Way Down We Go

Chapter 4

Potter leaks magic.

There's no other way Draco can describe it.

Standing next to him is a special kind of relief—a sort of stillness, an ease, that makes Draco's body feel just a little less like it's falling apart. Being in the same room as Potter for a few hours is enough for Draco's skin to feel less tight, but eating with Potter, knees practically touching as they sit cross-legged on the floor, washing dishes together, fingers brushing with the transfer of cups and cutlery—the feeling then is something akin to a potions-induced high.

Driving with Potter in the passenger seat of Lavon's truck, knowing he'll be there, less than a metre away, for the next several hours, is both thrilling and... slightly problematic.

Because Draco is getting greedy.

If a few hours spent in the evenings with Potter is enough to give Draco a good night's sleep, an entire day in close proximity may extend that. And now he's also starting to wonder what would happen if he touched Potter for a while. Not—not with a purpose, or anything. Nothing untoward. Just. Sustained contact. The accidental brushes of hands are harrowing enough—Potter practically burns with excess magic crackling like static over his skin. Draco can't stop wondering what would happen if he just laid his palm on Potter's forearm and left it there. A collection of seconds. Minutes. An hour.

He might feel human again for a week.

It's times like these that he wishes he still had access to his ancestral library. Because he doesn't understand what's happening and he has...questions.

His driving is also perhaps a little impaired.

He swerves for the sixth time in as many minutes, because he's glancing at Harry's hand, only inches from his on the gear shift, and Harry clutches at the door handle like their demise is imminent.

"Do you actually have a driving licence?" Potter asks.

Draco regrets agreeing to this farce already.

"You're not an Auror anymore," Draco points out. "Even if you were, I think this is rather outside your jurisdiction."

"Yes, but a licence is usually a good indicator of whether or not a person knows how to drive."

Draco digs into his pocket and then proffers the laminated square to Potter.

He does not shiver as their fingers touch with the transfer.

Potter holds it up to the light, then leans in close to inspect it.

"It's a good fake," he says, handing it back. "I'll give you that."

Draco is admittedly a little put out. Blaise had assured him it was perfect.

"How did you know?"

"I didn't. But thanks for confirming."

Draco is now more than a little put out.

"Piss off."

Potter grins.

"Also, I'm assuming you don't have a muggle birth certificate much less the proper immigration paperwork for a driver's license, Drake Black."

Oh. Right.

"What about you?" Draco asks. "Do you have a licence for that unnecessary vehicle you own?"

"It's a vintage Mustang," Potter says, as if that means anything. "...and I also have a good fake."

"I believe there's a phrase about pots and kettles that might be useful at this point," Draco says.

"Well. I'm not an Auror anymore," Harry reminds him.