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Potter halts abruptly, his sword held aloft. “It’s about a hundred paces north,” he tells Draco under his breath.
“I’m well aware, Potter, thanks ever so much for stating the obvious,” Draco hisses but unsheathes his own sword nonetheless.
He doesn’t need Potter. Not for this.
Slaying an Acromantula is child’s play, and Potter is likely to ruin the mission with his penchant for rushing into a fight. But Potter’s the King’s favoured knight, and Draco…isn’t. He hadn’t a say in the matter–he never does–and so he’s saddled with Potter. Again.
There’s a wicked glint in Potter’s eyes as he raises his shield and advances.
Draco sighs, resigned, and follows.
—
The Acromantula lies dead at their feet. Both men are covered in its blood, and adrenaline surges through Draco, their victory a high like no other. The two men stare at each other, panting from exertion.
And then, Potter’s gaze darkens with a heat that Draco recognizes. Anticipates.
They both drop their gear and Potter rushes at him, their bodies and mouths colliding violently as they battle for dominance. They tear at each other’s clothing, desperate for each other.
This. This is what he needs Potter for.