Romancing the Sorcerer's Stone

Chapter 11: Golden Snitches

June 2001 — Cairo, Egypt

"Potter!"

Harry looks up from his customary stumble out of the unfamiliar fireplace into piercing gray eyes. He doesn't think he could ever forget Malfoy's eyes. They're like storm-clouds over wind-whipped seas — especially when he's annoyed. Harry does love to annoy him.

He's flooed directly there from the last international Portkey station — Abu Dhabi, maybe? He can't quite recall — with only a scribbled address and Malfoy's room number to guide him. He doesn't even know where there is yet. It's hot, though, and dry, so he's guessing they're near a desert.

He breaks the intense stare to glance around, savoring the opulence that he's learned is customary to any rooms Malfoy chooses. He has good taste, the prat.

When he's judged the pause long enough to annoy Malfoy but not so long he'll become difficult, Harry looks up.

"Malfoy. Nice rooms."

"Thank you, Potter. I'm so glad my choice of rooms pleases you." He rolls his eyes. "Now that we've got that out of the way, get over here and have a look at this."

Harry frowns. They usually snipe at one another for quite a bit longer before getting down to business. Then he catches the barely-restrained excitement edging Malfoy's words and his eyes widen. "You found it!"

He grins the razor-sharp smile of a predator, all teeth and smugness. "Yes. Well, near enough. Look!"

Harry leans over his shoulder, feeling the excitement rolling off him in waves as he gestures at the map spread out on the table.

"Giza," he breathes reverently, "I knew it!"

June 2001 — Cairo, Egypt

Potter's warm breath wafts across Draco's cheek, stirring the hairs at the nape of his neck, and he feels his breath hitch. He frowns, distracted from the map spread out below them. Something is niggling at the edges of his memory, something to do with sapphires and... He loses his train of thought.

He can feel Potter's warmth along his back — the man is like a furnace, which is well and good in dreary old England, but a bit much in the dry desert heat. Which doesn't really explain why he's leaning toward Potter's body, instead of away from it, as he'd meant to, but then Potter jabs excitedly at the map with a thick, blunt-nailed finger and he forgets everything but the thrill of the chase that fizzes and bubbles in his veins.

He lays his own hand, pale, long-fingered and delicate, over Potter's larger, darker one and guides their joined fingers in a circle, tracing out the area he's narrowed it down to today. Potter flashes a blinding grin at him and pulls free, turning away to summon a servant and order food.

He's always hungry, is Potter, always quick to stuff his face with the local cuisine — not that Draco is that different, really. He can feel it too, that burning hunger that gnaws at both of them — has since the fiendfyre, he thinks, or maybe even before. Maybe they've always been hungry; Draco can just hide it better. But then, he spent his childhood learning to hide it. Malfoys don't feel that yearning hunger — and if they do, they certainly don't show it. But with Potter around, he has no need to hide it, and so he lets some of the masks he still wears drop.

The emerald cufflinks on Potter's sleeves catch a ray from the setting sun as he turns, flaring brilliantly. Draco feels a warm glow suffuse his stomach, reminding him that he's hungry; always hungry. He carefully rolls the map and hurries after Potter. He can't be trusted with food, the cretin; he likes everything. Draco will have to make sure he orders a worthy celebration dinner. Perhaps they'll skip the wine, though. They'll be up before dawn, and will need to have their wits about them.