Author: Prosody (
![[info]](http://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
melpomene170)Rating: strong PG13
Canon: Pre-HBP
Length: 3,000 words.
Scenario: I promise to let my best friend join in.
Summary: Harry had not survived a battle to the death with a Dark Lord just to be vanquished by the lull of ordinary life. Really.
Disclaimer: I'm playing with Jo's toys.
Notes: This is loosely based in the same 'universe' as Kat's fic, or at least it was in conception. It's deviated quite a bit as it evolved to be nearly unrecognisable, but there are a few things that still match up. ;)
I have to offer enormous and endless thanks to the fabulous
dacro for the beta, as without her insight and encouragement I never would have finished this properly. :) _starcrossed_, too, for spotting some last minute errors I wouldn't have caught otherwise. Thanks ladies!Better in Theory
Harry blinked. For a long moment that stretched into years, all he could hear was the sound of his watch clicking one hand past the six. Tick. In the kitchen, a drop of water that had been dangling from the tap for some time chose this moment to dive into the unwashed dishes below. Plunk. Harry blinked again, and Draco was still looking at him with one pale eyebrow raised expectantly, though it was difficult to take him entirely seriously when he was standing there by the bed in his shirt... and only his shirt, loosely buttoned and clinging to smooth, pale thighs....
"Are you even listening to me?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. ...wait. What?"
"Is this what happens when you're raised Muggle? I've heard they set their children in front of the flashing box until it paralyses their senses and they have the attention span of a garden gnome-"
"I heard what you said," Harry rolled his eyes, purposefully ignoring this little snippet of misinformation brought to us by the ceaseless ignorance of the Pureblood agenda, "I just... could have sworn you just said you wanted us to shag your best friend. Which is--"
"Oh good, you were listening." Draco seemed pleased, as though this settled everything, and bent to pick up his trousers left in a puddle on the floor. "I think next Thursday would be..."
Temporarily distracted by the view, Harry managed to raise his eyes to the ceiling as though searching for some sort of inspiration in the sea of off-white hanging over their bed. As first apartments went, the flat was actually downright habitable, if Harry gave up trying to understand Draco's haphazard method of decorating. The gigantic antique mirror salvaged from the Manor still refused to stay in one place, constantly scuttling from one side of the bathroom to the other on formidable iron claws. It was quite handy with fetching towels, actually, but it gave Harry the creeps regardless. "Wait, wait, hold on," Harry managed to interrupt his boyfriend in the middle of a spirited monologue on the supposed merits of the m�nage a trios and the various positions possible to exhaust in one night. "Who exactly is your best friend, anyway?"
Draco stared at him, his face a mingled tapestry of absolute horror and a kind of profound awe at the other young man's inability to occasionally grasp the blatantly obvious. "Tell me you're joking." Met with Harry's blank expression, Draco scowled his Scowl of Annoyance-- the one that Harry privately thought made it look as though his entire face was pursed in serious contemplation whilst sucking on a lemon. "I know the names of far more Weasleys than I ever wanted to imagine existed in one universe at the same time, and you can't even fathom who could possibly be my best friend?"
Feeling this was a rather harsh assessment, Harry protested, "I know who your friends are... I just-- I guess I just never really thought you... had a best friend."
"Oh, so only former Gryffindors can have 'friends', Slytherins only have acquaintances-"
"That's not what I said-"
"Name five. Full names."
"Fine. Pansy Parkinson. Geoffrey Goyle. Er..."
"That's two! And it's Gregory. You're-- argh!" Draco made a nondescript noise closely resembling that of a spitting cat, the one Harry would have found unbelievably attractive if it was not almost always directed at him for something grossly unfair and not really his fault, mostly. At the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut, and the unmistakable scuttle of the mirror, Harry brightened.
"Wait, I have one... Nott! Timothy Nott! You two were friends in--"
"I HATE NOTT. WE HAVEN'T SPOKEN IN EIGHT MONTHS SINCE HIS HARLOT OF A MOTHER FAFFED OFF WITH MINE TO BUENOS AIRES!"
"Oh. Right. You know, if you ever want to-"
"AND I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT, NOW OR EVER!"
"Okay then."
Living with someone else for the first time was always an adjustment, said Hermione-- who always had an entire arsenal of advice at the ready whether Harry asked for it or not. Harry was rather inclined to disagree on this point, however, because to say that living with Draco was 'an adjustment' was to make the most extreme of understatements. Simply put-- living with Draco was an adventure, an adventure of an entirely different sort than Harry had ever managed before. Draco had a certain knack for throwing Harry off balance with a hiss of frustration when he least expected it; at other times he remained maddeningly unruffled all the while Harry expected the other shoe to drop at any moment.
Harry Potter was a hero to an entire generation of small children-- Conqueror of Evil Extraordinaire and Vanquisher of the Forces of Darkness (TM) -- but it was the little things in life that flummoxed him. He foiled Lord Voldemort at the ages of one, eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen-- but at nineteen he simply could not get the hang of remembering to owl Draco when he would be home from Auror training obscenely late, or banishing the garbage when it was 'His Turn'. Hermione said this was because he was still learning to appreciate subtle gestures; Draco said it was because Harry was a selfish prat with his head permanently lodged up his own arse, but then he would kiss him and it was okay again.
Still, things were different now. Back at Hogwarts, it was all passion and fire and desperate, stolen moments. It was heated misunderstandings resolved in even more heated clinches against the cold stone wall of an abandoned corridor, wondering if they would make it through this, after all, and for those moments not caring. Now, there was no life or death struggle hanging over their heads to pump a staccato heartbeat against his ribs, no hissing and yelling and arguing over 'whose side are you on, really?', and 'what about your father?'. Now it was arguing over whose turn it was to Scourgify the dishes, whose fault it was when a bill was not paid, who left that sticky ring on the bedside table, why it was absolutely necessary that Harry spend another weekend away on practical training, whether they were too tired tonight after all. Now they had sex in a comfortable bed, their bed, and there was a routine to it most nights. Sometimes, for variety, they would shag on the sofa after eating too much takeaway and Draco had become bored with the Muggle films Harry attempted to introduce him to. This was always lazy, slow, and breathless, and left at least one of them with a crick in their neck because the sofa wasn't nearly long enough, and it didn't happen enough, really.
Hermione said they were stuck in a rut, whatever that meant, and it happened to every couple sometimes. Draco didn't say anything, because Harry never saw fit to bring it up because it would resolve itself eventually, just like things always did with them. Harry had not survived a battle to the death with a Dark Lord just to be vanquished by the lull of ordinary life. Really.
So when Harry could not get Draco's spontaneous suggestion out of his head, he chalked it off to morbid curiosity. After all, he still could not figure out who exactly Draco considered to be his best friend and thought it best not to ask again, once Draco had been coaxed out of the bathroom by the smell of those chocolate biscuits he liked. Maybe, just maybe, Draco had noticed it too-- this rut-- and his bizarre request had been his typically abnormal solution to a very average problem. Not that Harry was actually considering it, of course, but it was nice to know that he and Draco were on the same page, even if they were as usual in entirely different books.
It was Thursday when Harry came home just after 6 o'clock from a day of running drills with Hermione, a day that mercifully ended earlier than most and left time to swing by the grocery. Muttering the password at the front door absently, he went over the shopping list in his head a seventh time just to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything as he balanced several sacks in his arms. He almost always did, as a matter of course, so it was really only a question of whether the something he forgot would be enough to set Draco off and force him to return to the store later that night just to placate him because how could they possibly live without sausage rolls for the third consecutive morning this week?
When the door clicked open and Harry walked into a darkened flat flickering with an aura of candlelight and soft music from the Wireless tinkling over the sound of conversation, he froze in the doorway and momentarily entertained the idea that he had somehow walked into the wrong apartment. It was Thursday, and that meant Draco would inevitably be found hunched over the desk in one corner of the flat and surrounded by a small mountain of receipts as he crunched the numbers for their joint Gringotts account. Inevitably, this put him in a foul mood and almost always led to some sort of spat. Harry had no great love for Thursdays.
Draco, however, was perched on their sofa with one arm carelessly flung over the back as he laughed. His other hand balanced a glass of wine artfully and he looked stunning all in black, his shirt unbuttoned just enough in that certain way he knew looked good. Harry's eyes were riveted to the other man's face as he turned towards Harry and smiled brilliantly, so much so that he did not notice the other occupant on that couch for several moments. That is, until she spoke, and then it was unavoidable.
"Finally. Draco made such a show of you getting off early on Thursdays, I was starting to think it was all lies."
"I told you he'd be in by six," Draco glanced down to his wristwatch, "o-seven, and I was right. Pay up, woman."
"Oh I will." The woman gave Draco a dazzling smile of her own before turning it upon Harry, a smile that flashed perfectly white teeth behind full lips and did not quite reach her dark eyes as she fluttered her lashes and laughed. Harry's eyes momentarily caught a flash of her knickers as she uncrossed her legs, her too short and far too little black skirt barely covering them enough to be considered decent.
She was Pansy Parkinson, Draco's notoriously sharp-tongued (and forked as well, Harry was convinced) cohort who had followed him from the halls of Hogwarts to the Arithmancy division of Gringotts (The only thing Slytherins liked nearly as much as having money, Harry found, was talking about it all. day. long.). It was bad enough that he had to put up with her unlimited arsenal of gossip about every known witch and wizard in England at dinner parties, but now she was sitting on his couch sipping from his wine (staining the rim of his wine glasses with her blood red lipstick), wrinkling her stubbed nose at him, and oh no, this would not do at all.
"Is something wrong, Harry?" the witch asked, her voice all syrupy sweetness drizzled over razor-wire, and Harry had never detested the woman as much as he did in that moment.
"Draco." Harry managed, fully aware his voice sounded as though a rubber duck were lodged in his throat, and he was hugging the paper sacks to him as though they were intimate acquaintances rather than having just met less than half an hour ago. Or perhaps he was using them as a shield. "Kitchen. Now."
Harry managed to will his legs to move, and quickly, striding into the kitchen separated from the living room only by a partition. Standing there hugging the bags, he waited until Pansy's snickers followed Draco into the kitchen, where the other man gestured expectantly with his free hand. "Well?"
"Draco, what-- what is she doing here?"
"I thought I should introduce you to my best friend." Harry could feel the heat of that woman's eyes on the back of his neck all the way from the sofa, even though he was currently studiously glaring at the table. It was a few moments more before a choked noise brought Harry to glance at the other man, and what he saw utterly surprised him. Draco was laughing, positively clutching his side with it. "My god, the look on your face-- are you going to be ill?"
"Shut up, it's not funny." Harry plunked the bags down on the tabletop finally before whirling on Draco, his shock giving way to a violent irritation. "What gives you the right to just-- bring her in here and think..."
"Oh calm down, Harry. I'm hardly going to force you--"
"Draco, I'm gay. Gay. I polish broomsticks. I fly for the other team. I-"
"Yes, yes," Draco waved him off impatiently. "I know what it means, obviously. You've only been polishing my broomstick for years, remember?"
"Do you?" Harry asked incredulously, trying to fathom the other man's logic just a tiny bit, and failing miserably. "I'm gay. And you're-"
"You know I don't like labels." Draco had recovered from his fit of sudden amusement enough to look bored again, leaning against the counter-top and sipping from his wine calmly as though Harry was not standing before him with one eye twitching, on the verge of some sort of fit. "Fine. You don't have to actually touch her if you think the icky girl bits will infect you, but I thought you would enjoy something a little different. I arranged this all for you, you know, so the least you can do is show a little gratitude and stop twitching."
Harry rather thought he could feel the veins in his head exploding as he sputtered, "Something different? Something different is having a shag in the shower, or going away for a weekend, or-- it's not bringing in a... a girl!"
A sigh found its way past Draco's lips that pursed into a pout as he regarded Harry rather petulantly over the wine glass, ever the young aristocrat who never quite understood why he could not have his way. "Do you really not want to?"
"NO!"
"What are your thoughts on just watching, then-"
"Get her out, get her out or I swear to god I will--"
"Fine. Be boring, see if I care." Turning on his heel, Draco positively flounced out of the kitchen. No, it was nothing like vanquishing a Dark Lord. Dealing with Malfoy was worse.
"You've got to be kidding me." Three days later, and Harry still had not entirely forgiven Draco for his presumptuous and, well, strange scheme on Thursday. It was Sunday afternoon, and Harry returned from a morning at the Burrow being stuffed full of far too many meat pies, only to find this. This could only be Draco's unique attempt at an apology, in a language only Draco seemed to understand and the rest of the world found completely incomprehensible. This was Gerard-- no, Gregory Goyle, sitting on their couch with Draco nowhere to be found. This was the last straw.
"Huh?"
"He doesn't give up, does he?"
"Dunno what you mean." Goyle seemed to be studying the ice in the drink he was holding, absorbed in something about it as the cubes clinked together with each motion of the glass. It was hard to tell with Goyle whether he was involved in some sort of closet philosophising, or whether he was simply distracted by shiny things like Every Colour Ice Cubes.
"Where is he?"
"Out."
"I noticed. Where?"
At Harry's Look, Goyle lifted those massive shoulders in a shrug as he finally glanced up from his glass. "Said he wanted to find his apology before you got back."
It took the struggle of several moments for Harry to convince himself not to throttle the burly man then and there (or give it his best try, at any rate). It really wasn't his fault, only he was so conveniently right there, while Draco was not. Goyle was a nice enough fellow, Harry supposed, though he wasn't the brightest match in the box by far. He was a follower, not a leader, and he had followed Draco away from Voldemort before it was too late, after it was already too late for Crabbe.
"What exactly did he tell you was going to happen here?"
"Sorry?" Goyle blinked at him, hazel eyes blank with incomprehension, and Harry just shook his head as he flopped down on the couch beside him with an aggravated sigh.
"Never mind," Harry tried not to snap at the other man as he glanced to the door, and back to the gigantic creature currently occupying two-thirds of his sofa. Any attempt to engage the brute in small talk was generally useless, and Harry knew better than to try. Goyle had never been much of a conversationalist, that was true, but after several long moments of semi-comfortable silence during which Harry tapped his foot in a hurried tempo on the floor, he supposed it a refreshing enough break from Pansy's shrieking laugh, or Zabini's evil chuckle (Aha, there was another one. Zabini! Blake Zabini, that was it). And the wandering eye could not help but note the muscles tensing so obviously in that thick neck when Goyle was nervous, though the hulking figure did not otherwise so much as twitch a finger while they waited. The years had melted all remnants of puppy fat away to hard, flat muscle, and there was something to be said for the strong, silent type, after all. A step up from Pansy, at any rate. At least this time Draco got the gender right. "So."
No response. Goyle blinked at him expectantly, and Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. If Draco had left Gargantuan here to seduce him, he was certainly doing a piss-poor job of it. It was almost kind of endearing. Almost.
Well.
Later, Harry would not be able to explain what exactly it was that led him to do it, only that it was as though something inside of him snapped in that moment. Draco wanted to play at whatever stupid game this was he was playing at? Fine. Harry would play, and he would win, and it would just serve Draco right if he enjoyed it. Which was really the only explanation Harry had for what happened next.
What happened next was Harry positively pinning the enormous man to the back of the sofa as he lunged across the space between them and attacked those thick lips with a particularly thorough kiss. His hands twisted in the material of Goyle's shirt as he grabbed at broad shoulders, and if the other man opened his mouth in shock, well, who could blame him, really? It was, after all, not every day a man found himself being molested by Harry Potter.
Goyle seemed frozen to the spot as Harry's tongue forced entry past his lips, and it was entirely possible that the hand moving to rest on Harry's back had done so with every intention of pulling him off before Harry ended up straddling his legs. The heat was dizzying, almost suffocating, as Harry sucked and bit at a mouth very different from the one he was used to assaulting, and he felt the unmistakable signs of interest nudging at him Very Prominently where his legs were spread across Goyle's lap. It felt a lot like Victory.
Finally, one of those meaty hands fisted roughly in Harry's hair and wrenched his mouth away, leaving him panting and staring in a disoriented fashion at the dumbfounded expression on the other man's face. "Uh..."
Harry swallowed, his eyes nearly watering at the strength of the fist still gripped in his hair. Looking back, Harry supposed this was the first indication that he had made something of a miscalculation.
The second indication arrived all of two seconds later with the click of an opening door, and the slam of it falling shut as Draco Malfoy stood on the threshold of their flat staring at the two figures entwined on the sofa with his mouth open.
Harry should have enjoyed the perfect silence that permeated the flat for a full minute, as he and Goyle remained frozen like statues in what might have been a comical position under different circumstances. Harry should have enjoyed the silence, because two minutes later came the shouting.
"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
"Er."
"I-"
"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU PULLED THAT THE SELF-RIGHTEOUS GRYFFINDOR RUBBISH WITH ME, AND THEN I LEAVE THE FLAT FOR TEN BLOODY MINUTES AND YOU'RE SUCKING THE FACE OFF THE UGLIEST FRIEND I HAVE! No offence, Goyle."
"Er."
"AND YOU CAN HAVE THESE!" On reflex, Harry caught an envelope flung at his head with no small amount of vehemence. "Take your bloody new boyfriend!"
The shouting continued a good forty-nine minutes later, long after Goyle had fled and Harry fervently wished he could do the same. It stretched long past the point of arguing about the topic at hand, until they were involved in a heated debate regarding the way Draco kept his socks.
"Yeah well, sometimes you don't even put them in the drawer, you just leave them folded on the chair! Who leaves their socks out on a chair anyway?"
"A highly organized person! You know I only put them there three days in advance, and you knock them off on purpose!"
"I do not!"
"You did yesterday!"
"Because I wanted to sit in the chair! That's what chairs are for! Sitting!"
"Not on the sock chair!"
"What kind of person needs a sock chair??"
"Obviously not same kind of person who fondles one of his boyfriend's friends on the sofa!"
"BECAUSE YOU SUGGESTED IT!"
"NOT WITH HIM, YOU IDIOT!"
"WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO THINK? What was he doing here if it wasn't for that?!"
"Oh I forgot, I don't have real friends! I couldn't possibly have called him over for a chat while you were off with your Gryffindor mates-"
"You know what I mean! He was just... sitting there and you were gone!"
"He forgot to leave! Not that he'll ever do that again, with you lurking around to pounce him at every turn. This will set him back for months, you know how shy he is!"
"OH WELL I'M SORRY IF I DISRUPTED YOUR MINION REHABILITATION PROGRAM WITH A GENUINE CRISIS!"
"YOU SHOULD BE!"
And so it went. By the time evening approached, an icy silence descended upon the flat as Harry sat hunched on the lid of the toilet in his boxers sullenly watching the mirror attempt to creep up upon him one inch of tile at a time. On his lap lay the envelope containing centre row tickets to the currently sold-out League Cup final between the Magpies and the Harpies. He and Ron had been talking about going all season, but somehow never got around to realising the dream.
"It's not that I wanted to kiss Goyle," Harry explained to the mirror, who reflected his tired frown back at him mercilessly. "I don't fancy him or anything, it's nothing like that. I just thought it's what Draco wanted, and I guess it drove me a little nuts."
Skrrriiitch. The mirror inched closer.
"Anyway it's his fault for bringing all that up to begin with. Who suggests a threesome anyway? It's just weird."
Scrape, scrape.... skretch.
"Couldn't he have just bought a bag of sex toys or something? I mean if he really thinks our sex life is that boring... you don't think he's going to run off with that slag and her lacy knickers, do you?" Harry looked up from his hands to the shiny surface of the mirror towering over him, and he glared. "What are you looking at? .... ARG!"
"How many times have I told you not to speak to that mirror?" Draco knelt on the kitchen floor as he applied a salve to Harry's bare leg, now sporting three long scratches down the calf. "You know it upsets it--"
"I didn't know it would claw me!" Harry slumped down in his chair, arms folded in indignation as he kept his leg still. On the table, the blood-spattered tickets lay forgotten. "Maybe if you'd explained it was an evil mirror who'd try to eviscerate me if I talked to it, I might have listened."
"It's not evil, it's just temperamental. Most Malfoy heirlooms are, you know."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Draco sat back on his heels, fixing Harry with a scowl. "If you're going to be difficult--"
Harry sighed. "No, look-- I'm sorry." At Draco's pointed sniff, Harry frowned again. "What?"
"What?"
"You sniffed at me."
"I did not."
"Yes you did! If you've got something to say, then say it."
"Fine. I will." Swiping the final smear upon Harry's leg rather more roughly than was strictly called for, Draco stood. "You're not sorry at all. You were enjoying it, and you know it."
"Like you wouldn't have enjoyed shagging Pansy?" Harry shot back, before snatching his wand from the table to cast a final binding charm on the wounds.
"That's different."
"How?" Once the spell was completed, Harry rose to his feet and tested his leg, putting all of his weight on it with satisfaction at the minimal pain involved. "Tell me how it's different, because I'd really love to know."
"It-- it just is, all right? I shouldn't have to explain it."
"Because you can't!"
"I could if I wanted! I just... don't. Oh just piss off."
"Fine." Harry stalked away to the bedroom with as much dignity as he could muster with a limp.
Harry lost track of how long he lay there curled on his side in their darkened bedroom until he finally felt the bed sag under the weight of a warm body settling beside him. It was only then that he allowed his eyes to close. After enduring several long minutes of warm breath tickling his neck and the distinct feeling that a pair of grey eyes were attempting to bore through the back of his skull, he finally spoke. "What?"
"You didn't really enjoy it," Draco's voice was quiet, and Harry could feel the heat of a hand hovering and almost-touching his shoulder, "did you?"
"No." Harry bit his lip, releasing a breath. "A little."
"But you thought I wanted you to."
"Yeah." The hand touched his shoulder in a brief caress, and when Draco spoke Harry fancied he could hear the last remnants of anger draining from his voice.
"All right."
Harry's eyes snapped open, and he rolled over onto his back to focus his eyes on Draco's shadowed face in the darkness. Without his glasses, he relied heavily upon his memory to pencil in a familiar expression where the fuzzy blurs blended together. "...Wait, that's it? All right?"
"I'm tired, it's been a long week, and it was a stupid idea to begin with. What more do you want me to say?"
Harry considered this for a moment, weighing his options before he felt the beginnings of a tired smile tugging faintly at his mouth. "Nothing." Shifting closer, Harry's hand found Draco's face, thumb seeking out to trace over thin lips and found they were tense in a frown. Scooting until their legs touched beneath the blankets, Harry found those frowning lips with his own (after briefly finding his chin, and what might have been his eye-- "Ow." "Sorry." ) and kissed them softly.
"We don't need to bring anyone else into this," Harry murmured, his thumb stroking over the smooth line of Draco's jaw, recalling with a smile how indignant the other man always became when this fact was pointed out (Draco refused to accept that he would never be able to grow a suitable amount of manly stubble). "What we have is enough."
"Is it?" The suddenness of the question brought Harry up short, and he blinked.
"What?"
"You've been bored," Draco said flatly. "I know you have. I'm not an idiot, Harry. And I won't be boring."
"But you're not." Harry let his face drop to the pillows, and he almost laughed into them, "God, you're not. Is that what this is about?" Feeling Draco's body stiffen with tension beside him, Harry sighed, turning from the pillow. "It's not you," Harry said quietly after a moment's contemplation. "All right? It's not you."
"Then what? And don't say 'it's me', either."
"Not, it's just... this. This flat. This life. It's all so... domestic, I guess. It's strange."
"You're the one who wanted to move in--"
"No, it's not a bad kind of strange," Harry said quickly, sensing Draco gearing up for a strop. "I like it, I do." Sighing softly, Harry smoothed a hand down Draco's side, shutting his eyes again as he spoke quietly in the otherwise silent bedroom. "I like coming home to you every night, I like knowing you'll be here. And I like having a life that's ours, just ours, and no-one else's."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's not. It's just... an adjustment, that's all. It's a normal adjustment that everyone goes through when--"
"You've been talking to Granger." Draco's tone had softened around the edges once more, no longer on the verge of freezing into that icy cold and biting voice that Harry loved the least of all (especially when it was directed at him).
"Well, yeah." Smiling a little ruefully, Harry shifted closer again to steal another kiss, longer than the first. His hand strayed down to find Draco's trapped between their bodies. "We can do this," he whispered, brushing their fingers together. "We survived Hogwarts, we can make it through anything."
Catching Harry's hand with his long fingers, Draco responded to Harry's kisses finally, opening his mouth and tipping his face up to draw them out with satisfaction. "Promise?" he asked after a moment, his breath warm and minty against Harry's mouth.
"Yeah." Harry smiled, squeezing Draco's hand and running a toe up the other man's leg to make him jump entirely on purpose. "I promise."
"And I promise..." Draco began after a moment, and Harry broke the kiss that followed to raise an eyebrow in trepidation, "never to let my best friend join in."
Harry could feel the grin against his mouth, his favourite grin of all that was not even the slightest bit evil, and he laughed. "Yeah, me too."
"Not even the she-weasel?" Draco asked, feigning disappointment rather too convincingly. "She's rather-- ow, fine. Just the two of us."
"Good."
