#darkdarkdark

The chimes are low, melodic. They’re supposed to be soothing, Harry thinks, like the lavender-vanilla candles Malfoy insists on burning. But they’re not. Nothing is, not over the sound of Malfoy’s calm, low voice hovering around Harry, trying to coax him into something approaching a meditative state — which is difficult to achieve when all of his focus is going into not getting an erection the size of the Eiffel Tower.

“Potter.” Malfoy sighs. Harry watches his bare toes curl thoughtfully against the blue mat for a moment. Who on earth other than Malfoy has thoughtful toe movements? Merlin, he’s annoying. “I know you’re more flexible than this,” Malfoy says. “I’ve seen you do ungodly back bends to dodge curse fire in the field.” His feet disappear from Harry’s view, and a second later, Harry flinches when Malfoy’s hands land on his hips. “What’s holding you back?”

“I’m— not—” Harry drags in some air as Malfoy adjusts his stance, tugs his hips back and up. Higher. “—very… into yoga, all right?”