rational economic actors by yellowfork

A Lick and a Promise - Rated E - contains nudity

“He smiles then, that charming twist of the mouth that's so peculiar to him, before the smile is swallowed by another yawn—a huge, jaw-cracking, gape of a thing—and Harry thinks that it's about time they got ready for bed.

Draco seems to have decided to indulge him, and he sits on the bed and watches through the open door as Harry draws the bath. When the air is heavy with fragrant steam, he allows Harry to lead him into the bathroom, and he stands as meek as a lamb while Harry undresses him. He's so wrapped up that it's almost like an unravelling: Harry peels the butter-soft wool jumper off him, to reveal a soft cotton t-shirt, which gives way to a delicate, goblin-woven silk undershirt—one of the ones that Draco likes to wear under his robes, usually—and only once that's off does Harry get to see the finely-drawn stretch of Draco's collarbone, the alluring dip at the base of his throat, the shifting shadows across the muscles of his chest, the elegant flare of his ribcage.

He stands unselfconsciously, and watches impassively as Harry drops to his knees and carefully eases those loose trousers off the slopes of Draco's hip bones. He's as biddable as a child when Harry gets him to raise first one foot, then the other, and tugs socks, then trousers, then underwear off him, until he's fully naked. The bathroom is a fug of steam, but Harry hits him with a strong Warming Charm just in case, and watches in fascination as the trail of his magic raises goosebumps over Draco's skin, sends a helpless tremble through him.

Still on his knees, Harry leans forward just a touch, and presses his cheek flat against Draco's stomach, and stills for a moment. Draco doesn't move away, but instead lets one hand drop into Harry's hair and begins to stroke. Harry sighs contentedly, then moves to press a kiss against the rough line of hair leading down from Draco's belly, against the crisp curls at the base of his cock, and then against the very tip of it. Draco is too exhausted to be more than mostly-soft, though he twitches feebly against Harry's lips, but he still grumbles when Harry pulls away and stands to manoeuvre him into the bath. "In the morning," Harry whispers, and then shucks his own clothes so that he can enter the welcoming heat of the water too. Draco is already pink in all the places that the water laps against him, eyes half-shut, and Harry knows that the heat and the kiss of the water will have him asleep in no time.

Harry reaches for Draco's shampoo (their shampoo now, Harry thinks, and even if it does seem obscene to pay eight Galleons a bottle, he likes to carry the scent of Draco with him when he goes about his day, so he'll keep buying it from that exclusive little apothecary in Hogsmeade forever, he supposes). It foams up instantly, and Harry pours water from one cupped hand over Draco's head. Quickly, dispassionately, but with infinite gentleness, he swipes the shampoo from crown to nape in a firm motion.

And he's not good at taking care of people like this, really—he never had any experience of it himself, after all, and it is still a bit odd for him to have this unbearably intimate physical connection with someone (not when it doesn't involve chasing his own pleasure, anyway). He can't be quite sure if he's doing it right, but when he eases the pads of his fingers in wide circles at Draco's temples, he feels rather than hears Draco's groan, and when he sluices water through the glossy strands of Draco's hair, and tightens his grip around the length of it to squeeze the water out, he's pretty sure Draco whimpers a bit helplessly.

After that, it seems easy—lathering up his hands with bubbles that smell of almonds and burnt brown sugar, rubbing soothing circles across the drooping wings of Draco's shoulder blades, hearing the squelch and slide of his hands as he spreads the foam across Draco's chest, down the rise and dip of his spine, through the water-sodden hair under his arms and at his groin, into the creases of his thighs, along the delicate jut of his ankle bones, between every one of his toes. When he's finished, Draco is rosy with heat, panting with satisfaction, and more than halfway to hard even despite his exhaustion, but his eyes are still drooping, and Harry swaddles him in two huge towels to dry him off before bundling him into their bed.

He doesn't say another word, just makes a small noise—a murmur, a coo of contentment—before rolling right into the middle of the bed and plummeting into sleep. Harry drains the bath, collects the towels, tidies away all their clothes—because, he thinks, if Draco doesn't need him for protection, then he has to find other ways to take care of him, and there's something profound and full of promise in all these minor, domestic acts of love. Before bed, he walks their rooms and reinforces the wards—Hogwarts rumbles around him reassuringly as he strengthens his security charms—and then he douses the candles.”

She finally looks up at Harry, who’s watching her with eyes wide as saucers, and stops short. 'Harry, are you alright?’

'I’m not in love with him,’ is all Harry manages to say.

'Oh, Harry.’ Hermione covers his hand with hers, and he’s reminded of the young girl he first met at Hogwarts, the one who was always so determined to save Harry and Ron from their often self-imposed ignorance. 'I think you are. I think you’ve been in love with Draco for years.’