Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Wait, wait, no-”

“Yeah, I have to get your foot onto-”

“Ow, no, that’s not happening.”

“No, it says her leg was up over his shoulder. You’re Catalina.”

“I’m facing away from you, Anthony, I’m not a ballerina. And for that matter, neither is Catalina, she’s a murderess.”

Harry presses his face against the nape of Draco’s neck, chuckling.

“Shall we tell her to change it?”

Squirming out of his twisted position, Draco opens his arms, and Harry collapses on top, knocking the breath from Draco’s lungs.

“I have a… a circus friend…” Draco says, his lips against Harry’s temple.

“Of course, the sword swallower?” 

Draco laughs, tapping his hands in a rhythm on the small of Harry’s back.

“No, unfortunately, the sword swallower from the Belgian troupe didn’t have an email address, and I didn’t have a mobile, so we lost contact when they moved on.”

“What a shame.”

With a light hum, Draco pulls Harry in for a long kiss. 

“So your circus friend.” Harry says lightly, making Draco laugh again. He pets Harry’s hair, wriggling a bit so Harry’s ribs don’t dig into his stomach.

“Yeah, he’s a contortionist. Back in… oh, 2004, maybe, he and I would go dilf hunting together. He could do this position.”

“ Dilf hunting.” Harry repeats, running his fingers along Draco’s arm. Draco sprouts gooseflesh.

“Mm, we were quite successful, ensnared loads of dilfs together.”

“The only difference between regular hunting and dilf hunting is that the hunter gets stuffed by the dilf at the end.” Harry notes, grinning at his own joke. Draco shakes his head, shutting his eyes so Harry’s mirth doesn’t infect himself.

“Harry, my love…” Draco snickers.

“Tell me I’m wrong.” Harry challenges.

“You’re not wrong.”

“There, see?”

Draco rolls them over, kissing all over Harry’s face until Harry’s squirming and trying to pin Draco down.

After a moment, Draco rests his forehead and nose against Harry’s, looking deep into his lover’s green eyes.

“Absurd.” Draco whispers. Harry wiggles his eyebrows.

“You love me.”

“I do.”

Draco lays his head on Harry’s substantial chest, his tit a better pillow than the fancy one Astoria bought when furnishing Draco’s room in their home.

“Will you want me to stuff you when I’m a dilf?” Harry asks.

Tweaking Harry’s nipple, Draco smirks.

“Yes, obviously.”

Harry’s heartbeat is steady against Draco’s ear.

Every morning, Harry wakes up first.

Draco tends to wake up early as well, but Harry rises with the sun, a habit from when he was working with dragons.

On occasion, he’ll wake Draco up with a cock in his arse, murmuring affections into Draco’s ear, but those moments are not as frequent as Draco would like. Harry says he likes evening sex better than morning, so he can think all day about shagging Draco.

Draco doesn’t complain, because he likes being thought of, in that possessive, devoted way Harry has, all his tension from the day bursting as he pours his energy into destroying Draco’s body.

His seemingly limitless, buzzing energy, and his ever-evolving ways of finding Draco’s buttons and working him over so well that Draco can’t think straight for an hour afterward.

Hm.

Anyway.

Harry wakes up first, and in that cloudy space between waking and sleeping, Draco receives cuddles and a low, husky morning voice speaking lovingly through lips brushing the back of Draco’s neck.

Sometimes, once Harry’s gone to work, Draco has to go visit Pansy and Blaise to fuck before he goes on with his day.

Before Harry’s gone, though, most mornings, he leaves a note. 

A handwritten little thing, taped to the bathroom mirror, or left on Harry’s pillow.

A few embarrassing times, Harry had left his note in the kitchen with a steaming cup of tea charmed to stay hot until Draco found it there, with Greg and Astoria giggling at how cute it is.

Always cheeky, Harry is.

The notes are always addressed to Draco by nickname. At first, it’s simply ‘baby.’ 

Harry’s mentioned on occasion that he’s in the market for a fresh pet name, though, so sometimes he’ll test a name out on the note.

For a whole week, he uses fawn, sweet fawn, doe, or Draco’s favourite, Bambi . 

“It’s just because your Patronus is a stag, isn’t it.” Draco says, laying on Harry’s chest in the Zabini’s garden. The bronze family tree hums ominously when the wind blows.

“Well, we technically don’t know what your Patronus is.” Harry points out. 

“It’s a fox.”

“Your animagus is a fox.”

“They’re nearly always the same.” 

“Nearly. You could be like Snape, where your Patronus changes because you’re obsessed with beautiful green eyes.”

Draco snorts.

“Okay, sure.”

Harry takes a kinkier direction one morning, with ‘plaything’ taped to the bathroom mirror with a message to match.

That’s a time where Draco visits Blaise before going to work, and in the evening, Harry slams Draco into subspace without really trying. Harry is so sexy.

“You can’t call me plaything in front of Sebastian and Teddy. Or children in general.” Draco points out as they walk up to the Granger’s house for Saturday brunch. 

“How would they know what it means?” Harry protests. “It’s not like I call you sextoy or fuckdoll.”

Draco stumbles on the step, and Harry catches him by the arm with a wide grin.

“ Gods, Harry. Objectify me.”

Harry opens the door, leans in to Draco’s ear and whispers, 

“Babygirl, you’re the best boytoy for me.”

It takes Draco fifteen minutes of standing on the stoop fanning himself and imagining Dumbledore in a miniskirt before he’s decent enough to greet anyone. Harry laughs when Draco finally comes inside and sits on the opposite side of the room to maintain some brain capacity.

“You know.” Harry starts when they’re waiting for their coffee-to-go to be prepared before work. “I think I’m going the wrong direction for you.”

“I very much doubt that’s possible.” Draco says, kissing Harry’s knuckles, because some man is giving them strange looks.

“With nicknames, I mean.” Harry explains, wrapping his arm over Draco’s shoulders and drawing him close. “I keep thinking of pet names, because you love to be a pet. But for me, you’re not so much a pet as you are a snack.”

Draco smirks.

“If you call me pumpkin, I will divorce you.”

“We’re not married, pumpkin.” 

“And now we never will be.” Draco sniffs, throwing Harry’s arm off his shoulder with airy disdain. Harry laughs, loud enough to catch attention in the quiet cafe, and grabs Draco by his waist to give him a kiss.

“Pumpkins are not a snack. I was thinking something more like… mm, cupcake.”

“Nope.” Draco says immediately.

“Butter croissant.” Harry says, with a terrible attempt at French pronunciation.

“Ah, pass.”

“Blueberry scone.” Harry continues with his ridiculous French impression. “Apple fritter.”

Draco tips his head back, giggling.

“Large Americano for Harry!”

“‘Azelnut nibble!” Harry says, walking backward to take his cup from the barista. Draco covers his mouth with one hand. “Cinnamon Frenzy. Vanilla Ecstasy.”

“Oh my god.” Draco wheezes. Harry grins, returning with his cup and glancing over his shoulder at the menu.

“Cappuccino Decadence.”

“You’re just reading drink names!”

“Satin Truffle. Biscotti Crunch. Low-cal Maple Bliss.”

Draco finally shuts him up with a slightly-inappropriate-for-public kiss, and Draco’s drink is called a moment later.

“You are not naming me after a coffee.” Draco announces as they walk to the Apparition point together. “I refuse it.”

“I’ll keep thinking.” Harry promises.

They kiss once more before Harry goes to the snake emporium, and Draco to the hospital.

The next morning, Harry’s note reads ‘My sweet sugarplum,’ and Draco decides maybe lamb is tied for his favourite nickname now.

The rest of Draco’s days are largely spent training healers in Blaise’s new hospital.

So far, the hospital has lost eight patients total out of tens of thousands treated. Only six years after opening, they’ve again had to find a new plot of land to expand. On any given day, nearly every bed is full in all four locations.

They have not overtaken St. Mungo’s in terms of size, but they will in no time at all. The new hospital has fewer long-term patients, because Draco’s somewhat mediaeval healing methods are far more effective than what’s considered standard practice at St. Mungo’s, not to mention less draining on the healers, allowing them to work without so much stress to their own magical core.

When Draco isn’t training healers in Dark Arts - and they are arts - he’s at home, taking care of Astoria.

In 2007, when Astoria’s genetic Malediction had manifested at age 25, Harry hadn’t hesitated to follow Draco back to England to move in with the Goyles for Draco to provide full time care to Astoria.

Greg had a nervous breakdown in July, and Astoria’s hair had gone entirely grey by October.

When at the hospital arranging a fundraising event, the unsolicited opinions she’d received from various St. Mungo’s healers had varied from predicting her death at the end of the year, or at the latest, two years. She’d also been cruelly encouraged to bear a child to leave with Greg as some consolation for when she inevitably dies.

Daphne and Theo had resigned from St. Mungo’s the next morning, and Blaise had drawn up plans for a new, tiny hospital out in the country by the end of the week.

By January, 2008, Draco had finally isolated the curse’s origins, and began aggressive treatments for the next several years.

The new hospital opened three years after Astoria took ill, and she spent her free time contacting St. Mungo’s benefactors to connect them with the new hospital, citing lower costs to patients and higher success rates as a reason to fund Blaise rather than St. Mungo’s where it wasn’t possible to fund both.

All throughout, Harry and Greg took regular weekend trips to the ocean for Greg’s nerves, giving Draco space to work with Astoria without distraction for longer periods of time.

“Here, this what you wanted?”

Millie closes Draco’s hands around a tumbler of something mixed and spicy smelling. He nods.

She takes the seat beside him, and tucks the blanket tighter around his knees.

On his other side, Astoria rests her head on his shoulder.

“What’s this show?” Millie asks.

“The It Crowd.” Harry says. “I heard about it from Theo, he says he hasn’t watched it.”

“So why are we watching it?”

“Because Matt Berry is totally shaggable.” Draco mumbles. 

Astoria’s snoring. He takes her constantly twitching hand, pressing his face into Millie’s shoulder.

“Shh. Sweetheart, it’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.”

“She can’t be the first I lose.” Draco whispers, sniffling. “She can’t be.” 

“She won’t, baby.” Harry says from Astoria’s side. He’s holding her other hand. Astoria’s hands and feet are always cold.

Greg jolts in the chair he’s been passed out in for four hours. He stays up with Astoria at night, holding her hair back when she’s sick. He continues sleeping, but his foot jerks occasionally. 

“Try your drink, sweets.” Millie says, nudging Draco’s arm. 

It’s delicious. It’s always delicious, and it warms the ache in Draco’s chest.

For the most part, Draco uses Dark magic to find and treat Astoria’s symptoms and the malediction itself. It’s incredibly draining on her, considering she’s already worn out. Lately, he’s been using light magic, as well as a fair amount of borrowed magic from Harry, to ease the stress on Astoria’s magical core. Harry’s been a model student, learning to cast the simple spells and pour from his life force to heal what he can.

Draco can’t imagine this experience without Harry’s quiet strength backing him up, even with the rest of his friends. Harry brings something different, and everyone knows it.

The hot tears of prolonged heartbreak for the Goyles, and tears of sheer exhaustion roll down Draco’s cheeks as Millie holds him close, and Astoria snores on his shoulder.

Matt Berry’s trousers are down. Things could be worse.

New Year’s Day, 2012, predicted by the Mayans to be the last New Year’s Day in history, Astoria’s health had plateaued, leaving her with grey hair, pale skin and a thin frame, but alive and spirited. 

The malediction had lost, and even with Draco’s regular examinations, showed no sign of returning for another battle.

For her birthday in March, Greg brought her to Spain for a three-week long holiday. When they returned, they both had regained some of the weight lost in the years since her health declined. Draco, Harry and their friends celebrated as a group with more food.

Harry took Draco on his own birthday excursion to the Bahamas, where Draco got unreasonably sunburnt, and Harry planned out and executed the two-week 24/7 dynamic Draco had always dreamed of trying.

Now, in November, the only sign of Astoria’s fight against the malediction is her silver hair, which she wears without shame.

Hermione Granger is laughing at one of Draco’s impressions, and he has eight year-old Isla on his knee, putting Daphne’s makeup on him.

“You really ought to sit still if you don’t want mascara in your eyes.” She says importantly, sounding exactly like her mother when Daphne was eight.

“My apologies.” He says very seriously, putting his face back into her sweaty little hand.

“One of these days,” Ron Granger starts with a smirk. “Someone’s going to do an impersonation of you. ”

“Oh you think they haven’t?” Harry says, nodding at Alex and Jamie, squashed together in the recliner with a cheese board on their laps. 

“I don’t have to answer that without a lawyer present.” Jamie says around a mouthful of grapes.

“Jamie, I’m your lawyer.” Theo drawls, tossing an apple in the air and catching it on a knife. 

“ Theo , there are children here.” Daphne says in a terrible stage whisper.

“I’m eight !” Isla says indignantly. “I’m not a child anymore, Mummy!”

“Yes you are, babes, and that’s how it should be.” Millie says, smacking kisses on both Draco and Isla’s heads. She moves to sit with Daphne and Skylar.

Isla huffs, giving Draco a look saying can you believe them ?

“I know, eight is so old.” Draco tells her. “Pretty soon, you’ll be flying Mum’s car to Hogwarts and causing all sorts of mayhem.”

“Draco, cars don’t fly, you know that.” 

“Of course.” Draco smirks at Harry. Ron laughs.

“Don’t go into the Forbidden Forest.” He says. “Where’s Blaise with the shrimp?”

“Oh. Was the… was the shrimp for everyone?” Pansy asks innocently, vanishing her plate. 

“Pansy!” Skylar protests. Pansy blows her a kiss.

“Hold still !” Isla complains, planting her hand on Draco’s cheek to attempt eyeliner.

He presses his lips together to smother his laughter, looking out the window to watch Greg, Scarrow, Brutus, Knox, and Neville playing football with the kids. Rose makes an excellent goalie, and Sebastian is very bad at the game. 

He’s only six, and finally starting putting on weight. 

Ron had found him in a hovel with poor excuses for parents, and he and Hermione had fostered him for a year before they were able to adopt.

Naturally, given the circumstances, no one was better suited for the job of godfather than Harry.

Sebastian Granger’s adoption day is December 24, and the Grangers have plans to take him to some muggle theme park with supposedly perfectly safe rides that Draco still can’t remember the name of. Draco had agreed to go entirely because he doesn’t trust the contraptions that remind him of the Gringotts train, which is certainly not safe either.

At any rate, the entire thing is Harry’s treat, and the Grangers agreed to it as a gift for Sebastian, so the whole ‘red polycule,’ as Harry calls it, is going. Harry still doesn’t really know what a polycule is, but Draco doesn’t correct him. Hermione knows, and she thinks it’s funny too, so Harry and Ron use the term loosely.

Harry and Ron’s relationship is similar to Draco and Greg’s or Draco and Millie, with free affection - though to Draco’s knowledge, Ron hasn’t spent a lot of time with Harry nude. Hermione is very comfortable with Harry, and anytime he receives cuddles or affectionate gestures from either one of them, he gets an adorable smile and a sort of misty look in his eyes.

“You blinked!” 

Draco apologises profusely as Isla licks her finger and tries to correct the smudge on Draco’s eye.

Everyone sings happy birthday to Greg as he grins with red ears, watching his candles flicker on the enormous cake. Hugo is in his lap, play-fighting Greg’s hands restraining him from grabbing a candle to lick the frosting off the end.

“Before we cut the cake-” Greg says, to general groans and protests from both adults and the children present. “I know, I know. But I want to say thanks to all of you for your support through these last several years. We wouldn’t have gotten through it without you. 

“I mean, without Draco, we really wouldn’t have, but you guys all supported and loved and encouraged us every step of the way. Astoria and I…” Greg bites his lip, blinking at the table as he chokes up. Astoria sniffs, looking at the ceiling to keep her tears back. “We’re so grateful for you all. Every one of you.”

“Aww.” Blaise says, making Greg chuckle wetly. 

He wipes his eyes, and Hugo takes the opportunity to blow out the candles himself, to general cheers. Greg sets his forehead against the back of Hugo’s head, shaking with laughter.

Harry envelops Draco in his arms, kissing his temple.

“I love you, sugarplum.”

Draco tilts his head back onto Harry’s shoulder, pursing his lips for a kiss.

“I love you too.”

“Baby?”

“I’m in the study.”

Harry’s head appears around the doorway of Greg-slash-Draco’s office.

“There you are.”

Lifting his cramping fingers from the keyboard, Draco sits back against the spinning office chair, looking up at Harry as he sits on the edge of the desk.

“Book stuff?”

“Mm.” Draco hums, resting his head on the seat back. “Apparently, I’m incorrect about how I’ve healed the only known survivor of a malediction.”

Harry snorts.

“Says who?”

“The peer review my manuscript was submitted to. They don’t have a problem with the Obscurus theories, but apparently a malediction is a tumour, and should be treated as such.”

“Oh, well. They would know. With all their successes.” Harry says, fixing Draco’s fringe to lie differently. Draco wrinkles his nose.

“What’s up?” 

“Hm. One, I’ve been delivered a new snake, and I really don’t want to sell her. She’s adorable, Draco. She’s so cute, and the sweetest thing I’ve ever met without legs.”

“I’m glad you added that qualifier on.” Draco drawls. “We can’t keep any more snakes, Harry, nearly the whole shop is just your own personal snake den.”

“I love them!” Harry protests. “They’re my children!”

Draco closes his eyes to laugh.

“Okay, what’s the other thing?”

“I promised Greg we’d get groceries.”

“Oh. Yes, give me a moment.”

Harry smooches the top of Draco’s head, then leaves him to wrap up his correspondence.

Once Draco’s put on trousers and shoes, he finds Harry lounging in the living room with Astoria.

“Boys are easier.” Harry’s saying. “They’re not as clever.”

“Draco’s clever.” 

“Yes, but he’s weird.”

“Thank you?” Draco says, putting his billfold and wand in his pockets. 

Harry smiles brightly, passing the name book back to Astoria.

“I genuinely don’t have a preference.” She says. “And I mean, maybe it would be nice to pick something gender-neutral so they don’t have to change it if they find later that their birth name doesn’t suit them.”

“Jamie’s birth name was gender neutral.” Draco says. “But they didn’t like it anyway, because it had a strange spelling. Ready to go?”

“Pick up some peanut butter too, I used the last of it this morning.” Astoria says, adding a sticky note to the page she’s browsing.

“Peanut butter.” Harry repeats as he writes it on his mobile. “Got it.”

Harry Apparates them to the new food market, which has taken off since Diagon expanded to Letter Alley. It’s elf-run, and very well stocked. 

Draco is glad Blaise invested his money in several of the shops along the Alley. Blaise has a knack for business ventures.

In the years since Harry moved to Romania, the lack of anything newsworthy about him did help the fame to die a bit. His return to England still made headlines, but after Theo won the sixth very public lawsuit against magazines proclaiming lies about Harry, the news stopped reporting on him altogether.

After Theo wrapped up a seventh lawsuit, this one against a certain unethical therapist, Blaise purchased a very nice, recently foreclosed house in central London, and now rents it to a lovely, very large family from Brazil.

At any rate, the food market is always bustling, and mobiles appear whenever Harry and Draco go shopping. 

“I’m telling you. People with neck tattoos generally get a wide berth whenever they’re out.” Draco says lightly. "That was Millie's proposed solution for my social status problems."

“But then everyone will say Harry Potter got a neck tattoo, he’s clearly joining forces with his evil boyfriend and his clan of extremely hot, very successful Slytherin alumni.”  

“I run a hospital, the rumours about me being evil are mostly dying down.” Draco points out. “Now I’m an opportunist taking advantage of my beginner’s luck in healing, as well as my boyfriend’s bank account.”

“Just because you finally got rid of the Manor doesn’t mean you’re broke.” Harry mutters. “Well, anyway.”

Draco shrugs, and they snag a trolley.

“Get in.” Harry says.

“What?”

“Get in the trolley. I always lose you because you wander off looking for olives or something fancy that you don't know how to prepare. Get in, and I’ll push.”

Draco blinks at Harry, but shrugs, and climbs in. His six-foot-three self ends up folded like a lawn chair to leave room for the food items, and Harry pats his head and gives Draco his mobile to read off the list.

“Harry, I’m going to slip.” Draco says as he gets that familiar tingle in his chest. 

“From sitting in the trolley?”

Draco just nods, looking up at Harry.

“Okay. Just read off the list, and I’ll keep you safe.”

And he does.

Riding in the trolley with Harry at the wheel is far more fun than it should be, and Draco laughs a lot. His peripheral is fuzzy, his whole focus on the glowing mobile and keeping the groceries neatly stacked around his legs.

More than once, Harry finds an empty aisle, and takes off at a run, just to let the trolley roll free for the last half, jogging along as Draco muffles his screams in his hands.

Every time, Harry gives Draco a smiling kiss.

The next morning, the papers have a moving photo of Draco looking blissfully up at Harry, cereal boxes and loaves of bread arranged on his lap, and Harry tipping his head back to laugh, loud and free.

The incident begins innocently enough.

On weekends, Harry makes breakfast for the household, humming to himself. 

Occasionally, Draco gets up in time to keep him company, nursing a cup of tea at the breakfast table as Harry cooks.

But since Astoria’s recovery, since Draco’s return to high spirits, since Greg stopped gaining new wrinkles around his eyes and between his brows, Harry has started singing again.

Harry sings when he’s happy.

So, naturally, Draco sings when they’re happy too.

Unlike Harry, Draco has no gift for remembering lyrics, despite his venture into songwriting back at school, fifteen and some-odd years prior. Harry is very encouraging, but not very helpful. Even so, there are a few songs Draco knows the words to, including Don’t Stop Me Now, a song by Queen.

Draco’s still not entirely certain who Queen was, but that bit doesn’t come up very often, and therefore it doesn’t matter if he knows the queen.

This all culminates on a Saturday morning in early December, an energetic duo performance with spatula and teacup as microphones.

“I'm burnin' through the sky, yeah

“200 degrees

“That's why they call me Mister Fahrenheit-”

At which point, Greg appears in the kitchen doorway, bleary-eyed, wearing only pants, and barely that, with the waistband folded under on his hip.

Draco spots him first, elbowing Harry to get his attention.

“You know I love you both to death.” Greg says, and doesn’t continue.

“Time to shut up?” Harry guesses. Greg nods.

“You could join us.” Draco suggests. Greg shakes his head, yawns, and goes back upstairs to bed.

Harry giggles.

“I feel like I just got told off by my dad.”

“Was your dad a dilf?” Draco asks, setting his tea down in favour of putting his arms around Harry’s middle to watch him cook.

“I don’t think so. He was only 21, so I don’t think he would’ve counted as a dilf.”

“He was a father, therefore, if he was hot, he would’ve been a dilf.” Draco points out.

“Okay, sure. Do I take after him?” Harry teases, holding up a pepper for Draco to eat from the pan. 

“Are you asking me if you’re a dilf?” 

“Yes.”

“Yes, Harry, father to three dozen snakes, you’re a dilf. You’re Daddy, and I’d fuck you.”

Harry snickers, dishing the omelette and passing the plate to Draco.

“Wonderful news for me.”

“Mhm. Do you think we need to move out?”

Harry pauses, fresh eggs in hand to crack for his own breakfast.

“I think the time to move out passed a long time ago. I wasn’t going to mention it.”

Draco sighs, adding a generous amount of paprika and salt to his food.

“We should talk about it. I don’t know if Astoria will want me close.”

“It’s not as if you don’t already own a house here.” Harry points out. “Within walking distance.”

“Yes, but I really like the family living there now. They pay rent on time, and they’re very easygoing.”

Humming, Harry starts his own eggs, the sizzle of the pan filling the air. Draco eats quietly, leaning against the counter.

“What if we got a smaller house?” Harry suggests. “If we do move out.”

“Smaller than what? This is a three-bedroom.”

“Yeah. I don’t see a reason to have more than one bedroom.” Harry points out. “Your Romania house suited us just fine.”

“What about sleepovers with our various proxy children? Teddy is fourteen, so he won’t want to sleep on the sofa. Sebastian is six, he’d love a sleepover at Harry’s in his own room.”

“Okay. Two-bedroom, then.” Harry agrees. “We can use the spare as a place for some snakes.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco agrees. Harry adores his snakes. 

The snake emporium has expanded to a larger location, not because business is booming, although it is doing reasonably well, but because it essentially serves as a tax-deductible way for Harry to house his snakes.

When Harry and Draco sit down with Greg and Astoria and announce their goal of moving into a new house by the end of January, everyone cries a little bit, and there are lots of hugs going around.

“We’ll find something close by.” Draco promises. “We won’t be far.”

“Five years of living together are coming to an end.” Astoria sniffles into Harry’s chest. “I’d miss you even if you bought the house next door.”

Greg kisses both of Draco’s cheeks, and makes Harry vow they won’t stop their weekend getaways to the ocean.

Draco’s not entirely sure what they do on those trips, because neither Harry nor Greg talks about them much, but it’s brought them closer together. Maybe it’s something about growing up in bad homes, or being friends with Draco or something.

Through Ron, Harry finds out about a house a few blocks from the Granger’s neighbourhood, close enough that the kids could walk without much trouble, though it’ll be a few years before Sebastian is allowed to make the trip without an older sibling or Teddy, even with a mobile and a wand.

The house is one story, with two bedrooms, an open kitchen and living room and a large backyard. It’ll take some time to update utilities, modernise a few things and magic-proof all the electronics, but the house has good bones. 

So Harry says. Draco doesn’t have a lot of input other than wanting at least one room to have crisp spring green walls and tile floors in the bathrooms.

Renovations begin in 2013, Harry and Hermione using a fair bit of magic to solve plumbing problems. They hire someone to paint the outside, but Harry insists on painting the inside themselves.

“It’ll be a fun bonding experience.”

“Harry. We’ve been together for seven years. We’re fairly thoroughly bonded.” Draco says. 

But Harry insists, so they paint.

To Draco’s dismay, it is a bonding experience, but he wouldn’t necessarily describe it as fun .

“If you drip paint on the floor one more time, Harry, I will put this paint roller in your mouth.” Draco declares.

“Baby. You dripped on the floor waving that paint roller at me.”

Draco looks at the floor.

“Fucking damn hell!”

But he gets his green walls in their bedroom, and Harry does a cool-toned neon (fucking neons) mural in the spare bedroom, which he says is partially for the boys, partially for his snakes. 

“Snakes are cold blooded, blue seems an odd colour choice.” Draco points out as Harry adds an arc of turquoise.

“But they can’t see red.” Harry says. “So it gets muddled for them, they like blues and greens.”

The tanks are installed by a guy who knows a guy who knows Blaise, and he does a good job. The room has a large, south-facing window, as well as several heat lamps for the winter or sunless days.

“How many are you bringing home?” 

“Ooh.” Harry says through the screw in his teeth. “Six? Is six too many?”

Draco goes up one step on the ladder to hold the tree branch in place. 

“It’s a relief, actually. Thought it’d be more like thirteen, or something.” Draco admits.

“Thought you like my snakes.” Harry says, screwing the tree in place. He uses power tools that make Draco nervous, but so far Harry hasn’t injured himself or others.

“I do like your snakes. But there are only so many I want in the house.”

Harry stands on his toes to kiss Draco.

“Thirteen it is.” He grins. 

“Harry!”

Sebastian loves snakes. 

Draco does too, but he likes them on principle. They’re usually cold and they take Harry’s attention away from Draco. Draco liked them better at the emporium, but Harry likes having snakes at home to hang out with. They’re cuddly.

Sebastian loves snakes because they’re quiet and they don’t usually move suddenly. He’s a twitchy child, and he doesn’t like loud or fast as much as most seven-year-olds.

“Harry? Can I have a snake someday?” He asks with Zelda, the albino ball python, sitting on his shoulders.

“When you’re grown up, you can get as many snakes as you want, kiddo.” Harry promises, ruffling Sebastian’s hair. “Look at me, I have a whole house full of snakes.”

He punctuates this statement with a peck to Draco’s cheek, so Draco huffs, rolling his eyes.

“In the meantime, you can pick out any of the snakes in the shop, and I’ll set them aside for you to have as a secret pet.” Harry says in a conspiratorial tone. Sebastian brightens up.

“Can Zelda be my secret pet?”

Zelda hisses at Harry, who grins.

“Zelda says she’d love to be your pet.”

Zelda understands English. It had been an experiment on Harry’s part to teach at least one snake English.

Sebastian thanks her, and Draco pours him more tea. Harry winks at Zelda.

Draco squirms.

“Mm… no, tilt your- yes, perfect.”

“Baby, why don’t you let me-”

“Shh, hold still.”

“I never get to do this for you.”

“That’s because I almost never shave.”

Harry rolls his eyes, putting his hands on Draco’s hips. 

“You should grow your beard again. You looked so rugged and handsome.” Draco says, slicing foam and stubble from Harry’s jawline. “And the beard burn…”

“Yes, okay you little masochist.” Harry laughs. “Maybe I’ll grow one in time for your birthday.”

“You’re too kind.”

Harry smiles, which means Draco has to wait for him to stop smiling in order to finish shaving his face.

“There, done.” Draco announces, rinsing the razor a final time. “Smooth-faced once more.”

“A tragedy, I know.” Harry smirks, kissing Draco.

“Ah, shaving cream!” Draco protests, wiping his mouth on his wrist. 

With a laugh, Harry splashes water on his face.

“Go get dressed so we can head out. I want to beat the crowd.”

Their date is to an arcade, where Harry tells Draco entirely made up stories about how the games work.

“No really, fibre optics are light-transmitting cables, they can be used for internet connections.”

“That’s not how light works!”

“Yes it is, Draco, fibre optic lights act like tubes because they’re clear plastic.”

Harry is full of bullshit, but Draco eventually gives up arguing, because he doesn’t really know how the internet works.

Draco gets a bit high off the gambling-adjacent activities, and Harry talks him down from spending another hundred galleons worth of muggle money on tokens to play what’s essentially a slot machine.

“But it feels so good when I win.” Draco protests, focusing on Harry’s dancing eyes as bright lights flash all around them. “I think I might be addicted to gambling now.”

Lovingly, but with a firm hand, Harry directs them to a machine full of stuffies with a giant claw.

“This will unaddict you.” He promises.

They have to wait for a few children to try and fail at the game, but Draco steps up with six tokens left.

“It takes three tokens for each try, so you have two tries to get the claw to grab something.” Harry says.

“Or… I could just levitate it into the chute.” Draco points out.

“That’s cheating!”

“Oh yes, when have I ever been known to cheat?” 

Harry laughs, putting his hands on Draco’s waist and stroking Draco’s ribs with both thumbs.

“ Delicate! Delicate! Oh gods , Harry-”

The bastard leans down to nip at Draco’s ear, and he nearly collapses.

“Put your coins in the machine, sugarplum.”

Without a second thought, Draco does as he’s told.

The claw jolts, and Harry helps Draco direct it over a plushie of an orange ghost.

“Ready?”

“Nng.”

“Eloquent, as always. Okay, push the big button. No, the big one. The one that’s flashing, press- yes, good.”

The claw, much like Draco, drops, and closes around the orange thing. It slowly lifts, and the stupid claws release before it even fully picks the ghost up.

It returns to its original position.

“Okay, three more tokens. Put them in the slot.”

Each token clangs as it drops into the machine, and Draco directs it now to a round dinosaur plushie.

“There you go. I’d go just a tad to the left. Perfect. Hit the button.”

Once more, the claw drops down, grabs the animal, and releases it before it’s off the machine floor.

Draco is out of coins, and out of patience.

“This is stupid.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I wasted six tokens on this stupid game.”

“Mhm. Do you want to play any more?”

“No. I want you to take me home and fuck me silly.”

“That’s what I thought.” Harry growls, and Draco whimpers helplessly.

Before they go, with Harry on the watch, Draco levitates the orange ghost to the chute, grabs it, and slips his wand back into his sleeve.

“Let’s go, before we get caught.” Harry whispers, grinning.

“Caught? How would they know I didn’t win it?” 

“Cameras. It’s like a really shitty casino, they don’t want cheaters to win.”

“Fuck, okay, let’s Apparate from the loos, then.” 

Aurora Salem Goyle finds her way into the family, two years old and precious as a button.

She has skin the colour of the night sky and enormous brown eyes. She's a muggle, though there’s always the potential of a muggle child being magical after all. It’s hard to tell, at two. She has a magical core, though Draco’s guess is that she’s a dormant carrier.

Though she does speak, it’s nearly always in whispers. She’s absolutely adorable, and Draco loves her more than anyone or anything in the entire world, Harry included.

He’s also her godfather.

Any time a harried Goyle contacts him to take her for an afternoon, he takes time off work and spends all day listening to her whispered babbles and playing with her on the plush rug.

Admittedly, he’s not a fan of the diaper aspect, and sometimes calls in reinforcements in Harry, Daphne or one of the Grangers, but he’s a pretty good godfather aside from that.

“Now you know what it’s like.” Harry tells him as Aurora sleeps on Draco’s chest. Draco has had to piss for an hour, but he doesn’t want to wake her up, so he’s been flat on his back on his living room floor for nearly two hours.

“I knew what children are like before she came along.” He protests softly, wrapping one of her tiny, tightly coiled locks around the tip of his pinky. 

“Not children. A child. A specific child, who’s as good as yours. That’s how I felt with Teddy, and of course with Sebastian too.” Harry says. 

Draco looks up at him.

“Do you want our own children, Harry?”

“No.” Harry laughs, squatting down near Draco’s head. He pokes Aurora’s round cheek where her breathing forms a dimple. “No. This is perfect. This is what I want.”

“And you have your snakes.” Draco says, looking up at Harry. 

“I have my snakes.” Harry agrees, laying down beside Draco and reaching out. “Alright, come on. Slowly, we can move her without waking her up.”

They can’t.

But that’s Harry’s problem, Draco has to pee.

Sebastian is asleep on the sofa. Rose is almost asleep, her head on her mother’s chest. Hugo is asleep in Harry’s lap. Aurora is at Daphne and Millie’s. 

Teddy is awake, and making it everyone else’s problem.

“Okay, but consider.” Astoria says, sipping her wine. She gets wine-drunk very fast, ever since acquiring Aurora. “ If we got a dog, we could get a cute photo of Aurora snuggled up with it.”

“But snakes are, objectively, better.” Harry says, catching the grape thrown by Teddy in his mouth.

“Harry, you just like snakes because you can understand them.” Teddy says.

“That’s extremely correct.” Draco says. “You should listen to Blacks, always. We’re correct.”

He and Teddy high-five, and Harry rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried a snake would strangle her.” Greg says. “ Accidentally.” He adds, when multiple snakes face him, hissing in protest.

“Stephen thinks you’re being anti-snake.” Harry translates from the snake coiled on Sebastian’s sleeping chest.

“Dogs are warm and fluffy, which is good for a child to play with.” Hermione says. “A good stimulant. Draco didn’t have a dog as a child and look at him now. He gets into his headspace over pretty much any textures in his hands.”

Draco scoffs.

“You don’t know whether or not I had a dog.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Hermione gives Draco a triumphant look.

“Yeah, but that’s Draco.” Greg says. 

“Very rude, unless that’s a compliment.” Draco says, peering up at Greg’s face.

“It wasn’t.” Teddy snickers, and Greg wraps his arm around Draco’s shoulders.

“Of course it was a compliment, lamb.”

“Liar!” Draco says, smirking. “Full of shit, the lot of you. I’m a perfectly well-adjusted, put-together adult. Just last week, I started sobbing over a bowl of soup because it was so good, and I knew I’d never eat another soup as good as that one.”

“It’s true, you never will.” Harry says proudly.

“Harry makes damn good soups.” Ron agrees, squeezing Harry’s ankles in his lap.

“So a dog would be a better option for her now , but she could always have a snake later. Who knows, maybe she’ll be a parselmouth.” Astoria says.

“I very much doubt that.” Harry says.

“I don’t know, she does hiss a lot.” Greg yawns. 

“That’s whispering, honey. She whispers.” 

“Close enough.” Teddy shrugs. “I wonder if there are other parselmouths still alive.”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t pass on the gene.” Harry says. “I still think we could bottle it somehow in a lab. Like that Spiderman villain.”

“The villain . The Spiderman villain who turned into a lizard and tried to end civilisation as we know it.” Draco points out. “Yes, let’s copy him.”

Teddy throws another grape into Harry’s mouth.

“We could advertise.” Astoria says. “‘If you understand snakes, please contact this number.’”

“And then what?” Harry asks. He rests his head on top of Hugo’s mop of bushy red hair.

“So. We’ll get the baby a dog.” Astoria says.

Teddy pumps his fist in the air, and Harry grumbles in defeat.

“If a dog isn’t your fugitive godfather in disguise, what’s the point?”

“Harry…” Draco whines, dropping his bag on the floor. “I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad, sugarplum?” Harry asks, walking up with a kiss and a snake. 

“Today is Vince’s birthday. Greg and I haven’t honoured it since before Romania.”

It’s been sixteen years since… since , and Greg and Draco had remembered Vince’s birthday every year, even when Draco was in Belgium. 

But when he’d gone to Romania, they’d let it fall through the cracks, and it felt like more of a failure to retroactively start the tradition again than to just allow it to fade in time.

Harry lays Drizella on Draco’s arm, and she slithers around his neck like a scarf. Draco sighs.

“Driz, you know I feel very weird every time you do that.” He reminds her. Drizella also understands English.

She hisses something, and Harry strokes the top of her head.

“She says it makes you smell better. Um. Less… less like. Unpleased, is the best I can explain it. Your skin.”

“I don’t really know what to make of that.” Draco says, taking Drizella and Harry to the sofa to have a good cry in front of the fire. “Would you be a deer and make me some tea?”

Harry kisses Draco’s hair, and a second later, a piping hot teacup comes from the kitchen. Draco plucks it from the air, and settles back against Harry’s chest between Harry’s legs. Harry strokes one arm and one leg.

“You’re not a bad friend for letting him go.” Harry says. “You’re no less his friend for the memory fading.”

Holding his face over his steaming teacup, Draco sighs. Drizella slithers, coiling once more around Draco’s throat. She’s wrapped snug, but not squeezing. It’s nice. The snakes are nice, they’re very cuddly, because people are warm.

Draco strokes her tail, resting over his shoulder.

“Not to be weird and… horny for animals.” Draco says. “But the snakes would feel very nice on bare skin.”

“I don’t think that’s weird and horny for animals. It’s your texture thing.” Harry says. “Snakes are scaly. There's a whole industry of snake massages.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?” Draco asks Driz, hissing softly with her tongue flicking against his cheek.

“She says no.”

Drizella tightens, and Draco drops into subspace.

He cries some. He giggles some. Harry keeps him company.

“The delivery was delayed, and we had not one, not two but four screaming children in the emporium. Chelsea took a long lunch, so I had to work until she got back, and when I finally ate around four, my tomato fell out of my sandwich and onto my jeans.” Harry rambles, his magic crackling like a lightning storm around him.

“Hey.” Draco says, brushing Harry’s wild, staticky hair back from his face. “Take a deep breath.”

The ebb and flow of magic follows Harry’s deep inhale, and his exhale a moment later.

“I’m sorry, I’m just worked up.” Harry sighs.

“I know. Would you like to play with me? You can put a snake on my chest.”

Harry chuckles, looking at the ceiling.

“I don’t feel like chatting with them right now. I’ve been planning something for a bit, though, if you’d like to try that.”

“Whatever you like.” Draco says, leaning in for a kiss. “Whatever you like, I’ll like.”

Harry nods, bringing Draco to the bedroom, flicking on the floor lights instead of the overhead. They’d had it installed mostly so Harry can see when it’s dark in the morning without waking up Draco with the overhead light, but it also makes for good sexy lighting.

“Take off your clothes, lie face-down on the bed with your head on your hands, legs spread.”

Draco does as he’s told, listening, but not looking, for clues about what Harry might have planned.

The plum velvet blanket is already spread on the bed, because Draco likes laying on it before going to sleep.

Drawers open and close, and the one thing Draco can identify is the scrape of the spreader bar as Harry pulls it out from under the bed.

“Do you want something in your hands?”

“It’s up to you.”

Harry hums, and the blanket pulls slightly as he sets items on the bed near Draco’s legs. The cuffs of the spreader bar close around Draco’s ankles, leather and cool metal, and once Harry has it secured, Draco pushes against it to feel the resistance.

“Lift your hips.”

The fur-covered throw pillow is stuffed under Draco’s hips, and Harry grabs a handful of Draco’s arse before he moves on to the next thing.

“Blindfold okay?”

“Yes.”

The black silk blindfold slips over Draco’s eyes, surrounding him in darkness, the material slick and cool against his temples and eyelids.

Harry takes a few minutes to open Draco’s arsehole, working him open enough for something, but not enough for his cock, or even the smallest dildo they own.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Draco doesn’t ask what for, and when something slips inside him, something small and not cold or slick like glass, Draco concentrates on the shape of it to figure out what it is. 

“ OH fucking hell.” He cries as the burning sensation reaches his brain. “ Oh Harry .”

Ginger plug.

But Harry’s not done.

Running ropes along Draco’s bare arms, Harry fashions knots which keep Draco’s elbows straight, his forearms pressed into his cheeks. The ropes cross over Draco’s palms a few times, and he grips them like a lifeline. Harry lashes the ropes to the headboard, so Draco can’t pull away from his current position.

Delirious from the ginger, Draco spends the time before Harry’s next move clenching and unclenching his arse, which sends shocks of pain-pleasure up his spine.

“How’s the plug?” Harry asks innocently.

“Perfect.” Draco breathes.

As Draco listens, Harry climbs onto the bed, jostling the items still out so they clack together. Draco clenches his fists around the ropes.

Rocks, Draco realises a second later from the weight of one set delicately on the back of one thigh, just brushing the curve of Draco’s arse cheek.

“Don’t let that fall.” 

“Yes, Daddy.”

“That's a good fuckdoll.”

“ Oh fuck .”

There are more stones placed on the backs of his thighs, cold, smooth and heavy. One on his tailbone, and another, heated, just above it. 

The third is colder than the first, the fourth is hotter than the second. The fifth may as well be ice - may be ice, if the trickle of cold water down Draco’s side is any indication. 

He drags it up Draco’s spine, drawing a gasp, and making Draco arch up into the cold, wet lick of ice. 

It lifts from his skin, then reappears directly below the base of the ginger, the stretched, overworked rim of Draco’s hole, already burning.

“ Oh fuck fuck fuck-”

Draco’s twitching shakes the stones balanced on his thighs, and he restrains himself to keep them in place. 

“That’s good. That’s good, plaything. You’re doing so well for me.”

Longing to dig his hips into the pillow for some relief, Draco squeezes around the ginger again, moaning.

“I want to keep playing with things, even after today, after this, to test the different textures on you, find what combination drives you out of your mind with pleasure.”

New, a different feeling, not skin, it’s rough and scratchy - wool gloves, brushing over Draco’s ribs, over his sensitive underarms, then those hands grasp tightly, dragging back down, holding his hips firmly, kneading his arse, running over the tender inside of Draco’s thighs.

“Yes, baby, keep making those pretty noises for me. I like hearing your whimpers and gasps.”

Draco whines, and the gloves are taken away.

There’s a matchbox, rattling with dull clatter. One is lit, the bite and hiss of it against the matchbox before the silence of it burning. The scent of smoke hits Draco’s nostrils as it’s put out, and he tenses automatically for what comes next.

“Mm. Lovely, so lovely. Shall I tell you the colour? So you can imagine it better? It’s peacock blue. It’ll be so pretty with your lavender ropes and the grey rocks. Your skin will be pink underneath, bright and tender, hm?”

As the hot wax hits his skin, Draco cries. It runs in a line along his spine where the ice cube had mapped, first too cold, now too hot.

“You’ve never lasted for an entire candle. Think we’ll get further today? You’re already so worked up.”

Draco groans as wax traces the lower curve of his arse, one leg, then the other.

It falls between stones on his back, one long snake running straight down his spine from the nape of his neck, then around the four remaining stones weighing down Draco’s spine.

Each arse cheek gets a spiral, and it ends with a pattern of wings on his shoulder blades.

“So beautiful, this colour against your skin. Makes the red stand out so much more.”

The stones, one by one, are removed.

“You did so well, only letting one slip off your leg. Very good, for your first try. But I set them in easy places. Next time will be more of a challenge.”

As he’s pulled up by his hips, the wax adhered to his skin pulls, stinging like skin split open. Draco sobs, and the ice is back, running over the wax, melted water running in ribbons over the skin, down onto his shoulders, his neck, his hair.

More ice, more water on his arse and thighs, and Draco gasps, jerking as the ice finds its way between his legs again, the spreader bar keeping his arse exposed.

In this position, arse up, face against the mattress, a cool metal collar is fastened around his throat, a thick chain pulled over his abused back, draped carefully along his crack and between his legs.

The brush of metal, shifting against the delicate skin of his taint and balls sends twitches through his arse, and the lingering effects of ginger settle in his spine once more.

“There you are, pet. Collared, chained and bound for me. Open wide, stretched out and quivering. Just as you should be.”

A hand reaches down, between his legs, finding his hard, aching cock. Something slips onto it, a ring, and a spell is whispered to tighten it.

“Mm, keep whining, pretty doll, you don’t get to come tonight.”

Without warning, the ring turns cold, tightening further as the blood drains from Draco’s cock. 

The heat, the burn of ginger and the cold of the ring send mixed messages, confusing Draco’s overstimulated brain until he can’t focus on either, and they blur together in a jumble of hot-cold and cold-hot.

Before he can make sense of it, a new toy finds his balls, something light and delicate - a feather. 

He can’t come, he can’t get hard again with the cold, so he squeezes around the plug, sending more ginger-burn through his nerves. 

The chain jingles as his legs tremble. His toes curl, sensing that they might be next.

Tickling those most sensitive, exposed, overworked spots, the feather plays its role perfectly.

“You sound perfect, babydoll. You’re making my favourite noises.”

Draco’s mind is foggy, and the feather continues just a moment more before it’s taken away.

“One more pain, then I’ll turn you over for the nice parts.”

Nice parts? As if not every one of these was nice?

“Are you ready?”

Maybe he answers, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, it starts on one foot.

It hardly matters that his cock is soft. Despite the ring, that cold, hard bastard, his cock drools onto pristine velvet.

He can’t hear the soothing words over his screaming. The chain between his legs knocks back and forth with every twitch, every jolt as the pinpricks roll along the sole of Draco’s foot.

Pulling at the ropes, palms sweating into the bamboo rope, he can’t get away. His wrists are bound, and the spreader bar is pinned down to keep both feet in place.

The wheel moves to the other foot, applying the same delicious torment there. The bite of velvet on his cheek and chin burns. 

His tingling arsehole, his leaking cock are background thoughts, his attention solely on the pins and needles rolling along the backs of his thighs now.

“Mm. This is a good one.”

There’s a dullness to sound now, as Draco nears his breaking point. 

The roller is on his stinging back now, overstimulating the singed nerves.

Everything aches, and he’s nearly unconscious with sensation.

Then.

The roller is taken away.

His ankles are untethered, the collar chain set aside, and the pillow is moved.

As he’s rolled onto his back, the velvet digs into all those tender areas. He keeps his knees bent to rub his feet into the velvet, a phantom sensation left over from the wheel of pins.

“That’s it. Time to come back down to earth.”

Warm skin is cased in silk gloves, cool for now, cool against his chest, his hips, his arms.

“One last thing I want to show you.”

There’s clattering, and the silk gloves lift. They’re replaced by cool, round, soft things, spaced out on a string. His eyes roll back as his understimulated chest feels so dully, yet so well.

“If you want to imagine what this looks like, I have silver silk gloves on, and I’m using emerald pearls on your skin. Can you tell?”

Pearls . Of course. 

They drag lower, wrapping around his cock.

“How about here, can you see in your mind? The green lustre against your glowing skin? It’s beautiful, Draco.”

A breath, held and released, as the string of pearls dips lower.

“And here? You must be so sensitive here. How is this?”

Fuck .

Draco wakes to gentle stroking along the striped scars on his chest.

“There you are.”

“ Fuck .” Draco whimpers before his eyes are even open. “ Fuck .”

“Mm.”

Harry kisses Draco’s temple.

“Goddamn.” Draco breathes. “That was the best sensation play… ever.”

“Yeah? You didn’t even come.”

Draco’s groan turns into a laugh.

“I’m still tingling. How long was I out?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Mm… the pins. Was that a wartenberg wheel?” Draco asks, rubbing the sole of one foot against the top of the other. 

“Yeah. Borrowed it from Blaise, but… I think I need to get one.” Harry’s voice dips, and he traces one finger along Draco’s hipbone.

“There are a few kinds.” 

“Oh really .”

“Fuck.”

“I stopped not long after the wheel.” Harry says. He sets his hand on Draco’s bare throat. “You were responsive for about ten more minutes, but when I flipped you on your back and wrapped your balls in pearls, you… shut down.”

“I’m honestly shocked that I lasted as long as I did.”

“You did very well.” Harry praises, and doesn’t that feel nice. “I wanted to see how long you’d last, and what would hit your off switch.”

“Wartenberg wheel.” Draco says. “Blaise used a different one on me before, and I didn’t last very long then, either. I’m not sure why I didn’t ask him to use it again.”

“You probably didn’t remember very well.”

“Probably.”

Draco hums, squirming to feel the velvet on his over sensitised skin again. Harry laughs.

“I want to do that again.” 

“ Gods , yes please.”