting the areas lost to shadows. There are wide windows with diamond-shaped muntins, a blue slate roof that shines with the rain, and copper edging and gutters that glitter in the night. The landscaping is tasteful, if a bit too well-kempt for Harry's liking, and the entire place has the understated opulence that the newly wealthy strive for and that the people who've known wealth their entire lives take for granted.
As they cross the final yards to the manor house's main door, Malfoy reaches over and takes Harry's hand. Harry tries not to let the surprise show, but Malfoy must feel him tense because he sighs and tightens his grip.
"Stop fretting, dear." He leans into the endearment, and it hits Harry like a bullet. "There's no need to be nervous."
"I'm not," Harry protests. As he steps close enough to Malfoy to feel his body heat—even with the rain and the cold and their coats between them—Harry settles. They fall into step easily, and when Malfoy knocks on the door, all Harry feels is a sense of purpose rather than fear.
The door creaks open to reveal a stout butler in burgundy livery. He gives both Harry and Malfoy a long once-over, and if Harry wasn't staring at the man intently, he would have missed the way the butler's lip curled as he examined the pair of them. Clearly, the weather hasn't done their glamors any favours.
"Good evening," he drawls, voice full of well-trained disdain. "May I see your invitations?"
Malfoy pulls his out with grace and charm, while Harry has to go through two or three pockets before he finds his, which is wrinkled and a bit damp from the rain. But it must be good enough for the man at the door because he takes it—albeit with two fingers and a slightly more obvious sneer—and then steps back, gesturing them both inside.
"Lord Rathmore welcomes you into his home. Please, allow me to show you to your room."
Malfoy presses his hand to the small of Harry's back, then smiles down at him with an expression so full of fondness and warmth, it makes Harry stumble as he starts walking after the butler.
Malfoy leans in, his breath coasting over the shell of Harry's ear. "Do watch your step, dear. It wouldn't do for you to injure yourself on our first night here."
Harry wants to hit him or kiss him, he isn't sure which. He does neither, of course, but instead follows the butler up the stairs, Malfoy's hand a constant pressure against Harry's lower back.
"You're in the east suite," the butler says as he opens the door. "Breakfast is at eight o'clock, sharp, and dinner is at six. During the time between the two meals, there will be a wide variety of events to participate in. A daily itinerary will be left in your room after breakfast each morning. Should you have any questions or need anything, simply pull the bell cord by the door. It will ring a member of staff, who will arrive post-haste." He waits for Harry and Malfoy to enter the room, and then steps back. "If there's nothing else…"
"You may leave," Malfoy says with an unfocused wave of his hand. He's already turning away from the butler, his back to the door as he takes in the room.
Harry isn't sure if he should tip the man—that's a thing you do at hotels, but he isn't sure what proper for fancy manor houses while undercover with your partner-but-not-like-that-but-sometimes-like-that—but before he can fish a Galleon from his pocket, the butler is gone and the door shut.
It's a nice suite, as far Harry can tell. The decor is tasteful, in subtle shades of blue and gold. Nothing overly ornate, just a mix of clean lines and deep colours. It's nice, though not exactly to his style. He prefers the mix and match of Grimmauld, the comfortable sag of sofas older than he is, with nothing quite matching and looking like it belongs because of it.
Malfoy fits in this room, though. Even with his glamour, Harry can tell that Malfoy's at ease in the subdued opulence. He moves through the space with only the most casual of glances, though it's clear he's assessed the construction, quality, and value of everything he's seen. There's a slight smile on his face, a small upturn at the corners, that lets Harry know that Malfoy has no complaints about their accommodations.
The confidence and ease of it all makes Harry want to rip Malfoy's bloody clothes off.
"We'll have to be careful."
Malfoy's voice startles Harry, even though he's been staring at the bloke for the last two minutes.
He fumbles for a response. "Careful about what?"
"Our cover, of course." Malfoy turns and adjusts his cuffs. His glamour slips away a moment later, his paperclip held delicately between his fingers before he drops it into his breast pocket. "Either we need to avoid sharing personal details, or we'll need to concoct some sort of backstory."
"Why not the truth?"
Malfoy's eyebrow arches. "That we spent our childhoods hating each other, then were forced into proximity by work and by doing so realised that the hatred might've been more sexual repression than anything else?"
"No." Harry blushes, then takes his own glamour off. He, however, takes the time to put it back in its box so he doesn't lose the damned thing later. "We'll tell anyone who asks that we knew each other at school, but only became a couple recently. It's a posh event, yeah? No one's going to ask for the details."
The long look Malfoy gives Harry isn't one he fully understands, though he's never been that good at reading Malfoy anyway. Still, it makes Harry simultaneously want to step closer and look away, and unable to decide which to do, he moves past the man instead, heading to a doorway on the opposite side of the room.
"I'm gonna use the loo," he says as way of explanation, though he can already feel his face flushing. "Why don't you start getting unpacked?"
If Malfoy replies, Harry doesn't hear it. The door, like the rest of the manor, is well-made and blocks out any sound as soon as he closes it.
Harry doesn't expect pretending to be in love with Malfoy to be both easy and hard, but that's exactly how it feels. Through some kind of unspoken agreement, they lean into the fake relationship with gusto. They hold hands as they walk through the manor's hallways, sit a bit too close together at meals, and attend the various events and entertainments that best excuse their constant touches. Malfoy gets into a habit of putting his hand at the small of Harry's back and leaning in to press small kisses to his hair.
It makes Harry's chest tight every time.
Harry finds himself falling into routines, too. Whenever there are canapes or food-y whatnots at events, he always gets Malfoy a small plate before getting one for himself. He's known for a while how Malfoy takes his tea, but now he makes sure to share that information with the waitstaff, ordering it while Malfoy leans back in his chair and watches Harry with that same inscrutable look he had the first night they were there.
Ironically, when they're in private, they don't do anything that would lead someone to think they're together. They don't kiss or fuck. They barely even talk to each other.
Once they get in the room, all pretence falls away, and Malfoy stays to his side of the room and, helpless to do otherwise, Harry does the same.
Whether or not they share the bed doesn't even come up. Since their glamours need time to recharge and they can't run the risk of being discovered, they take six-hour watches. While Malfoy sleeps and his glamour recharges, Harry sits on the nice-looking—but not exactly comfortable—sofa. He's got a sudoku book that he's been working his way through, and he passes his evenings alternatively solving puzzles in the book and wondering about the one forming a long, lean lump under the duvet.
He's much better at the ones in the book.
By the end of the week, Harry thinks he's going to vibrate out of his skin from the back and forth of their days and nights. He's frustrated and keyed up from the operation, and even though this is their last day and his life will go back to some kind of normal by tomorrow, he's anxious for it all to be over with so he can breathe at least a little.
It doesn't help that Draco is wearing a suit that makes him look indecent, even fully dressed. All sharp lines and tightly tailored black, it makes Draco's hair glow like a lit flame, and Harry has never wanted to be burned so badly in his life. There's a sharp pang of loss when Draco slides his glamour on, and Harry, sighing, does the same.
"Don't worry, dear," Draco says as he adjusts his perfectly neat sleeves, "we're nearly done."
"There's no one here. You don't have to call me that?"
Draco squints at Harry in confusion. "Call you what?"
"You said… You know what, never mind. Let's get this over with."
Draco presses his hand against Harry's chest, stopping him from reaching the door. "Calm down, Potter. The last thing we need is you losing your temper and blowing this whole venture on the last night."
"I'm fine," Harry says stiffly, pushing Draco's hand away before placing his own on the doorknob. "Come on, then. Let's get it over with."
Draco waits to put his hand to Harry's lower back until they're in the hallway, and Harry wants to hate it as much as he doesn't.
The whole week has been extravagant and over-the-top, but the auction puts the rest to shame. It's based in the manor's ballroom, but rather than space for dancing and tables along the sides, there are rows and rows of chairs spread out across half of the room. The rest of it is taken up by the most expensive or rare of the auction items. There's a golden helm supposedly worn by Achilles, a wand rumoured to have been owned by Credence Barebone, and a goblet forged with Goblin gold won during the first Goblin Rebellion. There are more artefacts, of course, but Harry can't tell one shiny jewel from another, so he doesn't attempt to identify what's what. He knows that Draco's keeping careful mental notes about everything, and he trusts Draco to do that better than Harry ever could.
After taking a lap around the room, Draco leads them to a pair of seats in one of the middle rows. There are two wooden paddles in their chairs, and when they pick them up, black ink swirls around the surface until two large numbers appear.
"Clever bit of magic, that," Draco says with surprise tinging his voice. "The other auctions I've attended have required you to retrieve your paddle before taking a seat."
"Well, I'm glad you're so impressed with the people running this thing."
"My dear," Draco says, taking Harry's hand and squeezing it hard. "Are you quite all right? You seem a bit out of sorts this evening."
Harry squeezes Draco's hand back just as hard. "Just tired. I'm sure it'll pass."
"Of course. Why don't I get you a refreshment? Sit and rest, and I'll be right back."
Harry does as he's told, though not without a bit of resentment, and watches as Draco crosses to a small bar set up near the front of the room. Harry's glaring daggers into the man's back when someone sits down next to him. Glancing in their direction, Harry stills.
"You don't mind if I sit here, do you?" Rathmore asks, though he's already comfortably in the chair. "I just had to take the opportunity to speak with you while your partner left you all alone. You make a lovely couple, I must say."
"Ah, well"—Harry fumbles for a response—"that's very kind of you."
"It is true, after all. You're quite a striking pair."
Considering how bland their glamours are, Harry figures that their host is looking to butter them up before the bidding starts. Still, he smiles as genuinely as he can and hopes the magic can translate the expression without any trouble. "That's very kind of you. We've had a lovely time. Your home is… also… lovely."
Rathmore smiles at Harry like he isn't a complete knob. "Thank you. I'm so glad to hear you've enjoyed your stay. Now, it seems as if your partner is on his way back, and I don't want to cause any strife between the two of you with my interrupting. Thank you, of course, for attending, and good luck at the auction."
Rathmore claps a hand on Harry's shoulder, squeezing it tightly, then sidles his way out of the row. A moment later, Draco arrives, two glasses of sparkling wine in his hands.
"He seemed friendly," he says before offering one of the glasses to Harry. "What did he want?"
Harry takes the glass and waits for Draco to sit. "To wish us luck, and let me know what a striking couple we make. His words, by the way, not mine."
"Hm." Still standing, Draco takes a sip of wine and watches as Rathmore makes his way around the room, glad-handing a few people as he passes but not stopping to sit with anyone else. "It's suspicious that he'd choose to do so now, when he's had all week."
"You'd finally left me alone." Harry grabs Draco's hand and pulls on it. "Now sit, you're making a scene."
Draco frowns, but sits. "I'm doing no such thing."
"But you're going to if you keep it up." Harry drinks his wine, needing the liquid courage. As soon as the sweet fizz has left his mouth, he leans forward and kisses Draco. Not hard, not long. It's a quick peck on the lips, an everyday tenderness that one would share with someone they loved. Harry doesn't think too hard about that, just enjoys the shocked expression that briefly flashes across Draco's face before Rathmore starts speaking from the front of the room.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please, be seated!" He gestures widely, waiting for the room to quiet. "It has been an honour and a privilege to have you with me this week. But we all know why we're really here."
The room ripples with laughter, and Rathmore's grin widens.
"Well, do I have a surprise for you, then. Because if you think these treasures are worth your attention, then the two hidden gems I have for you are even more so. Accio parvum metallum!"
Harry's sleeve wrenches to the side, and a second later, the paperclip—previously hidden by the glamour—zips towards Rathmore. The spell disappears around Harry in a rush, and then he's left in the middle of a room of near-criminals, looking exactly like himself.
"Bloody fuck." Cursing under his breath, Draco—who looks like Draco—slips his wand into his hand, stands, and then points it at Rathmore. "Zeddicus Rathmore, you're under arrest for trafficking in stolen goods. This is your one and only warning: if you resist arrest, we won't hold back."
Rathmore starts laughing, and the room joins in. Harry draws his wand, though it does nothing to quiet the laughter.
"Draco, what's the plan here?" Harry turns so his back is to Draco, protecting his flank even as Harry assesses the room. Other guests have stepped back from Harry and Draco, but not out of fear. Their wands are drawn, witches and wizards both waiting for some sign of movement from Harry and Draco.
"Not get killed, bring in the bad guy, win the acclaim and adulation of our peers and superiors."
"So, the usual, then?"
Draco smiles, quick and stinging sharp, and Harry feels a bit of his worry dissolve.
Then the hexes start flying, and Harry's got a Protego Maxima thrown up around the pair of them. Draco whips out stinging hex after stinging hex, sending the guests scurrying for cover or fleeing the room entirely. Harry can feel his magic wincing with each spell the Protego absorbs, and though he grits his teeth and pours more power into it, he knows it won't stay up forever.
"C'mon, Malfoy," he grunts, "you've got to do something."
"I am doing something, Potter. Merlin, you're such a brat sometimes."
Draco, wand outstretched, steps through the shimmering barrier of Harry's spell, and shouts something that Harry can't hear over the ringing in his ears. For a moment, it looks like whatever bollocks idea Draco's had has worked. The crowd staggers back. Wands are tossed from hands as if blown by a great wind. Rathmore, who's been rather unaffected by the whole thing, grimaces and tightens his grip on his wand. But just as quickly, wizards and witches get back to their feet, and Rathmore's mouth opens to cast.
"Stupefy!"
Any other time, Draco would have dodged it. He's an expert duelist. Harry's rarely seen Malfoy lose, and he's never seen it happen while they've been in the field. Draco's been winged a time or two, but he's never taken a spell straight on, not the way he takes this one.
It hits him in the centre of his chest, a huge, whalloping blow that makes Draco stagger back a step before first one leg collapses, then the other. On his knees, he looks at Harry with wide eyes, which roll back into his head before he falls, unconscious, to the ground.
Harry knows it's just a Stunner. It's not the first time he's seen the spell in action, either from his own wand or when one has incapacitated another Auror. But seeing this Stunner, in this situation, with this Auror… Something in him snaps, as loud and discordant as a violin string breaking, and a second after his Protego drops, a wave of pure, wild magic bursts out around him.
It rips through the chairs, scattering them across the ballroom. Ghostly hands reach up through the parquet floor, grasping and grabbing at the gathered wizards and witches. The hands pull people to the ground, then wrap around them, holding their struggling forms immobile. Meanwhile, the wave of energy continues forward until it slams into Rathmore, wrapping around him like a heavy blanket of light. Casting his face in an unearthly glow, the light crawls up Rathmore's neck, over his face, and into his mouth and eyes. Harry can't tell if it hurts, but he hopes it does. While his magic restrains the crowd, Harry hurries to Draco's side. He'd fallen forward when he finally passed out, and Harry carefully rolls Draco onto his back, cradling his head and neck as he does so.
"If you've broken your bloody neck from a Stunner, I swear to God, Malfoy, I will bring you back and then kill you myself."
His fingers are clumsy and unsteady as Harry undoes the buttons at Malfoy's collar, loosening the fabric so it'll be easier for Draco to breathe. Not that he seems to be breathing badly. His chest is rising in a steady tempo, and other than a rather violent red mark in the centre of his forehead, Draco seems uninjured. Still, Harry's filled with panic and the lingering frustration of the week, and his magic is writhing in his blood.
"If I didn't love you so fucking much, I'd have your goddamned head."
He doesn't know why he says it, isn't entirely sure he knew he felt that way until this instant, but as soon as the word is out of his mouth, he wishes he could snatch it back. This is not the time or place, and Harry's grateful that only the restrained bystanders might have heard him. An unconscious Draco has never been such a blessing as it is now.
"Are you quite done?"
His blood freezes. Cold sweat breaks out on his forehead and down his back. Draco opens one grey eye and arches an eyebrow.
"I can pretend to be unconscious, if you think that will help at all."
"Oh, God."
"It's Draco, actually, though I can understand the confusion. We are very similar." Groaning, he pushes himself up to sitting then rubs at his forehead. "Merlin, my head is splitting."
Harry looks around the room. Everyone is still being held by some form of Harry's magic, and they don't look to be going anywhere any time soon. "We'll need to get the rest of the Corps out here to arrest everyone, but once they arrive, you should go to Mungo's and get that looked at. You hit your head fairly hard."
"I can tell." Draco scans the room, then glances back at Harry. "I'm not entirely sure if I should be impressed by or terrified of you, Potter."
"Bit of both would probably keep it more interesting."
"I do like a bit of a challenge." Draco smiles, soft and genuine, and Harry wants him with such burning ferocity, it makes his entire body ache. "Are we going to gloss over that confessional death threat of yours, then?"
Harry has to look away, face flushing. "Unless you think there's anything more that needs to be said, I think so."
"Ah." A long pause that has Harry's heart racing. "Well, it will probably give you a bit of relief to know that I feel the same way, though it's a bit gauche of me to say so, especially before we've arrived at some kind of formal understanding."
"A formal…" Harry blinks, then shakes his head. "You love me?"
"Of course. I wouldn't have started… whatever it is we've been doing if I didn't have some kind of feeling for you."
"I thought that feeling was lust."
Draco flushes, but he doesn't look away. "That's a fair bit of it, too. But I also appreciate your mind and your sense of humour, and if you keep making me talk about this, I may actually expire. Now" —Draco stands, a bit unsteady at first but easier once he's been up for a bit—"we've got quite a few people to process, Potter. Mustn't dally."
Harry stares up at Draco, mouth agape, and watches as he strides across the room to Rathmore, seemingly unaffected by the last five minutes, unlike Harry, who alternatingly feels like he can't get enough air into his lungs and like his chest might burst with joy.
"I think we're going to have to talk about this some more," Harry says as he gets to his feet.
Malfoy waves his words away. "Of course, of course. But can we please get back to our jobs?"
Flat-footed and more than a bit charmed, Harry does.
Later, after they've processed Rathmore and his twenty-three accomplices, Harry grabs Draco's wrist and pulls him close. Arms wrapped tight around the blond git's waist, Harry presses Draco as close to Harry's body as he can.
"We're talking," he says before leaning in and kissing the everloving hell out of Draco.
With a startled moan, Draco threads his fingers into Harry's curls and pulls him closer, though there's not much closer he can go. It doesn't matter, though, because it's all soft lips and warm breaths, and after a week of nothing, it feels like heaven.
It feels like coming home.
There's a cough from down the hall, but Harry ignores it, choosing instead to grab a handful of Draco's arse and squeeze another moan from the man. The cough gets louder and more pointed, and it's not until Harry thinks whoever it is should really see a mediwizard immediately that he pulls far enough away from Draco to see who it is. He only feels a little bit smug when Draco trails after him for a moment, eyes closed and cheeks flushed.
Of course, that smugness dies a horrible, vile death as soon as Harry sees who's been coughing.
"Head Auror Robards."
Draco jumps away from Harry as if he's been electrocuted, then shoves his hands into his pockets, as if that'll make it clear that any touching that might've been happening is well and truly over with. Harry, on the other hand, straightens his robes and turns to face his superior officer with as much bravery as he can muster after a long, exhausting day and a very poorly timed interruption.
"Good evening, sir. If I may be blunt, I—"
"Just fill out the paperwork, Potter." Robards shakes his head. "And keep that nonsense to the privacy of your own homes."
He turns to head back down the hall, then stops. "Oh, and congratulations. You've won me twenty Galleons in the betting pool."
Draco sputters and opens his mouth to retort, but Harry's laughing and kissing him before he can.
All in all, he thinks as he gets another handful of Draco's arse, that was a rounding success.