AN: Fun fact, I wrote this on Father's Day.

Chapter 3: Lace, Dresses, and Silk Sheets

Harry's final assessment in the mirror was that he certainly could be unwrapped and unraveled, but he wasn't anybody's present.

He sighed, tugging on the hem of the shirt. It was a dark blue short sleeve button-down, and Harry had been warring for hours now on whether to tuck it into his black trousers or leave it out. Untucked he might look slovenly, and tucked he might look too formal. And what to do with his hair? It was always a bird's nest, and sometimes combing it just made things worse somehow.

In the end Harry gave up, untucking the shirt for good for after all that fretting over outfits and hairstyles, for he only had a half hour left until this fated meeting. He put on his best black trainers, since his dress shoes always made his toes hurt. Once his pockets had his wand, wallet, and keys packed safely away that was all he needed.

The fear of what was to come could be excruciating in tense moments, but for the most part Harry was able to talk himself off the ledge. He was dressed, his breath smelled good, he was freshly shaved and showered, and he was going to meet a bloke at a bar. Even if nothing happened from here, or something disastrous happened from here, he'd still tried.

Simply trying was always the first step, wasn't it? His therapist had once said something like that.

This was the change he wanted, the motivation do something entirely selfish and serving only his most wanton desires. That calling felt clear and true, and Harry needed to ride this wave of sensation to see where it went.

Crossing the threshold between his front door and the world at large was breezy, and the threshold between the flat and the street while more difficult was over in a flash. Harry could do this, he could do this. The fresh air was on him again, and the sun on his skin without the filter of any window.

Harry was having to face the fact that he didn't know much about London, especially his current area of the city. His muggle phone was a lifesaver, guiding him in the right direction.

He'd grown up in Little Whinging, Surrey and Scotland his whole life. The war made him travel but beyond that, it seemed there was nowhere to go but Wizarding London. Progressive spellcasters of all sorts needed places to live after Hogwarts graduation, and the Ministry and St. Mungo's were there to serve them.

There were of course other Wizarding cities around the world but Harry looked quite foolish translating with his wand. America was never an option, and New Zealand and Australia were nice but ultimately unfamiliar. Harry decided to go with the one he knew, London, but apparently he didn't know it that well at all. There was a mixed-crowd gay bar near his flat—go figure.

After bouncing around from flat to flat thinking that was the problem for a few years of his early twenties, Harry had just given in and settled on the place he lived now. By then he'd tried to learn so many new neighborhoods he was exhausted, and the rejection from the Auror program still stung. Why be out on the streets at all if he'd get in trouble for protecting them?

Harry had a therapist, dammit. He saw her once a month and was pretty honest with her most of the time. She was a kind medi-witch that would help him untangle some of this later without judgement, and she was always bringing up things from his past even Harry had forgotten about, having told her in sessions years ago. Getting a new therapist who knew him that well would be a hassle and a half.

That medi-witch residency at St Mungo's was also why Harry was tethered here. Kingsley had wanted it, McGonagall had wanted it, and during the first years after the war their word was literally law. The courts were in disarray after so many Ministry workers were revealed to be Death Eaters, and until new ones were nominated some sweeping changes happened in-abscentium. Most were good, some not so much, and some not enough.

There was this business about Harry being 'the most powerful wizard of their age' and how they so wished he could use that power to help, but that it was time for him to rest, because he was starting to worry them. Now they were all officially worried and Harry spoke to none of them save Hermione and the Weasleys, and the occasional letter to Neville and Luna.

Hagrid and McGonagall tried to drop by in the summers still, and Harry let them, preparing for weeks in advance so he could put up a convincing front. It was insulting to see that look on their faces, the concern that his friends felt but also the fear, knowing they were in the presence of one of the most advanced magical users alive who was going screwy in the head ripping out his hair.

There was a chime in his earbuds. He was here, at 5:13, and the outside had rainbow lights spelling out its name in big letters: VELVET LOUNGE. Harry swallowed. Bars and clubs weren't his thing late at night, hence the meeting time, as at night the people on the dancefloor were packed in and indistinguishable, a sea of potential unknown threats. Harry didn't do crowds much anymore.

The windows were blacked out and that was a blessing. He entered to a low R&B song, something smooth. The dancefloors were mostly empty, another thing in his favor. Harry was taking in every factor, eyes darting to search for a bar. This place was big—he'd have to go deeper in. The lights were low, a pink glow set over him. Did that make his shirt look weird? No! Focus, focus Potter.

Harry turned a corner to see velvet lounge seating as promised by the bar's name, several plush booths of red and black. In the center was the four-way bar glowing with the colors of the rainbow that were clearly a spell but not so obvious that a muggle might catch sight of it.

Magic could be so beautiful, and for a moment Harry felt like a bright-eyed Hogwarts student again as his eyes wandered.

At the center of the bar as it faced Harry he spotted a man, a blonde man. A jolt ran up his spine. He stood up straight and his back cracked in several places to be set right after so much slouching. That certainly wasn't an encouraging sound, but he shook it off.

Yes, a blonde man in a black suit with two drinks in front of him, both pink with lemons and twirly-straws. All seats next to him were open this early in the lounge's evening schedule, and Harry stared at the one where the other drink was placed—no purse or sign of ownership. Could this really be him?

Repulsed, repulsed, why had 'D' said he'd be repulsed? The outfit looked expensive, bespoke, and the back of his head was handsome, Harry had to admit. He stared at the platinum hair, tracing it back and watching where it ending at the back of his neck.

The back of his neck. That neck, why was it so familiar, so slender, so elegant? Why did it make Harry feel… faintly… angry?

Harry froze.

In the discussion of fight-or-flight there was a third option, often ignored option that Harry had come to know well of late: freeze. To become still, and cold, and silent. That was his life now, frozen in a stasis he'd stopped battling to break free of. He hadn't fought in a long time. He'd dueled, he'd trained, but he'd not fought for himself or even anyone else like he used to.

Harry's cheeks flooded red, a physical force gripping his body to the spot and melting him down.

D, the Manor, the same age, the discretion, the repulsion, the perfect bloody hair—Harry felt thicker than a rock. That made him even angrier, but this time at himself.

Stuck between fight and freeze Harry stood for a long moment. Draco Lucius Malfoy as handsome as ever was at the bar, waiting for him. He watched him glance around nervously, for 5:15 must have passed. How long would he stay? Was this some kind of joke, a late prank?

Harry licked his lips. He had to get to the bottom of this either way. Draco now knew a lot about him, but did he even know it was him? The Malfoy vault had enough money to bribe a kink magazine, but that didn't seem right. The last time Harry had seen Draco Malfoy was the trials. He was embarrassed, and quiet, his bright personality completely cowed by the crowds of glares. He'd known he'd done wrong.

More importantly and more surprisingly it even seemed Lucius knew what he'd done wrong, and how he'd taken his wife and child along for the ride. Harry had argued for them, and while it looked like it just pissed Draco off more, he did receive an apology and a thank you in a moment after the dust settled. That was all Harry had ever wanted.

Harry didn't read The Prophet but he unfortunately caught headlines when out shopping, and seen a few to do with Draco. There was great hubbub to him becoming a Healer, and threats against his parents. That seemed to be a repeating theme, every few years or so for the headlines—'What is Draco Malfoy doing? Is he properly repentant? Is he partying? Is he single?'

It was hilarious enough to make Harry laugh. Draco might actually be the only person around who understood how invasive those questions were, how performative the answers given had to be for your own safety and sanity.

Oh, what the hell. Harry was perpetually bored, tired, sad, and listless—where had that Gryffindor bravery gone? Had the Sorting Hat got it wrong? Psyching himself up through self-antagonism seemed to be working, stoking that old anger he hadn't touched in years.

Harry walked forward with his chin held high, prepared to get answers even if he didn't like them. He sat down on the barstool where the pink drink was placed.

"Well, hello, handsome, I am-!" Draco had begun in his best purr and ended up in pure shock, a clear glottal stop in his throat.

"Hello, Draco," Harry greeted him, now getting a better look at his face to confirm what he'd already known from the neck—this was his old rival. Age had done him well. He fit into that angular face a lot better now.

"Potter," Draco sputtered. "You, you're… you can't be."

"Don't you think," Harry said, hand trembling as he reached for his drink. He took the glass and brought the straw to his lips. Merlin, he was so scared, but so was Draco from how white he'd turned, and it seemed genuine. Had this truly been without scheme? Was this really their reunion? There were a few ways to find out but now Harry's blood was pumping again and he went with the most risky one because his plans were made to be foiled, as always. "You should be using my first name, after everything we've said? And no, before you ask, I didn't plan this."

"You had to have planned this," Draco immediately jumped on, further reassurance to Harry that he was actually surprised. "You—you entrapped me!" Even as he said it Draco knew that wasn't true, because what in the world would Harry Potter want to do with him? He had a fortune—discretion far more important than your means—and maybe, yes, Draco had been picturing him a little bit off that physical description he'd given—Draco had a type and didn't like to address why—but there was no way this could be possible.

"I did no such thing, Draco," Harry replied tiredly. "Why in the hell would I do that? Did you plan this?"

"Did I—of course I did not plan this! Why in the hell would I do that?" Draco was speaking empathically but keeping his voice down. He had always been so expressive, and Harry's last memory of him was as a stony-faced defendant on the stand. It had been so wrong, and it looked like that had been made right by how contorted Draco's face was now. Draco blinked a few times. His eyelashes were so long. "I…" Draco's mouth felt dry. He guzzled the pink drink and set it down clumsily. "You can't tell anyone, Potter, you simply cannot."

"Do you think I want this getting out?" Harry replied in a laugh. "I have to make you swear the same thing, too, Draco." Harry had been calling Draco by his first name in his head for a long time now in the agonizing years and therapy sessions he spent dissecting his youth—was he still 'Potter' to Draco? Maybe this was all in his head.

Draco eyed him a spell longer. Draco had always found him stupidly attractive, but beneath his attraction he noted the bags beneath Harry's eyes with some concern. He was thin, like the ad said, but on such close inspection he was bordering on unfed. Draco swallowed thickly. "I swear it, Harry. I already swore it in the letter but I will never reveal the contents of any of these interactions to any outside party."

Harry smiled because Draco had called him by his first name, and it sounded just like he remembered. So much had changed about Draco and yet so much remained the same. "And I swear it as well," he nodded. With nothing left to do he finished off his drink through the straw. It was fruity and had a tang of citrus.

"Pink Lemon Drop. Do you want another one?" Draco asked upon cocked brow. What he meant to say was 'are you still interested' as a joke, because of course Harry wasn't interested, how could he ever be?

"Yes," Harry replied, pushing the empty glass forward to alert the bartender. Draco looked surprised before, and the surprise only deepened now. Good. That was always part of their dance, to keep each other guessing. They hadn't spoken like this since they were teenagers, and Harry was out of practice but still ready to spar with words as they always had. "If you're such a man of your word then you will surely uphold your offer for bottomless drinks."

Draco's mouth opened in shock, and closed quickly. Was Potter—Harry—playing with him like they had in the schoolyard? Draco had always been too mean in his play, but it was hard expressing things back then. "Another round," Draco ordered the bartender and put down coins. This confused, aristocratic man in black turned on his barstool to stare at Harry as if deciphering a puzzle. "You know how I loathe to say this, but you are right," Draco admitted. What sort of suave man in control of the situation and yelped like he had earlier? "I have been an absolute disgrace of a host thus far. My charm school tutors would be devastated. Would you allow me the chance to earn my honor back? You Gryffindors like that, don't you?"

An unflattering snort left Harry and he turned the shade of his House. "I would allow it," Harry permitted through a rising pulse. Their drinks were delivered and Harry jumped on his, sucking down quite a bit.

"Excellent. Well, I suppose this works, I don't have to fill you in on quite a bit that I have to explain to… potentials," Draco chose that word carefully to see how Harry would react to it. Those green eyes flicked up to his and Draco's breath was thin. They were more beautiful than his memory had ever done justice on, it seemed. They were tired, and low, but framed in those glasses and all that thick dark hair Harry Potter was a face that Draco did not at all mind beholding.

"I'm sorry," Harry said first because it had been trapped in the back of his throat this whole time. It was always trapped in his mouth when he was around other survivors of the war. "About what happened in the Prefect's bathroom—"

"I know," Draco lifted his hand, a twinge of annoyance like it wasn't necessary and softening out of it. Harry hadn't thought about how it would scar. "And I am grateful for your role in getting me out of Fiendfyre and Azkaban alike, my family included." He rehearsed the timeline a lot in therapy and could at least speak about it now. That had been one of his first goals, to be able to speak about it without crying or breaking down.

"And," Draco went on and gripped his drink tighter. "I am sorry for giving you hell in school. After that… I wanted no part in it."

"I know," Harry nodded. He turned in slightly on the barstool so he could keep scanning Draco's face, trying to memorize it all over again. There were those shrewd silver eyes, and then there was that big nose of his, something Harry now reacquainted with found disturbingly charming. "We had this conversation some years ago, but I'm glad we can have it again. I disagree with you on one point, though," Harry switched up on the other man, seeing how he handled the repartee. "You do still have to fill me in on just about everything after that day. You're a Healer now."

"That I am." Draco allowed himself to smile. Of course Harry had to have heard by now. "It took a lot of work to get there, too. Some entire days are spent lancing boils and things far worse than I will mention over drinks, but now that I know it's right I could never do anything else," Draco nodded. He complained about his job because he complained about everything, so the primary thing he liked to impress upon people was that he loved it, first and foremost. Draco was not given the luxury of public complaint in his position. "It's right for me, and it's certainly right for the patients. Even if they don't really care for their Healer, he gets the job done."

Harry was absolutely floored. Who the fuck was this man sitting next to him? Talking like he was in therapy, loving his job—this was the 'D' he'd spoken to, wasn't it? The man who Draco had become, was this him? "That's—that's incredible, Draco. It's great that you have that." Harry tried not to show too much astonishment lest Draco think it because of his skill. Draco was always an advanced magic student, though he blew up when Harry or Hermione pulled ahead of him.

Draco and Harry had both been so explosive in their anger back then. Harry's had been buried away with time, and he was still looking to see where Draco's went.

"Hmm, what else? Well, there is the matter of the Manor. I demolished almost all of it and built from the ground-up anew as I described in my letters. I do it on my own what with my parents being far—don't mistake that for ingratitude, distance makes the heart grow fonder in the case of my family sometimes." Harry laughed, and Draco beamed. He found him funny, huh?

"Can I ask if they know?" Harry followed up at the mention of Lucius and Narcissa.

"'Know' as in know I'm gay or 'know' as in know I'm putting our ancient family's 'honorable' name at risk of further humiliation by doing something impulsive and scandalous?" Draco volleyed back.

"Alright, so the second is a no," Harry parried. "But the first."

"They do know. They have always known, in their way. I told them after the war that I wouldn't be taking a wife and might hopefully someday take a husband, and they adjusted expectations. Mother dealt with it best, of course, but father got there with her help, too. Do your friends know?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "I told them a little after the war, after I broke up with Ginny as to why we wouldn't be dating again. They try their best to be supportive and I don't—I don't have any other family to speak of." He finished his second drink. "We've both kept it out of the papers, though. That's impressive—I know how hard those vultures are to shake."

Draco preened a bit at Harry Potter being impressed by his subterfuge. This was certainly a nice feeling in contrast to their first meeting in that robe shop. Harry's full attention was on Draco now, and they were both more filled in as adults. "I have my ways," he cast in an attempt to be mysterious. "Now, what have you been doing since we last parted?" Draco watched as Harry's face fell a little and hoped this wasn't too much.

"I tried to be an Auror," Harry said plainly, staring at his empty glass. A third would be getting him a little too inebriated so he backed off for now. "Didn't pan out. I was a 'liability' and failed all forms of risk assessment. First fail in my life, you know. I did alright for myself in Hogwarts."

"You did," Draco recalled. "I fumed for weeks when you got into the Slug Club and neither Theo nor I did."

"Heh, maybe someday I'll tell you my ways." It really had just been cheating with Severus' book, but it had done wonders for his test scores. With a frown forming deeper on Harry's face he searched for a way to sum these past ten years up. "After that I… I just kind of tried to live." A weak summary, but an answer nonetheless. He didn't know what else to say.

Draco sensed that Harry wanted to drop it. Harry had said he wanted a change in his life in his writing, and that was enough to clue Draco in on his current levels of happiness. "What about dating?" Draco changed the subject. "Did you ever see anyone long-term?"

"No, it never got that far. Just a couple nights or a couple weekends at most." Harry was blushing again. "It got overwhelming a lot of the time, the press speculation and the people themselves—their expectations of how they thought I was before meeting me. I hate it when they put me on a pedestal."

"A pity, I think you'd look quite pretty on a pedestal," Draco snarked. A wicked smile came to the corner of Draco's lips. He hadn't known Harry disliked the fame to this extent.

"What about you? You date much?" Harry followed up, shying slightly under Draco's gaze when it turned hungry. Had he really just called him pretty? "I imagine you do."

"And what exactly are you implying there, hm?" Draco teased but moved on. "Where your problem is hero worship I have the exact inverse," Draco reminded him flatly. "But sometimes I find someone of a greyer morality and we last a few months." Draco cleared his throat. "You imagine me, hm? And how often does that happen?" he continued the teasing. "Though I'm no stranger to dates, this is my first time contacting someone through Safeword."

"Me too," Harry replied fast, excited that they had that in common. "You're the only one I replied to."

"I assume you got a small mountain of messages?"

"Yeah," Harry laughed as he remembered himself stewing in his room over this. It seemed a world away in this colorful bar. Here in this larger-than-life space he was having a more-than-civil conversation with Draco Malfoy, maybe even a flirtatious one. "A lot of them didn't even sound like they read my words, but I knew you did." Harry pivoted further to face him. "Draco?"

"Yes, Harry?" he replied, breathless. Why was it so hot in here when nobody was even on the dancefloor?

"When did you know you wanted to be a Dominant?" Harry asked in his smallest voice. He was curious but cautious.

Draco licked his lips and considered the question. "I always knew I wanted to be in control, in charge. I think you saw me at my worst in that respect." Draco couldn't deny he'd always desired power over Harry especially, and was indeed worse in severity the closer Harry was in earshot for many years. "And then," Draco pressed on even though his heart was beating faster at the thought of admitting this. "You saw me lose it. All of it. I had no say in what I was to do with my life once it was forfeit to The Dark Lord." Draco swallowed and when he next spoke his tone was brighter. "I know I've done the messy business of apologizing, but have I ever thanked you?"

"Huh?" Harry asked, caught off-guard.

"If you had lost, my life would look a lot different right now. I'd be forcibly married to some woman I despised, and we'd be under constant pressure to have children to fuel the 'new world order'. I'd be working at the Ministry or somewhere equally loathsome, watching sad little men find new ways to torture muggles with magic." Draco realized how morbid that all was and blinked, trying to figure out how he got here in his rambling. "But, hey, it's not like you ended the war to save me. Being a Dominant, sorry…" Draco adjusted his suit jacket.

Harry tried to imagine Draco with a wife and children and almost laughed aloud at the thought. "You're welcome," Harry said, smiling even though it was such a dark thing to find funny because it would have clearly made him miserable.

Draco gave him a wry look. "Yes, well, do try not to die again over it. Anyway, where was I…? Yes, being a Dominant. I had always had fantasies. Dreams, waking and sleeping." He'd had more than a few about Harry when they were both teenagers and the urge to touch himself had been incontrollable some days. All of those hormone-riddled Slytherin kids in one dorm, what were the Hogwarts founders thinking? "Acting on them when I found myself with a willing partner had me hooked, though. I started attending BDSM parties, and getting into the literature on it."

"Like the magazine," Harry said. He didn't even know such parties existed outside of fiction with how limited his social life had been as an adult.

"Yes, I've been subscribed for their erotic story section and photography for some time now," Draco nodded fondly, now knowing that Harry saw the same things and had approved enough to place an ad in Safeword. Draco perversely wondered what he thought of the issue it had been published in, the Shibari Rope special. Had he seen the foldout of the man bound to a mattress? "It's not so different from being a Healer, really. I have to use my Dom voice with patients all the time when they get fussy."

Harry laughed at that, one of many bright laughs to escape him this evening. Maybe it was just the drinks, but it felt easy to laugh right now. "Really? I wouldn't have expected that. I suppose you are providing care and what's best for them, even if they don't always like it."

"Exactly," Draco chirped. "People usually know what they want, but not what they need or how to get there. That, and there's something achingly beautiful about a man in pain because he's chosen to be for a purpose, don't you think?" Draco watched Harry swallow thickly with some pride. "Now, it is only fair I ask you in return of your role," he happily flipped on Harry.

The man squirmed on his barstool. "Well," Harry started. "I fantasized, too. I was too young to understand why I wanted certain things, but as I got older I got the language to describe it. I like it, the idea of someone who I trust completely making decisions for me sometimes. Knowing exactly what to do is nice, too. Sometimes I feel like the fact that I have all the options in the world just paralyzes me more."

Draco leaned his head in closer as he listened, unaware that he was doing so.

"I was never taught what sex was," Harry laughed sharply because saying that out loud made him feel pathetic. "I mean, they didn't teach it at Hogwarts and my Aunt and Uncle refused to tell me anything. I had to get tidbits from everyone else and try to put together this picture for myself." Harry's hands fidgeted. They wanted to go up to his hair and tug, but he fought the urge. "And I know what it is now, obviously," he followed up quickly.

"Of course," Draco nodded, keeping in little snickers about how red Harry's face had turned again.

"Well, summer between fourth and fifth year I was really sick of being out of the loop. I snuck into the adult attic section of a bookstore I had to take two buses to get to. I spent three hours alone up there before the shopkeep found me and tossed me out, but that was more than enough time to read. They didn't have much gay stuff, but they had a lot, and I mean a lot of book covers with women in lingerie tied to beds and I, uh." Two drinks and Harry was already telling this story? He'd never told this to anyone, and had thought it would remain that way forever. "I looked at them for a long time. I was fascinated, because I was starting to gather that I wasn't attracted to women, so why these covers? The, uh, content was pretty nice, too."

Draco Malfoy could hardly believe his ears. Was Harry Potter really here sitting next to him at this bar waxing poetic about his sexual awakening? He didn't dare interrupt him, wanting to hear every gory detail.

"They were so pretty I couldn't look away. Lace, and dresses, and silk sheets… It bothered me for a long time until I realized I didn't want to be with those women," Harry recalled. "I wanted to be them." He looked away from Draco as he said this, deeply embarrassed but for some reason still going. It wasn't like he could talk to his therapist about this, or his friends, or anyone, really, and saying it out loud was becoming addictive. It was thrilling finally voicing this the unsung ballad of Harry Potter's Submission. Harry worried this high in what had been years of lows would be cut off if he stopped talking, so he kept going. "And I wanted to be with the men they were with, these idealized, caring men who showered them in clothes and exotic dates and… punishments."

"You wanted a Daddy," Draco replied knowingly. "A true one."

Harry's eyes flicked back up to Draco's. He certainly looked the part in that black suit, almost like the sort he'd worn through sixth year. Fuck, Harry had been so distracted by that. "Yes," he said in a near-whisper as he turned his face away again. "One who's fair, but firm."

"Kind and cruel," Draco recalled of Harry's ad. The alcohol was warm in his stomach. "'Seeking empathy and torture.'"

"Yes," he fully whispered this time, almost too quietly to be heard over the music.

"Harry?"

"Yes?" Harry looked back up to Draco expectantly, immediately internally rebuking himself for looking so dopey.

Harry's eyes all wet and wide like this did something to Draco. This man, if he didn't have their history, then Draco would be falling over himself right now because he was bloody perfect. Submissive, sharp, raw and unaffected—this was what Draco had been looking for.

But it was Harry, Harry fucking Potter, who would never want him like that.

The two drinks came in handy when attempting something he was sure to end in failure, and so Draco Malfoy proceeded to say something very stupid. "We've come to a point where I must admit something. You are an attractive man, and if you keep speaking so wantonly in want of a guiding hand I might get ideas." Foolish ideas, like to make a move on The Boy Who Lived because he sure as shit wasn't lying when he said Harry would look pretty on a pedestal.

Harry gaped. "You think I'm attractive?"

Draco had not been expecting that response. He'd been expecting a drink thrown at him, or maybe the whole glass and a few hexes for good measure. "What? Well, of course I think you're attractive. How bad is your eyesight, exactly? Have you ever seen yourself in a mirror, or…?"

A barked laugh left Harry's throat, leaving him even more embarrassed than his current level of flustered. "I mean, wow, I just… I just never thought that you could think of me like that," he replied sheepishly. Oh, Merlin, was he fucking this up? Draco was giving him an opportunity and he was fucking it up.

"So you're not just blind, you're oblivious, too," Draco observed with a strange fondness to his tone. "You're a funny one."

Harry's heart pounded. Was being a 'funny one' a good thing? Draco couldn't be pulling his leg at this point, he couldn't be—this was a huge level of commitment for a joke, and it was the kind Draco now seemed too mature to pull. There were many statements competing to leave Harry's mouth but he started out with a simple one. "I've always thought that about you. That you were, and are… really gorgeous." It was almost painful looking at his beauty sometimes, and he'd spent an awful long time looking at it when stalking Draco through the castle.

Fuck. Not just handsome, or attractive, but really gorgeous. Was Harry trying to kill him? Draco couldn't breathe when he talked like that. "Well, thank you." Draco knew that on an intellectual level he was handsome, but hearing it from Harry Potter's two pink lips was a different thing altogether. Would those lips still taste like pink lemonade if Draco leaned in to check? "You're giving me ideas, Harry, I mean it," Draco warned again, this time more tenuously.

"Maybe I want to give you ideas," Harry replied instinctually, giving himself no time to think of whether it was wise or not.

The corners of Draco's lips tugged up. "You're foxed," he decided. Harry was likely a lightweight from lack of experience and his size.

"No, I'm not," Harry said, voice steadier than it had been before for all the effort he put forth. "Ask me again in two hours if you don't believe me."

"Ha. And what will we be doing for the next two hours, then?" Draco joked rhetorically, his defensive humor coming from utter disbelief that this wasn't a dream. There was no way Harry Potter was asking for what he thought he was asking for.

That smug, full-of-himself look on Draco's face made Harry's passion flare, now knowing it wasn't just anger he felt when he looked at Draco's neck. It was fire reignited from proximity to this prissy, beautiful bastard. "Aren't you meant to be the one that's supposed to choose that? Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying?" Harry teased, getting immense satisfaction from seeing Draco's face go deep with blush this time.

"You can't mean that." Draco shook his head, leaning back. "I have been listening—you want someone you trust."

"I trust you're being honest with me right now," Harry pushed on. "That's a start. I think I can trust you with two hours out on the town from how you always said I could say 'no' in your letters." Also, from those parties that Draco had mentioned earlier it sure seemed he had the better grip on nightlife of the two of them. Harry's curiosity was piqued.

Draco nodded, the ideas Harry had given him now given free rein to run wild. "You can always say no with me, I meant that. Or better yet—have you given any thought to what you would like to have your safeword be?" Draco inquired. "If you are really doing this, I always leave it to my submissive to choose."

A shiver ran up Harry's spine to hear Draco call him that. His submissive, what a mad and brilliant thought. "I haven't thought about it much," Harry admitted, biting his lower lip as he considered it. "How about… Snitch?"

"That works perfectly," Draco said, feeling oddly proud that he'd gotten that out of Harry. "And when do my two hours start?"

Harry pulled out his phone and showed Draco the screen: 6:13. "Right now," he served up as his final challenge to Draco.

"Then we haven't a moment to waste." Draco stood and straightened his collar, offering an arm for Harry to grab onto. "Shall we?"