Draco knew enough cooking magic to get by, but it was a humble breakfast nonetheless. Harry didn't comment on his cooking regardless, and just as he was plating up the eggs and sausage links for them both, his Loquorum drifted into the kitchen.
"Ah, shit," he muttered to himself before casting a sideways grimace at Harry. The brunette's cheeks went pink and he ducked his chin to study the countertop. So with a flick of his wand, he answered. "Morning."
A snort. "Barely. I hear you were at that muggle bar again last night." Draco rolled his eyes as he brought their two plates over to the kitchen island and set them down. "I hope you and Mr. Potter didn't get too pissed."
Harry choked on his coffee, and Draco had to choke back a snort.
"Course not, mum. Something I can do for you?"
A feminine sigh as his agent, Maureen, undoubtedly marked an internal scoreboard for how often he referred to her as such.
"Just Look wants you in a spread. They asked for an interview, too, but I turned them down."
Draco huffed a sigh of his own as he sat across from Harry, lifting his own coffee mug to his lips.
"Why they still have the nerve to ask is beyond me," he muttered before taking a sip. "When's the shoot?"
"Next week sometime. They said they'll be in touch, one of the designers is dragging her heels on releasing her collection. But ever since the Prophet, more and more non-athletic brands have been reaching out. Isn't that nice!"
Draco grunted, starting into his breakfast as he pointedly ignored the frown Harry levied towards him.
"Alright, try to contain your enthusiasm a bit. Do you need anything from me?"
He chewed contemplatively, and swallowed. "Nothing comes to mind. Is that all?"
"Well…" A beat, and then another sigh. "I wouldn't dream of telling you how to live your personal life, but… If I were you, I'd exercise a bit of caution when dealing with the Boy Who Lived. Now that you two have opened a dialogue, things could go dreadfully south if anything goes wrong there. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Draco met Harry's curious gaze for a moment, wondering just how much further his life could spiral. He hadn't been sentenced to Azkaban, he supposed. But would he? If something were to go wrong with he and Harry, and the Savior were to speak against him? His eyes narrowed curiously.
"I believe so, Maureen."
The Loquorum went dark and floated away, and Harry cleared his throat.
"You… You know I… I mean, you know… " He swore under his breath, and Draco smirked.
"You're keen on keeping this under wraps, yes?" He ventured as he took another bite of scrambled egg. Harry's cheeks darkened slightly as he nodded.
"Ruby would kill me if I–" His eyes went wide, and dipped back to his meal as he pushed his own eggs around on the plate.
"Fucking agents," he agreed heartily as he took another bite of his own. "Fucking fame."
Harry laughed, and the sound sent Draco's stomach flipping.
"Fucking fame."
Harry swayed gently in the breeze atop his broom, eyes slightly glassy as the image of that stupid, beautiful face contorted in ecstasy flashed behind his eyelids for the umpteenth time.
"Oi, Potter!"
A bludger whizzed past his head, sending it spinning into sudden clarity as he remembered where he was. Shit, I can't let this keep distracting me! I know they all saw that article, too! With a decisive shake of his head, he cast his gaze across the pitch, searching for that telltale flash of gold.
If that blond git was going to be interrupting even his practice, what could he hope for at the next match? He didn't want to think about it as a flurry of metal caught his eye. And he dove into action.
Being on such a (now)-prestigious team had afforded him all the top-quality Quidditch gear and his custom-made Lightning Charger speared through the air at blinding speed. (The irony of the name of said model wasn't lost on him.) When he was focused enough, the speed was tenable, but he'd quickly climbed to the leaderboards for fastest Seekers in the world. And that didn't change as he took out his frustration on the little gold sphere.
They were actually practicing with a special Snitch, as per the IQA's - the International Quidditch Association - permission. Because with the speeds Harry was clocking, normal Snitches had become too easy to snatch. One of the similarly-enchanted magical eyes followed him through the towers and high above the grass, recording his every move, but he didn't let it distract him.
The Snitch pivoted in the sky to plummet back to the earth, and he hit a hard half-stop, gloves squeaking against the wood as he pulled his weight with the shifting momentum. And it was mere feet above the grass when his outstretched hand finally wrapped around the metal.
Another image of pale fingers fisting bedsheets rose to the surface of his mind and he nearly didn't land his tumble onto the pitch. But his grip was sure and the Snitch settled into his palm as he took bruise after rolling bruise against the turf.
Fucking bastard. I never should've slept with him if it was gonna affect my game this much!
He groaned as he finally came to a halt on the grass, magical eye floating serenely beside him as he ripped his helmet from his head and lay heaving on the ground. He sensed shadows pass behind his squinted eyes as his teammates and likely his coach gathered to see the state he was in. But he only folded his Snitch-arm over his eyes and grit his teeth together.
"Aright, Potter? No broken bones?"
"Fine, Thierry," he bit back, unwilling to open his eyes yet to the concerned gazes he knew surrounded him. His fist dropped the Snitch and he curled onto his side, hissing at the way his ribs and limbs ached.
I just need to desensitize myself to it. If I get back into the swing of things, I won't be constantly thinking about it.
Draco was only as aware of the fashion world as his job required, and cared for it even less. Despite the decor he'd chosen for his flat, there was little that could interest his artistic eye, and clothes had to be at the bottom of the list. Still, he stood patiently as the wardrobe staff for Just Look magazine dressed him in… Whatever this was.
Tight pants (again) buttoned silver down his hips, a dark enough blue that it nearly swallowed all light except for where the fabric creased and caught the subtle silver inlay. All the way down to his ankles, where more silver buttons clasped above the flat black dress shoes he wore. A young man with a look of concentration barely concealing his awe was tugging at the opening of his blouse, making sure the shoulders lined up right.
I wonder if he regrets sleeping with me.
When the man was satisfied with the way the blouse sat on his shoulders, he accepted a pair of metallic bracers of some kind and began hitching them over Draco's wrists and forearms. The frills that ended his sleeves peeked out over his hands from beneath the metal as the clasps were done up, but he wasn't really here.
He's no model, but I've seen plenty of his spreads for different interviews. Seems like everyone wants a piece of the Savior.
Draco couldn't help but smirk at the notion that he'd gotten a fairly large chunk. And wondered when he might hear from him again. It'd been a mere two days, but the ball was effectively in Harry's court. So he was biding his time.
A hip-length cloak was settled across Draco's chest, clasping together with an ornate brooch just below his collarbone as the weight settled on his shoulders. And as dozens of hands reached out to adjust it, to tug at the blouse beneath and fiddle with the buttons on his hips, he couldn't help but feel sympathy for Potter.
I can't imagine being in his position. It's not like I like being touched so much like this, but if he hates it as much as he made it seem, things like this would be nearly unbearable.
Why me?
It was a question he'd found himself repeating nearly every moment his mind was unoccupied since that night. The way he had leaned into Draco's touch, had asked for more, had reached out first. Why, after all that time, was he the one those hands reached for?
Surely it wasn't just because he was "so fucking beautiful," as he'd put it. He wondered if Harry had any better idea why it'd been him than he did. But wasn't long for wondering when he was led, finally, away from the dressing room to the set.
The studios here were leagues posher than any athletic retailer's he'd visited in his career. But he supposed that made sense - he was fashion modeling now. It was a completely different world. And he could make just about as much sense why they'd reached out to him for it as he could any of the other contracts.
Truthfully, he counted himself unbelievably lucky. How could he think otherwise? The Ministry could've easily stripped him of any opportunities by placing him on the war criminal registry, or worse. Not that he'd had an easy time finding an employer that could look past his crimes, but did his success in modeling really only come down to his looks? It didn't make a lick of sense to Draco, but he wasn't here to understand. He was here to get paid.
So he posed for the camera, did what the photographer asked of him, lied with every inch of his body until his mind inevitably drifted back to that damn night.
A bloody fantastic night. In a way, he supposed he'd… Deflowered Harry, and couldn't deny a sickening amount of pride for that fact. He strove to keep the smirk off his face as that blissful expression danced around his memory. From the way his muscles contorted to the way his voice had risen out of him to the sheer force of his beauty, Harry had made quite the impression. Draco's mouth filled with spit and he forced it down in a swallow.
That face, the unruly black curls, those piercing green eyes, the scar, looking down and seeing all that with his pink cock between even pinker lips—
Fuck, these pants are too tight to get hard in and not be blatantly obvious. I need to distract myself.
He forced another mouthful of saliva down his throat as he obediently unclasped the cloak from around his shoulders and slung it over one in two fingers. And thought of all the most vile shit he could to try to drive Harry's face out of his head, his cries of ecstasy from his ears, the feel of his muscles gripping him—
He couldn't swallow his smirk in time as he considered that Harry, wherever he was, was recalling similar things. And how it must be affecting him.
Christ, I wanna fuck him again. Don't keep me waiting too long, Scarhead.
