Take My Pure (Wash It All Away)

Take My Pure

For the third time this week, Potter strolls into the Ministry bathrooms wearing nothing but a dangerously low towel around his hips and a smirk that could make half the wizarding world drop to its knees.

For the third time this week, Potter hooks his towel over the cubicle door, stretches, ruffles his hair, and steps under the sputtering shower head whilst water cascades down over his lithe body.

For the third time this week, Draco watches the entire thing. Standing frozen in the second cubicle from the door, jaw slack, heart thumping, he takes in the sight of those sturdy thighs that curve beautifully into the plump roundness of his arse.

It's not like Draco's perving or anything, he can't exactly help it given that, once again, Potter has chosen the only cubicle in the entire bathroom where the misting enchantments don't work. Not even a little bit.

Draco knows this. Everyone knows this. Aside from Potter, apparently.

Or maybe he does know it, and just doesn't care. It's not like he has anything to hide.

Regardless, it catches Draco off guard as he halts at the threshold of the shower room entrance. In one arm, he clutches a neatly folded hand towel to his chest, the other holding a bar of cheap soap that almost slips from his grasp at the sight he's met with.

Potter faces the wall—thank god, his stance wide and assured as the water cascades over his body. Pearlescent foam contrasts his deep complexion, running smooth down his back, over the curve of his arse and onto his thighs. There's dark hair in all the right places, the faint movement of muscles flexing under his skin as he moves, two hands snaking through locks of hair that remain unruly even when soaked.

If Draco bites his lip any harder, it'll bleed. But it's the best he can do to stop from gawping at the sopping wet git. Steam lingers in the humid air, and Draco can feel the heat crawling up his spine and burning through his neck. It floods to his groin, and he hurries across to the empty cubicle before his tenting cock unravels the towel that's clinging on for life around his hips.

He swallows hard, glancing briefly over his shoulder, then hooks the towel up on the wall and steps under the running water, every ache from his body softening under it.

The soap is on its last days. It barely fits into the fleshy part of his palm, but he'll use it right down to the last bit. It stinks as well, like chemicals or something medicinal.

And when he drops his head back and lets the heat envelop him, his mind drifts back to the bathroom at the manor—the main one, there were five, after all. What he'd give to sink into the warmth of that clawfoot bath, the scent of the eucalyptus plant draping overhead, whilst the patchouli liquid soak would seep into his pores.

His skin had never been softer back then, his hair as smooth as silk. He would bathe once, sometimes twice a day, and his mother would spend a fortune on only the finest soaps. As a child, Draco would gaze at the hand-painted floral patterns that were individually wrapped around each bar, revelling in its luxury.

For someone that has such high standards of personal hygiene, it's a pity that Draco doesn't own a bathroom anymore.

The manor was sold directly after his trial, along with most of his belongings. Stripped of his wealth and his reputation, he'd resorted to crashing on the sofa of Blaise's cramped, cluttered flat some nights. The shower there was just as crap, and Blaise managed to add to the experience by offering a spare towel littered with holes and a very questionable bar of grey-looking soap. This arrangement was fine when they were fresh out of school and trying to find their way in the world again. Fast-forward eighteen months, now Blaise has a sturdy job, a partner, a dog, and a friendship with Draco that's on its last legs.