Harry slides into wakefulness with a half-smile on his face and a comfortable lethargy in his bones. He stretches his arms over his head, relishing the tender pull of muscles and tendons as they unfurl, burning off the heavy fog of sleep. His eyes flutter open to take in the draped fabrics of the overhead canopy. He has to admit, this sort of luxury is something he can get used to. There's no alarm, nothing pressing, nothing that requires his immediate attention. No Ministry to rush off to, no Ron or Hermione calling from the Floo, demanding to know why he's still in bed at—he casts a quick Tempus—ten a.m. on a Thursday.
Suddenly, the canopy makes sense and he remembers Narcissa and Draco. He's late for breakfast.
A twinge of guilt touches over his nerves, but he doesn't really think Narcissa will take offense. Draco, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. He doesn't dwell on why that particular thought is both amusing and unsettling. Harry simply pushes back the covers and decides to head for the shower. His feet hit the floor but he stops, gripped with that same grounding feeling from last night.
For some reason his eyes glance back to the enormous bed.
The looming four-poster with its wide and downy-soft mattress is still inviting even though it's no longer fastidiously made. A pleasant hum vibrates through Harry as he stares at the bed sheets. They're a rich blue, swirling and inky as twilight, and the hum of magic strengthens as he imagines them outlining the shape of another body. Pale, creamy limbs contrast with the dark, buttery silk as they drape over the curves and angles of a lithe male form.
It's Draco.
Deep in slumber, the expanse of his chest rises and falls with soft, slow breaths, and his plush, pink lips are slightly parted. He is peaceful, quiet in languorous sleep, and so beautiful that Harry's breath evaporates. Unfettered by the slick gels from their Hogwarts days, his platinum hair looks soft as corn silk as it spreads out across the pillow. Harry's fingers curl by his side with the urge to touch and keep touching. His body is lax and half-twisted among the sheets, and there's enough skin peeking out to make Harry's pupils dilate, widening to soak in as much of the sight as possible. He sleeps with the heavy repose of the sated and utterly satisfied, spent for all the best reasons, like Harry's completely fucked him out.
Harry's cock jumps at the thought.
Harry imagines those long lashes fluttering so sweetly, slowly opening to pin him down with those piercing gray eyes. He imagines a hand, long-fingered and adept, one that knows how to touch, to please, reaching out in question.
He lurches toward the bed when the hum of magic snaps in his blood, making him brace a hand on the mattress to keep from falling. He looks back to the sheets.
Empty.
Harry snorts out a breath and huffs out a short laugh as he shoots his eyes to the ceiling. It seems the house isn't through with him yet.
"If you're trying for subtle," Harry says, addressing the room at large, "you're failing miserably."
The frisson of magic he feels as a result is tinged with smug amusement, but underneath there's a heavy portent of divination. As a man who is intimately acquainted with the trappings of prophecy, it's something he knows he can't ignore. But he's done with manipulation on all fronts, no matter the source, no matter the intent.
He adds with a frown, "Push all you like, but I won't go where I'm not wanted." Harry waits to see if the Manor is stubborn enough to respond, but the room goes quiet. Whether that's in offense or tacit agreement, he doesn't know, and really doesn't care. He casts one more look at the empty bed before turning to the bathroom. The one thing he does know is that the image of Draco in his bed is more than pleasing. It feels right.
His feet are lighter as he heads to the bathroom.
OOOOO
The ensuite is appointed in the same grand vein as the rest of the chamber: spacious, elegant, and luxuriously inviting. Harry turns the shower on and chucks off his pajamas as steam starts billowing out. He steps in, assaulted on all sides from the six showerheads. Harry groans and braces his hands on the tile at the glorious feel of the hot water. The tile must be charmed because it's warm beneath his hands. No bracing cold. He turns and presses his back to it, throwing his head back in pleasure. The pounding spray is heavenly, and the warm tile against his back feels so good he wants to sink into it.
The thought of pressing Draco against these same tiles starts a slow burn in his blood. He imagines Draco, long-limbed and gorgeous, begging for Harry's touch. Harry can see them tangled together, skin on skin, mouths against flesh, panting and desperate as Harry fucks him into the wall. Draco moans and writhes beneath him, clinging to Harry with fingers that bite, like he's the only thing Draco needs in this world.
There's no magical tweak; this time the fantasy is all Harry. He smiles as he palms his half-hard cock. Harry puts some serious consideration into having one off right now. Merlin knows he's good for it. Draco, wet and wanton, makes for excellent wanking material. Harry's no slave to his desires. He knows if he waits, all the better. He finishes his shower and steps out, wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist. He wraps up his ablutions with the toothbrush and paste in the cabinet and a drying charm on his hair.
Clothes. He needs clothes. Harry considers reaching for his old ones from yesterday, but given Narcissa's thoroughness with the products in the bathroom, he goes to the closet and isn't disappointed. It's filled with clothes, both Wizarding and muggle. He grabs a pair of boxers and socks before snagging a pair of neatly folded jeans and a soft cotton t-shirt from a hanger. He laughs out loud as he slips the on the purposely-faded shirt, emblazoned with a Muggle band logo. He wonders if Narcissa has any idea who 'Van Halen' is, but he has no doubt this is her doing. Her hand is all over this, not to mention he can smell traces of the jasmine scent she wears on the cotton. She handpicked these things specifically for him, he knows it. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she still tries to pick out Draco's clothes as well.
Dressed, he firecalls Neville and asks him about the gardens. Neville's more than happy to come over and take a look, and there's not a hint of reservation that Harry can perceive. He tells Harry he'll send an owl to Narcissa to confirm. When Harry tells him that isn't necessary, Neville frowns and says, "Of all people, Harry, you should know that propriety has its place."
Nev's right of course, so Harry wishes him well and ends the call, knowing he'll see him soon. He's finishing tying the laces on his trainers when Blinky pops in.
"Brunch is being served, Master Harry. Will you be to joining Miss Cissa and Master Dragon?"
Harry stands up with a sigh and a smile. It seems so simple, brunch with Narcissa and Draco. Like it's an everyday occurrence. What if it was? He pauses for a moment, positive the thought will elicit a reaction from the Manor.
Nothing.
Harry mentally shrugs. Maybe this one he's meant to figure out on his own. So he goes with his gut and gives Blinky a wide smile and reaches for her hand. "I'd love to."