The Bolthole

Chapter 4

Draco wished Harry could have waited to shave until after the bed situation had been resolved. It was truly nightmarish to have a freshly cheekboney Harry Potter crawl under the covers with him, all close body heat and restless legs and then say, "Goodnight" into the short space between them before turning around, falling promptly asleep. Draco lay awake for hours, concocting dubious plans of seduction, all of which ended with Harry moving back to London, becoming an auror, and marrying Ginny Weasley.

He could not stop remembering how good it had felt when Harry had lain on top of him after the roof caved in, the way the frantic rush and buzz of his thoughts had gone into a deep, quiet warmth, something hot that felt like it was sinking all through his body. He had not thought much, and certainly not anything coherent. He'd been able to feel when Harry dropped off to sleep and even that was fine because Harry was still hooked around him, plastered over him, and Draco was soft and safe beneath him. Once Harry had reached up idly in his sleep and tucked some of Draco's hair smooth where it must have been tickling his nose, then let his hand lie there, close by Draco. His big palm and long fingers. Draco had gazed at them, dazed, his eyes drifting closed into sleep, and had the space of mind for one entire thought, just one sentence, and a very embarrassing one: I am all yours, you can have anything you want from me. It had felt very simple just then. It did not feel very simple now.

He wanted it to happen again. He waited for it to happen again.

It didn't. It was almost light by the time Draco fell asleep.

When he woke up, Harry was downstairs, clearing out the kitchen. There were several full-bellied garbage bags in corners, boxes getting filled up rather than spilling over.

"You meant it, then," said Draco, and realised in saying so that he hadn't expected the trend to continue. Distantly, he could hear the thatcher, still working on the roof.

"Meant what?" asked Harry, straightening up from a box. In one hand he held a pre-war Japanese salt shaker. In the other, a dildo. Draco tried not to look at it.

"That you wanted to clear out the house," said Draco.

"Oh," said Harry, glancing at the objects in his hands. He seemed suddenly to realise about the dildo, and put it back in the box. "Yes. Yeah. You don't have to help."

Draco leant against the door frame. Harry was much easier to read, now, with his face back, and he looked shy and sad and not quite so brooding, not quite as threatening. He was more explicable. He looked like a boy who might conceivably think the best way to comfort a stuttering idiot was to just lie down on top of them until they stopped shaking.

"Hermione says it doesn't make sense for me to come back until they've resolved the cursed treasure case," he said. He looked away from Harry's mouth and instead inspected the oily stove. "So I've nothing better to do."

"All right," said Harry. "Thanks." His smile, now clear and bare on shaved skin, folded Harry's cheeks up and was a terrible assault.

Draco gave an annoyed tsk and scratched a nail at an oily residue on the oven handle.

And despite the fact that Harry's face was a little hard to look at straight-on, at times, and despite the fact that every now and then Draco had to lock himself up in the loo to catch his breath, and despite the fact that Harry being nice, now,somehow made it all worse—despite all of that, it was surprisingly fun helping Harry clear the house.

The things in the boxes were so riotously strange.

"Holy water from Lourdes?" said Draco.

"Donate?"