HD The French Connection Part 6
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Pity about not managing the rhinos as well, old chap, but I suppose the gorillas will have to do, at least for the 'cavorting' bit. Never did quite understand where the old blighter was going with that requirement, but that's geniuses for you: bleeding inscrutable, right? Haha! In any event, Versailles is next on your agenda; the Fontaine de Flora should be your final destination! Be sure to be present during the Grandes Eaux, as per instructions. Meanwhile, enjoy the TGV, and please do take notes on your overall experience for my Muggle Transport Trial Experience Record files [MUTTER]. They do say it's just the same as flying a broom. May I also say we're all very pleased you've met up with young Harry Potter? Fortunate coincidence, that. Do send Molly's love on to him and tell him to Floo the Burrow more often and not to be an absolute stranger. We miss that boy. And good fortune smile upon you, Draco. Here's hoping the transfer of goods will be successful! Best regards, Arthur Weasley.
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Draco sneered. He sneered at the yellow Muggle telegram, mysteriously delivered en route; he sneered at his luggage, which was inexplicably scuffed and stained, even though he'd been most careful not to mar its finish. He sneered at his kneecaps and the endlessly uninteresting Muggle novel that rested atop them, and he sneered at the blur of trees, fields, hamlets, towns and motorways zipping past his window. He sneered at his pocket, wherein rested the source of his current misery.
He sneered because he missed Potter's company, not even two hours on, and because he'd not now have the opportunity for more of it. No doubt, things would be just as usual, once he returned to the F.O. He'd glimpse Potter only very occasionally, and Potter's mates would always be in flanking positions, and Potter himself wouldn't bother with seeking out Draco. He'd missed his chance, and now it was far too late to do anything constructive about it…all because he had to protect the damned Boy Wonder.
Pah!
Draco resumed sneering; to be honest, he'd not ceased for a second.
A half-hour later, he'd gathered himself together, at least enough to plot a sensible course of action.
The TGV Atlantic 8314 would only require two hours overall to deliver him to Paris, arriving at Montparnasse station in the late afternoon. He'd book into a room somewhere and, with luck, he could make his way to Versailles the next day via hired car and stand about by this bloody Flora fountain until something good finally happened; i.e. Screwbik the Inscrutable would fetch his bloody arse up and take away his horrid, evil, Magic-murdering device. And then Draco could snag an international Portkey back to London, same as a civilised Wizard, and then propel his weary bum back to his very nice flat in Belgravia, and fall into his very nice safe bed for a well-earned rest , far, far away from assorted sodding Prussian madmen and stray Potters in passing. Or he'd take a Muggle aeroplane, if he'd been Squibbed in the meantime and simply wasn't aware of it yet. And then return to the Manor and sob all over his mother's comforting shoulder.
But that was for later.
Draco sighed heavily, watching the world whiz by, and returned with a will to his habitual sneering. Bah! Life sucked!
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A consult with the concierges of the SNCF left Draco in the possession of several key facts: one, he should bunk at L'hôtel Montparnasse Rive Gauche, which was quite close to Montparnasse station, and then take a local rail connection to le château de Versailles from there. Hiring a car or taxi would be murderously dear, not to mention wearing on his already overstrained nerves. Two, he should have another (lengthy) bath as soon as he booked in, as gorilla defecation was evidently a long-lingering odour and there'd been several complaints from the fellow travellers in his compartment. Three, he was effectively at a standstill in Paris till the weekend, due to the weekend-only scheduling of the Grandes Eaux during Low Season, and finally, there'd be no easy out for one Draco Malfoy, Junior Attaché, no matter how he might wish for it.
Fumbling out his remaining store of flimsy paper Euros, Draco was able to secure his hotel room at the Rive Gauche through Sunday morning; however, that was when he discovered the other singular effect of Screwbik's monstrous little Cube: it rendered Muggle plastic cards entirely unusable. Wiped 'em ruddy clean as a whistle of all their Mugglish data. Not only did it Dampen Wizards, it also Dampened Muggle magnetic strips. Draco, standing forlornly before an ATM in the lobby, juggling the tiny scrap of parchment with his PIN number on it, had this effect demonstrated for him, after repeated fruitless attempts at coaxing yet more of those weird Euro notes from the recalcitrant machine.
"Card Error: Unreadable', the first written communiqué informed him dryly. "Card Error: Invalid' the second reported, not mincing its words, and the third missive nearly had Draco weeping in the lobby: 'Card Error: Card Damaged Irreversibly. Contact your financial institution.'
" Je suis désolée, M'sieur," the concierge stationed at the check-in clucked and then went on to advise him, when he showed her the slips of paper, seeking enlightenment. "You are, as they say, stranded. Have you no cell phone?"
No, Draco had no cell phone, and now he knew why: the Dampener wouldn't allow it to function, any more than it tolerated Muggle credit cards!
"May I borrow yours, then?" he wheedled, and for a small fee he was advised that was indeed possible - and then it struck him. He'd absolutely no clue how to contact the Ministry via Muggle means!
Effing brill! Draco swore silently. Stuck in Muggle Paris with no Muggle money, no magic and no means of communicating with his superiors! He'd fucking starve to death, Draco fretted, and spared a passing regret to the sheer volume of Euros he'd pressed upon Henri, back in dear, old, quaint Trouville.
How in Merlin's Bloody Bollocks was he to pay for his rail pass to Versailles on Saturday? Worse than that, how was he to eat in the interim? It was only fucking Thursday!
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To: Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt
Status: For Your Eyes Only
Dossier Document (Shred or Incendio after)
Draco Malfoy, according to Mr. Potter, is a versatile and highly intelligent Wizard. He is capable, able, adaptable and quick-thinking. He seldom allows events to prevent him from achieving his goals, despite indications of presenting a volatile personality. This last, of course, refers to his particularly strong emotional response to Mr. Potter. Nonetheless, Mr. Potter himself has recommended young Malfoy highly for a position in the M13, primarily due to these sterling traits of character, as Mr. Potter has expressed the strong opinion that Mr. Malfoy is quite capable of resolving unexpected issues on his own, with very little guidance necessary. 'Draco may be a prat of the first order and flighty as one of Luna's blasted Nifflers, but he's still rock-solid," Mr. Potter has stated in a recent interview, "when it comes down to the wire. I'd trust him with my life." This, Mr. Potter asserts, is supremely necessary for a covert agent, who may find him- or her-self in hostile territory, facing Dark Wizards/Witches at an extreme disadvantage and thus, in dire need of a dash of creativity to resolve apparently irresolvable difficulties. Mr. Potter, please note, had also expressed a sincere interest in partnering with Mr. Malfoy, should he pass the entry exam for admittance to the M13. That last, in itself, fairly well clinches Mr. Malfoy's potential career-change and acceptance into the Secret Service training programme. Mr. Potter is known for his unerring instincts regarding character, as the entire British Wizarding community will attest.
To date, discreet observations of Mr. Malfoy continue. He is presently assigned the task of returning Mr. Chomondley Screwbik's device to him, and has proceeded thus far successfully. The Muggles he has come in contact with have reported only that he is somewhat odd and quirky, with a marked tendency to spend Euros as if they were water; they do not suspect at all that he is a Wizard, ferrying a dangerous Magical Object about his person. Further, he has gone out of his way to avoid contact with the Wizarding community as a whole and has even engineered a fairly polite parting of ways with Mr. Potter, under some personal duress. We have every faith Mr. Malfoy will deliver the device to Mr. Screwbik unharmed and without endangering any other Magical Being.
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Draco had arrived in Montparnasse a little after two in the afternoon; his unfortunate discovery of his state of dire poverty occurred shortly thereafter. Head spinning, he traipsed off to his bespoke (and thankfully paid up) suite, toting his bloody school Muggle trunk-on-wheels behind him, all the while very leery of having to tip the officious bellhop who kept trying to take it from him.
One long and luxurious soaking bath, one small baguette, a half-bottle of cheap red table wine, a hunk of sharp cheese (all procured from the tiny café tucked 'round one of the many corners) and a frantic sort through his luggage later, Draco arrived at a possible solution. His actual luggage (which rolled, zipped, compressed, expanded, boasted numerous doodads and what's-its, and was featured in the Muggle men's magazines as being quite the premium of brands) was worth a fair amount of Euros on the open market. The Ministry had not stinted in his clothing or accoutrements, either. He was possessed of a leather billfold, a card case (empty), several belts, numerous pairs of Italian hand-made shoes, a sizeable chunk of Armani sport-and-leisure clothing from the most recent Spring Men's collection, and various ties, not to mention miscellaneous jewellery, such as cufflinks, clips and so forth, all contained in a smaller travelling case made of glove-soft calfskin. All of this, Draco determined, was saleable.
He set his chin, gritted his teeth and prepared to go Muggle!
An hour later found him on the Rue de la Gaîté, a combination ongoing street fair, open-air market and second-hand shop. Arrayed in the only pair of Muggle denims included other than the hideous ones he'd worn his first day (these new ones were a weathered charcoal in hue and quite tight about the arse, but far more comfortable), a classically simple Muggle-style white T-shirt which had likely cost the Ministry at least thirty Galleons, black Yankee-style Converse All Star high-top trainers (took him ruddy ages, doing up the laces), a dashing lime-green cashmere beret and scarf set, and lastly, a black leather bomber jacket against the chill of the evening, Draco proceeded to hawk his fashionable wares to the late afternoon browsers.
Had he wished, he could've sold himself, along with his possessions, ten times over. Evidently, Parisians of both sexes preferred long, cool blonds with haughty attitudes and distinctively English accents, all national enmity aside. Charisma was still an attractive attribute, and Draco had that, in buckets and spades.
"Non, non!" Draco repeated severely for the umpteenth time. "Take your grubby little paws off me, M'sieur!" He was not up for grabs; his luggage was! "Mademoiselle, I must insist! The denims are not for purchase! Nothing I'm actually wearing is! May I interest you in this lovely silk-weave jersey, instead?"
The close of the day left him, if not exactly rolling, but certainly more flush than he'd been hours earlier. Draco went off to his lonely bed in his Rive Gauche suite quite self-satisfied and much less famished, but then proceeded to toss and turn all night to steamy fantastical dreams of Potter purchasing him.
…And stripping him bare-arse naked, and shagging him silly, and…well.
Fucking Dampener. Sodding Screwbik!
Friday morning found Draco wandering the Musèe D'Orsay, marking time as a Muggle tourist. He strolled for hours, admiring the Art Nouveau and Deco masterpieces and the building itself, which was undeniably gorgeous. There were pieces of furniture on display that had him drooling over their curvaceous, flowing lines; bronze sculptures and sconces that left him dying to stroke their patinas, and the most stunningly lovely Pre-Raphaelite images of rather lovely Muggles all done up in oils and tempera, stained glass and other mediums, all of which taken together delivered Draco into a new appreciation of the state of the inner Muggle.
Emerging dazed and quite a bit more pleased with his lot in life into a lovely early spring afternoon, he was instantly commandeered into a pick-up game of bocce ball ('pétanque', they called it) by a gang of old men. The elderly participants took to him like ducks to water. Many of them were retired executives and professionals (just Draco's sort of Muggle) and Draco had an enjoyable time racking up some well-placed acquaintanceships and adding names of future confreres to his little black book of potential political informants. Muggle diplomacy had become quite as important as Wizarding, as his co-workers and superiors back at the Ministry insisted on informing him. Now, at last, he'd have a leg up on the smarmy Ravenclaws who'd made his Very Junior status at the F.O. so difficult.
Regretfully, he made his excuses and, by the fall of early dusk, had fetched up at a small bistro in the middle of Le Marais, drowning his sorrows in yet another inexpensive house vintage and eying the predominantly male patrons with some small amount of trepidation. It'd been some time since he'd pulled a Muggle, but another night like the previous was not an option. His fecking balls were as blue as his mum's prized roses - even after two proper morning wanks, one still abed and one in the loo, under the shower spray!
'Course, he'd rubbed them both out over ever-more-lurid fantasies of Potter, but that was only to be expected.
Draco shifted his arse on the wrought-iron café seat he was lounging in and huffed, his grey eyes roving speculatively. Needs must, as the Muggles said. Draco must, or so he'd acknowledged to himself ruefully at four in the sodding morning, and here he was, at the Open Café, Rue des Archives, in the epicenter of la Ville Lumière's gay district, contemplating his undeniable needs.
What he really needed had likely already forgotten about their coincidental meeting. Or, if Potter did recall, it was likely with some disgust. Draco really had been rather odiferously fragrant when they'd parted. He sincerely hoped that arsehole Screwbik appreciated his continued personal sacrifices.
Across the room, however, there was this one brunet Draco noticed repeatedly out of the corner of his eye; couldn't help himself, really: a lithe, trim gentleman clad in a tight burgundy silk jersey, and one who boasted a beautiful back and nape and—Merlin's Beard!—sooty curls brushing golden skin; both just exactly the same shade as Potter's. Draco drew in a sharp breath and sat up, wondering if the man was already claimed for the evening. If the chap would only turn his head, Draco thought, he'd know whether the man lived up to the promise of his supple spine and Potter-hair. Draco's preferred choice of eye colour in his shags (a certain shade of toad-green one didn't stumble across often) was immaterial at this point. He was bloody desperate, after spending all that time trapped in a sports car with Potter. And a hotel suite. And a train car.
Not to mention Hogwarts, but Draco wasn't prepared to dwell on ancient history. Not at the moment, at least.
Another, larger man hove into view and the burgundy-jerseyed honey-pot glanced up at him and must've have smiled most welcomingly, Draco concluded, because the second man (a bodybuilder type, Draco sneered, turning away automatically) promptly took the other seat at Burgundy-Jersey's table.
With a sigh, Draco wearily eyed the also-rans; those that were still gamely swimming, as it were, in search of the right hook-up. Perhaps one of those, then…
"Hullo, Malfoy."
Speak of the bloody, fucking Devil!
"How's it hanging? Still left of centre?" Potter inquired casually, and did his popping-into-existence act before Draco could complete either his gasp of disbelief or his generous slurp of Merlot. He promptly swallowed his wine down the wrong pipe and fell into a raucous coughing fit.
"What-wha-wah!" he hacked, nearly tipping over his wine glass. A few of the other patrons sent him sideways glares, apparently for attempting to shed himself of a lung in public. "Hoo! Po-Potter!"
"Yes, Draco. Potter," Harry replied, entirely calm in the face of a bug-eyed Malfoy, and blandly cheery, besides. Also, seemingly not all surprised to come across his old school rival smack in the middle of well-known gay bar at the heart of Paris. "That would be me."
"Po-Po-Potter!"
The Dampener thudded warningly against his ribs as Potter kindly patted Draco's back. Draco went pale, then red as fire, and then wan again, and none of it had to the slightest thing to do with the alcohol singeing down his windpipe or the fact he couldn't catch his breath. This was not at all what he needed shoved onto his proverbial plate. Not when he was just one short day from completing his first foreign mission!
"Go away, Potter!" he ordered shortly, just as he had after La Palmyre's little Zoo incident, and as soon as he'd gathered sufficient breath to do so. Draco would've liked to tell Potter to sod off for good measure, but he really couldn't afford to burn all his bridges, and certainly not with Potter.
"I've my eye on someone and I was just about to ... wait!" he exclaimed, fully processing the wine-coloured woolen weave Potter was wearing.
Gods, but what a very fit chest Potter owned, in addition to his lovely back and wide shoulders. It wasn't fair, Draco fumed… and it must be another of those lousy 'Card-read' errors. It certainly didn't compute. Potter, as far as Draco was aware of, didn't bother much with dating…though perhaps he was simply amazingly discreet about it. But at least not since that media debacle with the youngest Weasley, so far as Draco knew. Whatever! Draco was fairly certain Potter didn't date men, as there'd never been slightest scrap of evidence for it. He'd know if there was, if anyone did, given his extensive collection of clippings.
"What in the name of Salazar's serpentine willy are you doing here, Potter? You do know this is Le Marais, don't you?"
Le Marais was a district known for its homosexual flavour, true enough. Draco had been a few times, here and there, and mostly during his university days, though he hadn't made a habit of it, even then. Had to keep a low profile and be circumspect, after all, being a Malfoy, and that was all the more true after he'd landed his post in the F.O. The Ministry frowned on its Junior Attachés visibly gadding about with Gay Parisians and partaking in absinthe orgies and the 'high life', whatever that was.
Draco wouldn't know; his goal had been to be considered as blameless as possible.
His goal was still to be as blameless as possible. Ergo, Potter must. Go, that was.
Potter ceased his irksome noxious patting and promptly claimed the other chair at Draco's intimate built-for-two (or maybe a very cozy threesome) table.
"Share your wine with me, Draco?" he asked, and didn't bother to wait for a reply, pouring himself a glass and topping up the half-full one Draco was still absentmindedly clutching.
"But—but—but, since when are you—?" Draco began, still in the midst of frenetically sorting. "I mean, really, Potter. Are you sure you know where you are?"
Potter grinned at him, with a hint of that old Hogwarts challenge sparkling in his currently emerald-green eyes, and ran a hand through his shaggy but quite seriously sexy midnight coif.
"Of course I do, Draco. And call me Harry, please. I think we're sufficiently acquainted." He took a sip of his wine and regarded Draco through suddenly narrowed, assessing eyes, propping his chin on his fist. "Or we certainly should be, by now. How many years has it been, Draco?"
"Thirteen," Draco replied promptly, not even stopping to think about it. "Almost fourteen, really, since it's March already. More than half my life. And yours, prat."
"Fancy that," Potter smirked. Draco found that mannerism startlingly charming and then had to suppress his findings quite deeply, as the Dampener was round and hard in his leather jacket and Potter was a bloody Wizard. The Wizard, in fact. Oh, Merlin's Bloody Bollocks!
"See here, Potter," he started grimly, back on track once more, "I really do have to ask you to go. I—I'm waiting for someone—someone special."
"You aren't," Potter stuck in instantly, his gaze segueing to slits of malachite intensity, "so don't lie, Draco. And if you were, it was me. I saw the way you've been looking at me. Plus, you wanked yourself blind in my hotel room loo in Royan. Don't tell me you're not attracted." He opened those eyes of his wide then and Draco was cast adrift on a sea of teal green.
He choked on his ruddy house swill for a second time. Or perhaps just on the air he'd ceased breathing. There was really no help for it. He had been doing exactly that— waiting for Potter—for nearly fourteen years now (as Potter had been just so kind as to remind him) and here was Potter right now, this very moment, smiling like sex incarnate. Smiling at Draco, with a golden-flecked warmth in his snapping gaze that was very...very...entrancing.
"Steady on," Potter said, reaching across the microscopic table to whack Draco across the spine again when he began hyperventilating. "Don't want you incapacitated, git. I've great plans for you this evening."
"P-P-Plans?" Draco stuttered, and that was ridiculous in and of itself, as he never stuttered, and here was Potter, forcing him to. "What sort of plans, Potter?"
"Well," Potter drawled, and filled Draco's glass again to the brim. "Er, let's say...we should make our 'knowing one another' a great deal more Biblical. Like that."
"'Biblical'?" Draco drank deeply, hardly aware of what he was doing. His head was starting to spin and Potter's smirk—smile—grin—was intoxicating. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Potter replied, "that you're inviting me back to the Rive Gauche for a nightcap, Draco, and you may order breakfast for two from Room Service whilst you're about it." He drained his glass dry, rising as he did so, and Draco's eyes were caught and stuck fast to the line of Potter's gloriously lean throat, swallowing.
It didn't need a ruff or collar to be fucking gorgeous, Potter's throat; it just was.
"Nghh," Draco replied succinctly, and rose as well, in response to the insistent tug on his elbow. He reeled a bit as he came to his crepe-soles, amazed at himself for doing so, as he usually had an excellent head for his liquor. "Alright, but—" he replied, barely aware of what he was agreeing to, but knowing he'd kick himself black-and-blue if he didn't.
Fourteen fucking years was more than long enough to wait for what one had always, always wanted. Wasn't it?
"I," he said. "But—oh!" he gabbled, blinking rapidly as his surroundings blurred a bit. When had the ground tilted?
"But, Draco," Potter interrupted him, throwing a small pile of Euros on the table, "nothing. Drink up and let's make tracks, shall we? We'll just make our connection if we hurry."
That damned Potter, Draco thought, always so—so arrogant! And valiantly attempted to lash up a proper fury whilst he thought it—so stubborn, so hard-headed! Just like a hippogriff in a scrying glass shop, prancing in roughshod and tipping all the fragile vessels right off their tripods!
"Now, hold up, Potter!" he sputtered, but Potter cut him off most effectively this time—by snogging him stupid, right there in the middle of the café. The interlude of spit exchange only heightened Draco's fear for Potter 's sake. "I can't—I mean I mustn't—you simply don't under—!"
And then Potter was snogging him for an endlessly lovely eon, and waltzing him right out the entryway, and he was pressed right up against the dirty brick wall outside the café, having arrived there magically somehow, and much to the not-so-suppressed amusement of snickering passers-by and onlookers. They earned a few catcalls and even an 'Oooh-la-la!"
Except of course not magically. There was the—the…there was that thing Draco had to deliver. No, actually, Draco's needs informed him sternly, there was Potter. Right here, right now: Potter.
"Mmphh!" Draco remarked, after a moment or two, not in the slightest bit interested in their surroundings any more. "Gra-phufffle! Po!" he added, happily, stupidly, and caught Potter's handsome face between his palms, simply to allow him to rub the tips of their noses together—a gloriously soppy something he'd always wanted to do, instead of the usual breaking and/or kicking and punching activities of their long-ago pasts. "Mmmm, Harry. You're bloody fucking hot, you know that? I could eat you right up."
"See what I mean, Draco?" Harry asked, a dark eyebrow rising in a merry fashion, and he deftly caught hold of Draco's perspiring hand to lead him off to the nearby Metro entrance. "Our acquaintance cries out to be deepened—exponentially. Don't you agree?"
"Um," Draco nodded, rendered happily quiescent as they stumbled down the Metro stairwell. Need, his logical brain pronounced. Must, advised his throbbing chest…er, groin. "Point," he said aloud, nodding vigorously.
"Brilliant," Potter nodded meaningfully, "that's settled, then. Come here, prat."
Draco almost fell through the commuter train's hissing entry doors, he came so willingly—and wordlessly, unless one took into account the small 'meeps!' and groans they both emitted, their mouths fully occupied with something much more worthwhile than mere conversation. They snogged all the way back to the Rive Gauche, all through the endlessly eternal lift ride and all through the entire frustrating process of Draco's fumbling his unDampened Muggle keycard into the suite's door locking mechanism. He'd thoughtfully kept that safe in his Hi-Top.
"Wait!" he gasped at last, recalling his mission for MACARONI just as they burst through the minute entryway, still pressed together like insects to magical flypaper. "Just—just hang on, Harry! One moment, if you would!"
"You have lube in there, Draco?" Harry called out, as Draco bolted for the lav, frantic to ditch the Dampener and get back to Harry—because it was Harry now, and not Potter. "Bring all of it—or would you rather just shower together?" he added provocatively, as Draco shimmied his narrow hips out of his tight jeans and tore off his jacket and T-shirt. "I'll bathe with you, Draco. Sounds rather nice, that...all wet and soapy and steamy-hot...with you."
"Oh—ah, er," Draco yelped faintly, distracted, busy with wrapping up the Dampener's red-and-white Muggle ball in every single towel available.
"Gods!" He stuffed the bundle containing it into the tub, and swished the curtain shut, nearly scraping his rigid cock raw on the edge of the thick plastic, and then stuffed the lav's bath rug and his own discarded clothes on top of the haphazard pile. If he remembered correctly, the Cube was limited-range; twenty paces or so, and could be itself Dampened.
"Please work, please work, please!" he muttered at the makeshift muffling device, and prayed to Merlin, Morgana, Salazar and every other major magical personage that his eidetic memory was correct, because now he'd finally tasted Potter's—Harry's—mouth, he was fucking dying without it. "A moment, Potter—just coming!" he called out, checking his teeth for stray spinach bits, even though he'd not had any with his dinner. "I mean, Harry—I'm almost finished up in here, I swear!"
"I sincerely hope not, Draco," Potter's voice replied, very close by and full of chuckle, and the doorknob rattled. "I wanted you to wait for me."
Draco shivered at the throaty laughter that reached him even though the door, relishing it as he slapped on cologne, brushed his teeth in three seconds flat and frantically smoothed his mussed hair. Harry Potter laughing and joking about comfortably in his bedroom…well, his rented bedroom, wasn't something he'd ever seriously believed he'd have the opportunity to experience. It was gratifying, that sound. More than that.
Grabbing the tube of Muggle lube the Muggle hoteliers thoughtfully provided, as well as a few of the complimentary foil-wrapped packets of sheaths to be on the safe side, Draco slammed back out of the loo at record pace, not forgetting to lock it securely behind him. It was a makeshift solution at best, barricading the damnable Dampener in the bathtub, and Merlin help them if either of them had to urinate anytime soon, but nothing—nothing—was getting in the way of this historic shag!
Not when he'd been waiting fourteen years for it—no! All his damned life!
"Harry!"
Dropping his acquisitions on the nearby king-sized bed, he snagged Harry by the shoulders and spun him into the wall.
"Oh, Merlin, Harry," Draco moaned, overcome by just the exactly proper shade of toad-green eyeballs, and threw himself right back into the most serious business of snogging.
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