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Thunder roars outside.

“One more round,” Ron says. “What we need is one more round.”

“Yes,” says Harry the same time Hermione says, “No.”

The rain begins all at once - a steady battering of raindrops that rattle the windows and drown the music in a sea of white noise.

When Ron puts a shot of Firewhisky in Harry’s hand, his eyes wander—wander until they land on sharp shoulders and pale-blond hair.

Look at me, he thinks and drowns the shot.


The door of the loo clicks closed behind Harry’s back.

“Potter,” Draco says and doesn’t even look up as he soaps his hands. “You again.”

“You broke the Curse today at training,” Harry says simply—dumbly.

The water stops running, and Draco looks up, steady grey eyes like clouds and storms and a million of reasons why not, and yet Harry thinks, more.

“That’s a bad idea,” Draco says but steps forward.

When they collide, Harry’s fire. And Draco’s oxygen.


Draco’s stark against the white cotton sheets - the sun spills in the room and showers him in golden. He’s soft like that—pliant, like honey.

Draco’s voice is languid. “Once more and it’s a promise.”

“Okay,” Harry says and kisses him, melts into him, and gives.

Draco’s grey eyes are clear like glass. His thumb presses against Harry’s lower lip and pushes into his mouth, warm and spit-wet. “Okay?”

“Take it,” Harry whines. “Take me.”