Chapter Text
In the two weeks that passed after Draco 'Black' applied for various apprenticeships, four letters of rejection arrived. He was beginning to think that the other three had blown him off completely. He began to consider the life of hiding and grovelling that lay ahead of him. He supposed he could set aside his pride and hold Blaise to his offer of charity. Lodging in his villa was infinitely more attractive than the idea of having to spell-clean his own sheets in a run-down wizard hostel or worse, a Muggle motel. However, shacking up with Blaise inherently meant shacking up with Astoria as well, and that was an issue he was not yet willing to face.
Forget that the Prophet had finally reported that the two of them eloped before Aurors were able to track them down and he was in no emminent danger of being forced to marry her...There was something distinctly unsettling about the prospect of being in close proximity to the woman he'd abandoned at the altar, even if she was just as happy with the situation that he was...
Harry had even managed to secure a tidbit of inside information from Ron, who indicated that the Auror's search for 'the elusive Draco Malfoy', as the Prophet reported, was low on their list of priorities now that they were assured that Astoria Greengrass had not been murdered in a dueling broomsticks-type plot.
12 Grimmauld Place was their next intended location, as Draco could no longer afford the cost of their suite. He'd been promised that it was secure and secluded, and more than large enough for the two of them. With some degree of distaste, he'd agreed to relocate them there. It was far too close to the world that Draco was longing to flee, but they had few other options. He was just preparing to open the lid of his trunk when a large, gold-feathered owl flew in through the open window of their suite. It stuck out his foot in the most dignified fashion and blinked at Draco until he unfastened the scroll and gave him a hunk of bread leftover from that morning's breakfast. Draco tried to push away the feeling of hope that made his stomach clench, and steeled himself for the sinking feeling of yet another dismissal.
Dear Mr. Black,
As I have not had an applicant for apprenticeship in nearly a year, and have not taken on a neophyte in nearly five years time, I would be most pleased if you would be able to come for an interview next Monday. It is imperitive that our dispositions are miscible and we are of approximate temperment. My bird shall await your response.
Kindly,
Roam Skenderian
Draco's hands trembled slightly as he clutched the parchment between his fingers. Skenderian seemed crotchety and hard to please, even in his terse, to-the-point note, but this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for. In fact, the Apothecary position had been his first choice out of all that he'd applied to, simply because the field required a combination of potions mastery, alchemy, and detailed spell-work; all of which were appealed to his interests as well as skills.
His quill was quickly retrieved, and Draco slipped a fresh piece of paper from his trunk, aware that the Owl's gaze was following him curiously. Though he was well-versed in formal ettiquette, Draco found his response somewhat difficult to pen. Finally he completed a draft that he was satisfied with, and copied it over without mistake. He set it aside to dry for a moment, before curling it and securing it to the owl's foot. With an aristocratic hoot and a powerful flap of it's wings, the bird was gone, leaving Draco to rehash his words, again. Draco toyed with the hem of his shirt, twisting it between his fingers. "Oh, hell." he sighed before striding back toward the bedroom. There was only one thing he could do to take his mind off things, and packing luggage wasn't one of them. Leaning against the door frame, he called softly. "Harry???"
Roam Skenderian was a sour-faced wizard with deep wrinkles and the yellowed-white hair of the elderly. His quiet assessment of Draco had made the young man want to squirm, and though Draco had answered each of his questions with careful consideration, he'd known his responses, while mostly truthful, could have been skewed more in his favor. At the end of the interview, the man sat, stroking his chin, beady black eyes squinting at Draco as though he could see his very soul. Finally, he'd nodded once, more to himself than anyone else. "I suppose you'll do." His gruff assent almost sounded like a dismissal, and Draco's heart started to sink before the words themselves sank in. Then, he had to fight to keep himself from leaping up and hugging the man.
The meager stipend that the apprenticeship provided was not enough to rent anything decent in the wizarding districts nearby Skenderian's workshop. At Harry's urging, Draco found himself converting the last of his galleons to British Pounds, and spending a day following after a swank-looking Muggle in a pencil-skirt and ill-fitting heels, who marched them all over the South of France, it seemed, evaluating Muggle flats.
Draco had no idea what they were looking for, and was only there to serve as translator for Harry, whose grasp of French was limited to his poorly accented though playful, Oui, Monseiur! It was Draco's turn to dutifully follow while the realtor showed them flat after flat in their price range. It was Harry who stepped up, examining the layouts, opening doors and cabinets and pantries, turning on faucets, and flushing loos, and looking as though he knew exactly what he was doing.
"And what do you think of this one?"Draco asked, questioned Harry for his opinion on what seemed like this hundreth, but in reality was only the ninth, disgusting Muggle apartment they'd trekked through that day.
Harry smiled at him as Draco put his hand in the small of Harry's back, turning them both away from the odd stare the French Muggle kept giving them. "I still think the one we saw two times before this had the most potential, Sir. It's not the cheapest one we've seen, but it seemed like the best floorplan." He blushed as he explained, "The bedroom was the biggest there. I know it didn't have an en suite, but none of them do, and, but, that one it was right across the hall. And the kitchen was pretty nice, and there was that balcony. I know it's a high rise and you didn't seem too excited about it and it was kinda manky inside, but honestly, if you're not going to let me work, then I haven't got anything else to do all day, anyway--"
Draco suddenly felt the urge to lean closer and fasten his mouth over Harry's, perhaps just to get him to quit rambling, although it was somewhat endearing to listen to him list the things he felt were important qualities in a flat to take care of him. Instead he canted his head, eyes crinkling in amusement as he placed his finger against Harry's lips, which parted for the briefest of seconds as though Harry were harboring adverse thoughts as well.
Draco turned his attention back to the realtor and spoke in rapid French, indicating their interest in the flat that Harry had picked. When the Muggle spoke of a security deposit, Draco pulled a thick bank-roll out of his pocket. The realtor gaped, and Harry was suddenly at his side, peeling off bills and helping Draco to thrust the rest back into his blazer. They both mumbled something about a checking account, and Draco waited until they were alone to ask Harry what the hell they were talking about.
It took them one hour to upack their meager belongings into the flat. Draco transfigured one of his trunks into a bed, and though hard and somewhat uncomfortable, was sufficient. They ate standing or sitting in the large and empty kitchen, mostly sandwiches and cereal the first week, because Harry had made, or rather, begged Draco to spent his what little they had left on cleaning supplies. The next week, while Draco was working, Harry had managed to bring back some pots and pans. He didn't say where he'd got them, and Draco didn't ask, though from the way they were dinged up and made all of their meals taste faintly of aluminum, Draco was certain they were both cheap and used. It took several weeks, and Harry working the budget before Draco began to see other items of, what Draco had come to view in a rather short time, as luxury, rather than necessity.
One day, he came home and the battered card table they'd been using for a dinner table had been replaced with something much more solid looking, perhaps oak. When Draco smoothed his hand over it, the round top was scratched and stained, and looked like someone had gouged a portion of it repeatedly with the tines of a fork. It rocked only slightly on it's pedastle base and there were four mismatched chairs to accompany it. Still,a great improvement from what they'd had.
It was only after a matching bedroom set in good condition showed up that Draco thought to question how Harry was managing to get all this furniture up the stairs without the use of magic.
Harry had flushed when he responded that there were a couple of American gents on the fourth floor that he'd kept bumping into at flea markets and car boot sales around town, and they would all help eachother carry their purchases back. Draco had been torn between amazement at Harry's resourcefullness and the speed and ease at which he had made friends, as well as angered that he hadnn't been told sooner, or introduced. Too, he was frightned that they'd be discovered, and everything they'd been working for would be stripped away before they'd gotten any chance to enjoy it. in the end, Draco had given Harry a sound spanking, and orders not to leave the flat until further notice.
That particular order had lasted only 4 days, until Draco came home to a meal of cereal and stale toast, and a sink that had been full of dishes for two days, because they were out of soap and Draco had been too tired, on returning home from work,to stop for it on the way. That same weekend, Harry and Draco were invited to Mike and Gideon's flat, and Draco had been able to put his mind to ease that the two men were neither Wizards, nor interested stealing Harry away for themselves. In fact, they were lovers, doing a year abroad at the local university, partly for the fun of it, but mostly to get away from the scrutiny of over-bearing and disapproving parents. Draco could relate, and despite the fact that they were Muggles, he liked them almost instantly.
Soon enough, things settled down into a normal routine. Draco would rise early, as usual, and Harry would make him breakfast before he left for work. He spent eleven hours a day, learning how to do everything from grow the necessary plants to brewing potions, to combining everything with complex spell work into a working remedy for common and uncommon ailments; all under Roam Skenderian's watchful eye. The aging wizard's gruff mannerisms were nothing like the fluid, swirling motions that characterized Draco's godfather and favorite professor, but there was something reminiscent of Severus Snape that made him fond of the man despite his tendency to bark at Draco.
In the evenings, they would share dinner, and Draco would study his books as well as those he'd been lent by Skenderian, until either his eyes blurred, or Harry proved to be too much of a distraction to accomplish anything further. Weekends were anyone's guess. Sometimes, they would spend the weekend in bed, making up for a particularly difficult and lonely week. Other times, Harry would drag him down to the fourth floor, and they would play Muggle card games and Draco would swill the most terribly cheap ale or vodka (though never whiskey, Draco found he never was able to stomach even the weakened Muggle equivalent) until late in the evening. Some times they would go to the park, or even on a short excursion or two.
In frequently, Ron and Hermione would visit, though those first meetings had been tense and awkward, and left Draco questioning his own sanity each time he found himself sending off the owl, asking them again. It wasn't until they had been gone for more than a year that Draco was even able to think about letting Harry return to England for brief trips with them. Still, Draco couldn't bring himself to go, and though he'd exchanged a scant few letters with his mother, still harbored such mutual ill will toward his father that even the thought of accompanying Harry back east made his stomach knot.
The time passed both slowly and quickly, and Draco found that this domesticated life rather suited him. He thought that Harry would likely agree, and not just because he wanted to please his master, whom he had taken to calling by name more often than not, simply because their new station called for it, and especially with their increasing presence in public.
It seemed like not long at all, before the day, one that Draco had locked into his memory some three years prior, was upon them....
Harry slept deeply, blissfully oblivious- he was not even aware of the gentle pressure of Draco's thumbs, stroking his sides, or the light kisses that Draco repeatedly pressed to his shoulder and neck. No, Harry was curled in the warm circle of Draco's arms, sleeping with the graceless ease of the sexually sated and safe. In contrast, Draco had laid awake in the darkness for what seemed like hours, recalling the events that had come to pass in the last three years.
Draco remembered the day he discovered Harry at Viteazule's; the shock and amusement of finding the hero of the Wizarding World in such a place, the thrill of the purchase and the subsequent revealation of himself as Harry's new owner, the smug satisfaction that debasing him brought... Draco knew now, that purchasing Harry was both the best, and the worst decision he had ever made.
Without him, Draco would, in all honesty, be unhappily married to Astoria Greengrass, possibly the father of one or more screaming brats. His life as a diplomat and businessman stale and unsatisfactory. His place as the Malfoy heir secure, his parents deep sense of satisfaction with Draco's so-called accomplishments the only things that might possibly give him a sense of joy in an otherwise empty and unfulfilled life...
Because of Harry Potter, Draco was in the midst of becoming something he was proud of. In another year, he would finish his apprenticeship, after which time he would hold the title of Master Apothecary. He hadn't been able to save much money; the small stipend he earned paid for their modest apartment in a Muggle high-rise, and the other amenities that they needed...but one day, after he was gainfully employed, he hoped that he would be able to save enough to open his own shop, though the where was uncertain. He wasn't sure if he would ever return to England. There wasn't there that held much interest for him, though Harry would almost certainly return, and then Draco was unsure if he could be within any proximity of the man and hold himself in check.
Draco sucked in a deep breath, inhaling Harry's scent. He held the breath until his lungs felt as though they would burst, and when he finally exhaled, his arms tightened around the man he had come to think of less as a subordinate, and more of as a friend and companion. Sometime in the morning, after the sun had risen, but before it was too high in the sky, Harry's contract with Draco was going to expire. Harry was going to be a free man, and he was going to run away from Draco, the way every slave Draco had ever known did the day their wands were returned to them. A lump rose in his throat and he struggled to swallow it down. Draco had come to rely on Harry, in more ways than one. Not only did Harry keep their apartment clean, manage the groceries, make his meals, and tend the small garden of potted plants Draco grew to supplement both their budget and his brewing, but he also served as conversationalist, therapist, masseur, lover, and friend. It was the last two of these that Draco would miss most; the constant companionship, his cheeky jokes, the way he made Draco feel whole and complete...
"Fuck, Harry..." Draco whispered into the darkness. He buried his nose into the hair at the nape of harry's neck, and just breathed, and it took every ounce of strength he had not to break down sobbing.
During the course of the past week, Draco had taken special care to savor the last of Harry. The last time Harry would make him pie. The last time Harry would over-cook asparagus. The last time they would fuck in the bath tub and make a complete and utter mess of the bathroom. Last night, Draco had spent hours memorizing the cavern of Harry's mouth with his tongue. They'd snogged with the senseless abandon of teenagers too scared to go any further, with the passion of two lovers recently met, and with the familiarity of a couple who had been together too long. And when Harry was too breathless to continue, Draco had worshipped his body until the two of them nearly washed away in the tides of ecstasy.
Once, Draco had scoffed at the term, "making love", but that's exactly what he'd done. He would not allow Harry to leave him, his final memories of neglect and abuse, of hatred, and abysmal despair. Not that he thought Harry was capable of harboring such feelings. The bloody Gryffindor didn't seem capable of hatred; once, he'd even admitted that he felt more sorry for Voldemort than anything else. So they'd made love, and Harry would never realize it until he was gone, if he ever did, that what Draco felt for him was more than that which was generally associated with ownership...
The idea nearly broke Draco, and he was on the edge of doing something he'd never done before: acknowledging that his feelings for Harry ran deeper than mere fondness, deeper than lust, deeper than attachment. "I think I...I...I love you, you silly git." he whispered into the hollow of Harry's shoulders.
Harry sucked in a deep breath and rolled slightly toward Draco on the mattress, causing Draco to suddenly freeze, all of his limbs tightening. But Harry only stuffed one hand under the pillow as his head rolled toward Draco, and he exhaled softly.
After a few minutes had passed, Draco whispered, "Har? You 'wake?" When his query received no response, he allowed himself to relax slightly, and lowered his head to his own pillow, still staring into the darkness where he could make out the faint outline of Harry's profile. He ran his fingertips over the warm expanse of skin stretching from Harry's thigh to his collarbone, and sighed. The best things never lasted.
Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Harry started to stir. Drifting, but not truly sleeping, Draco pulled Harry against him, effectively keeping him in bed. Harry put up no protest, and soon fell back asleep himself. Finally, Draco roused himself, and extricated his arms and legs from their shared embrace. Gingerly, he peeled away and eased off the bed, standing at the foot where he could soak in a last few minutes of Harry. He would not let himself watch Harry walk away. It was cowardly, and Draco knew it. But he was going to lick his wounds and sulk in private. He'd already arranged for the day off, knowing that he would be utterly destroyed, and incapable of work requiring concentration. He should have taken a week, but he couldn't afford the dock in his pay.
He'd meant to whisper, 'Goodbye, Harry.' but all that came out of his tightened throat was a truncated squeak. Draco was having difficulty breathing and his face felt tight and funny. He had to force himself into the small bathroom in the hallway just off their bedroom. He hovered over the sink, feeling nauseous, his stomach clenching and rolling. But he knew if he dawdled too long, Harry would wake and he'd have to face him and say goodbye again. So he turned on the shower as hot as it would go, and stepped in, dragging the curtain shut behind him. At least there, the wetness on his cheeks would be undetectable.
Harry awoke to the snapping of the shower curtain and the spray of the shower. He took a moment to languidly stretch, rolling in the mess of sheets briefly before dragging himself out of bed. It wasn't often that they had a lie in. He wondered if Draco was running late for work. If so, he wouldn't bother distracting him in the shower. When he dug the Muggle watch Draco had given him two Christmases prior out of the drawer in the bedside table, he realized with a start that Draco was indeed, very late. He dragged his trousers and shirt on quickly, and then raced into the kitchen to put on the tea.
Harry had just cracked an egg into the pan when a clicking noise, loud as a gunshot, made him jump. Frowning in confusion, Harry abandoned Draco's breakfast and went to investigate the noise, which seemed to come from the small living room, adjacent to the kitchen and just across from the bathroom. As he scanned the room, nothing seemed out of place. He poked his head into the bathroom, just in case, but through the curtain, he could see Draco's sihouette, which was braced against the wall as though he were soaking up the spray. His pose was tense, and Harry didn't want to startle him by asking if he'd heard the sound. There was no missing it, but if Draco wasn't concerned, he wouldn't be either. He was headed back to the kitchen and shut off the teapot, which was just about to sing. He only just flipped the egg and put on some toast when he was interrupted by a loud creak. It was the sort of sound you would expect to come from the hinges on a door ill used, or theatrically, when entering a haunted house. He returned to the living room, and this time, after a few minutes, realized that the wooden box on the shelf, the one that he'd long ago regarded as a mere decoration, was open.
A lump formed in Harry's throat, and he crossed the room. For several minutes, he simply stared down at his wand in it's velvet-lined coffin. He had known that this day was coming, though wasn't sure of the exact date. It wasn't a particularly momentous occasion. He had hoped that the day would pass without pomp and circumstance, since he had no intentions of reliquishing his post with Draco. It was strange to think that four years had passed since he had had use of his wand. Harry had been concerned, once, about giving it up. But he had spent so much of his life without a wand, the idea of having it again was almost a dream. Would his wand even respond to him after so much time unused? Perhaps it was better not to find out. He reached toward the box, intending to close it, but his fingers hovered, tingling at the proximity to the magical instrument. He paused and regarded it again. The wood was still polished after all that time, and it glistened, as if begging to be picked up. 11 inches, holly. Ollivander's wrinkled face flashed in his memory, and Harry recalled the first time he had ever held his wand. Reverently, he lifted the wand from it's case. It thrummed in his grip, and the hum of magic seemed to pulse along it's length, and up his arm, spreading throughout his body. Harry shuddered and gasped at the sensation, his fingers involuntarily curling tighter. He was just about to give a practice swish when the smell of burning food assaulted his senses.
"Fuck!" Harry cursed, and dashed back into the kitchen.
Draco told himself he was going to wait until he heard the slam of a door to leave the shower. But the sound never came, and curiosity was getting the better of him. He turned the water off and stepped out of the shower, pulling a towel around himself to catch the hapazard drips the rolled down his body, then plastered himself against the wall so that he could peer around the frame. Harry was standing in the living room, eyeing the wand box like it was something to be feared. Draco was unaware that he was clutching his chest as his heart practically punched a hole in his ribcage with its frantic beating. As Harry reached for the wand, Draco bit his lip, then covered his mouth with his hand to stifle any sounds from escaping. Put it back, put it back and step away. Draco willed it with all his might. Stay with me. Stay. I love you.
Harry let out a yell and bolted from the room, gripping his wand.
As Draco's legs suddenly turned to jelly, he slid to the floor. He had known this moment would come, he had prepared himself for it as best he could. But there was no way he could have known that when Harry left, it was going to hit him like this-a sudden feeling of emptyness that left him breathless. He was incapable of doing anything, not even crying. Draco's world was reduced to the small bathroom he occupied.
Minutes later, the acrid smell of burning food fought its way through the dissipating steam and reached his nostrils. Draco dragged himself up with a scowl. Harry must have been in such a hurry to leave that he'd left the burners on and was halfway to burning down the flat. He stomped into the smoky kitchen, surprised to find the scorched remnants of a quick fry-up in the sink. He sank into his chair at the table and grabbed the steaming cup of tea that was there waiting for him. So he'd been wrong about that. He gulped the tea, even though it burned his mouth. It didn't change the fact that Harry was gone.
The sound of the screen door on the balcony sliding opened made Draco jump, and he twisted in his chair. Harry gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I got distracted and burned the shit out of your eggs. Grabbed the pan and..." he held up his right hand, displaying three bright red and blistering finger tips. "Burned the shit out of my fingers too." He paused to blow on them, and then rub something over them. "I...I remembered the aloe out on the porch. And you said the juice was good for burns. I broke a leaf off," He rambled. "I hope you're not upset." It was then that Harry got a good look at the look on Draco's face. It was a mix of bewilderment and anger.
"Fine." Draco snapped irritably. He fought the urge to draw Harry into his arms and never let him go. He forced himself to remain cold. "If you don't require further medical attention, I assume you'll be on your way."
"On my way?" Fleeting confusion crossed Harry's face just before it fell.
"Come on, Harry. There's no reason for you to play the part of a martyr any longer. You don't owe me a damn thing. You've got your wand, just take it and get out of my sight."
"No!" He gasped and fell to his knees with a bang loud enough to make Draco wince. Tears were rapidly forming in Harry's eyes, and no wonder. "Please no, Draco. Master. Sir. Please!" He crawled to Draco's feet and prostrated himself, curling his hands around Draco's shins. "Please don't make me go!"
Draco's gut clenched and his hope rose like a phoenix. Trembling fingers found their way to Harry's hair. "M-make you go? Don't you want to?"
"No!" Harry half-sobbed. "Please! Please...let me stay. I'll do anything...sign another contract, break my wand in half...whatever you want, Master, please!"
Draco hauled Harry against him, feeling the man's heart pounding through his ribcage and Harry clutched Draco's fingers against his chest. For a moment, Draco thought that his own heart had ceased beating. "Don't," He managed as he turned Harry's face upward so that he could plant a litany of kisses on it. "Don't want you--" He was suddenly cut off as Harry surged upward, mashing their mouths together, frantically sucking Draco's tongue into his own mouth.
"I can..." Harry broke away only momentarily before Draco fisted his hair and reeled him back. Harry groaned and pulled back again. "...be better." Another kiss. "Promise. Please!" Draco's plundering tongue slowed.
"What are you bloody on about?" Draco panted against Harry's lips.
Harry pulled back, his green eyes dark and haunted looking. They searched Draco's face before shunting to the floor. "I know things have...I have gotten too lax of late, Draco. Master." He corrected. "I can be better. I'll show you! I'm sorry, Master. I'll go back to the way I was before. The way things were, before. I won't take any more liberties, and I'll stop pestering you when you're trying to study, and, and, and..." He was gulping in breathes, starting to grow panicky.
Draco was gaping at Harry. The fool thought Draco was going to send him away because he wasn't good enough? Here he was a free man, and he was throwing himself at Draco's mercy, promising to work harder to please him? "No!" Draco said forcefully.
Harry's face crumpled and he almost slid out of Draco's arms and onto the floor-he would have if Draco's arms hadn't tightened around him. "Please..." Harry whispered. "Please don't send me away...anything."
Someone had to stop this madness. Draco shook his head to clear it, then took Harry's face tenderly in his hand again. "Harry, look at me. I said, look at me. No one is sending you anywhere. For Merlin's sake." He wiped Harry's new onset of tears away with his fingers. "I thought you were leaving me, and that is clearly not the case. Fuck, I am not about to throw you out of the flat. I...I have wanted nothing more than for you to stay here with me. I just...I just can't believe you'd want to."
Harry beamed and wiped the last traces of wetness from his face with his own hand. "Why wouldn't I want to? I...You...You're... my everything." He reached his hand toward Draco, though it hovered just centimeters from his face as though he were afraid now, of all times, to touch him.
Draco took Harry's hand in his, pressed it to his cheek, and then turned his own face, kissing the palm. "Don't you dare change." He said. "Take your liberties. You've bloody well earned them." He tipped Harry's chin up and planted a much more chaste kiss on his lips this time. "And you had better not stop calling me 'Draco'. You know what it does to me."
Harry groaned with what must have been relief, though it appeared Draco's final insinuation was not lost to him as he rolled his hips. "Draco," He purred.
"Hmmmm," Draco hummed in response, and thrust his hips, rubbing himself against Harry's thigh.
"Oh, Gods, Draco." came Harry's lusty whisper. He turned his body against Draco and rubbed their growing erections together.
Draco sighed contentedly, and slipped his hand under Harry's shirt. His fingers quickly found Harry's nipple, and he pinched the skin tightly around the ring that pierced it, then gave a sharp tug.
Harry gasped and arched into his touch. "Dracoooooo," He crooned when the man repeated his ministrations to the other niple.
Abruptly, Draco stood, half balancing Harry with one arm. With the other, he quickly swept the settings off the table. His tea cup smashed on the floor, and Harry cringed at the sound, then craned his neck to look at. "Master?" he questioned, voice full of wonder, just before was hauled on top of the table. Draco waved his wand, banishing both of their clothing without a thought, then let it clatter to the floor before climbing a top the table. "What are you looking at me like that for?" He smirked down at Harry as he planted his knees between Harry's thighs, then raked his fingers down Harry's smooth, suntaned chest.
'The dinner table has a certain sanctity that shall not be violated with naked flesh and body fluids,' Harry quoted him, his voice a stage whisper and his eyes wide.
"Good thing we're still on breakfast then," Draco grunted, hauling Harry's hips upward and parting the cheeks of his ass.
Harry's arms flopped comically before he grabbed the tabletop. "Draco?"
"What is it now, Harry?" He teased, slicking his cock with spit although Harry was likely still lubed from the night before.
"Am I still Yours?"
"Yes." He said perfunctorily. Draco cocked his head and evaluated the man beneath him a moment before thrusting into him, burying himself deeply in that single hard stroke. Harry cried out softly and readjusted his legs around Draco's back. "Mine." Draco said softly, lowering himself on his arms to claim a kiss from the man which did not rightfully belong to him, but for reasons unknown, somehow, did.
Harry smiled and rocked his hips in response. His eyes shone up at Draco, and he slipped his arm behind Draco's neck, pulling him closer so that their flesh was joined at every juncture. "Mmmh," he sighed, then echoed, "Mine."
The End.
(Who am I kidding? Okay, not really. Sequel to follow....look for "Dousing The Flames", coming soon to a website near you!)