Standards
Disclaimer 1: They're J.K.'s not mine.
Disclaimer 2: Slash ahead. Don't like it, sod off.
Harry dressed quickly, not daring to look Draco in the eye. He healed the bruises around his wrists from the handcuffs, but left the other marks the blonde had left on him. They were on hidden, secret places, and there was no need to erase them.
Erase them the way he erased their encounters, every time he left the grimy, dingy rooms in which they met. Rooms like this abounded in Knockturn Alley, and they never feared too much for discovery, because no one would look for the saviour of the Wizarding World in a place like this, not with a turncoat Death Eater.
He and Draco both had standards to live up to, Harry his squeaky-clean reputation and innocent courtship with Ginny, Draco his place in pureblood society and playboy status. Without fail they met in places like this (never the same place twice) and indulged in what little they could in the short amount of time they had.
And then it would be over and the cold division would reaffirm itself. Harry would heal what little he needed to, ask Draco the same question he asked every time, and Draco would already be dressed in his expensive robes, and make the same snarky response he always did. Sometime Harry wanted more, to ignore the standards, but somehow, they never did.
"So, does this mean we're together?" Harry asked, his tone expectant even though he knew what the reply would be.
"You're not that good of a shag, Potter." Draco sneered in return, leaving the room and slamming the door, and leaving Harry with his thoughts.