#under20k

“As if you’re having that bad of a time,” Harry said, and Draco glanced at him over his shoulder before arranging the duvet neatly on the mattress.

“I’m fine,” Draco said, picking up Harry’s towel from the floor to hang on the broken bunk’s ladder. “Aside from living with an absolute troll. Nice pick for your first wand core. Was that a family heirloom?”

Harry tried to shove him, but was laughing too hard, and ended up grabbing his arm instead as he buckled forward.

“Shut up—” Harry said, and Draco huffed. “You’re so dumb.”

“Am not. What kind of wood do you want for your wand? Now I’ve managed to make something decent enough, Alder will let me pick?”

Harry gave him a little push as he released Draco’s arm, then squeezed his hands together, feeling hot.

“I dunno. Maple might be nice. Bet it tastes good.”

“Taste? We’re not eating them.”

“No, I know, but like…you know, when you hold a wand and you can taste it?”

Draco stared at him with a lifted brow, hands in his pockets.

“Potter, what in Merlin are you talking about? You’re licking them? Did you—did you lick my wand?” Harry struggled to hold in his laugh for approximately one second before he was doubled over, holding his stomach. “Shut up! That is not what I meant!”

Harry tilted onto his side as Draco pushed him, curling into a ball, laughing so hard he felt delirious. The imagery was mad either way—whether it was Draco’s real wand that he was licking or—or...his brain short-circuited as he pictured something else, and suddenly he didn’t find it funny at all anymore. He let his laugh taper off, looked up at Draco’s reddened face, his crossed arms.

“Did you?” Draco persisted.

Harry swallowed, feeling a bit sick—a bit sweaty—a bit too lost in his own mind to answer the question.

“Usually when I save someone’s life, they just say ‘thank you’,” Potter said, and Draco’s face pinched, leaning back. 

“I’d rather blow you than do something so degrading.” 

Potter huffed, then his lips pressed flat, his fingers loosening around Draco’s wrist. His green eyes caught a shine, as if he were seeing Draco more clearly, and Draco’s heart knocked against his ribs as Potter’s hands dropped and undid his flies. In his lower periphery, he could see bare skin—a distinct shape—the space between their bodies suddenly feeling hot even though it hadn’t a moment ago. 

“Go ahead,” Potter said, and Draco’s air choked off. 

“What?” he said through his teeth, a rush in his ears, heat in his chest as his lips went a little numb. 

“I said do it. You want to thank me? Want me never to bring up the fact that I saved your arse twice in one day? Get on your knees, then.” 

Draco let out a shaky laugh of disbelief, wanting to smile, but not quite capable with the awareness of Potter’s cock hanging out just in front of his own. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Draco whispered. 

“A bit. So you won’t do it, then? Sort of weird to offer and then chicken out—” 

He was halfway through wanking himself off when Harry burst through his door. He gasped, flattened his cock against his stomach as Harry landed on the bed, elbow narrowly missing his hip as he propped himself up and grinned. 

“Happy Birthday to the worst housemate a guy could ask for,” Harry said, his ribcage crushing his cock to his heaving stomach. “You look flushed. Heat on too high?” 

“No, just—warm sleeper—” Draco murmured, using his other hand to hold the duvet tight, making sure Harry couldn’t yank it off him. “Since when don’t you knock?” 

“Since we have plans! And you’re late! Come on, there’s cake. Well—there will be. You know how cross Hermione gets when we’re late.” 

“Can’t I sleep in on my own birthday? I didn’t even want to do anything.” 

“Too bad. People care about you, thought you’d be used to it by now. Get dressed! No time for breakfast anymore,” Harry said as he got up, leaving the door open as he left. 

The ascent to Mr Potter’s flat felt shorter than it had the last time. He set down his briefcase and kept on his shoes, as if that might remind him to leave. They stood in the low light, lingering in the sitting room. 

“I already feel better,” Mr Potter murmured. “Thank you for coming. We can—we can just do the couch if that’s more comfortable for you.” 

“Whichever you prefer. I’m here for you,” Draco said, and Mr Potter ducked his head, hands shoved in his pockets as he started across the room, then paused. 

“Would you—it might sound mad, but could I just try…” Mr Potter said, shoulders pointed toward the kitchenette, his face in darkness as he looked back toward Draco. “Can you stand here?”

The floor creaked madly as Draco approached, standing right where Mr Potter had stood as he moved away and backed up to the wall in the kitchen, between the refrigerator door and the oven. 

“Okay,” Mr Potter said, exhaling a breath, his shoulders lowering. “Can you come closer?” 

Draco shook his head, realising his intention.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. It could trigger you—”

“Please. I’m not scared at all, I swear.” Draco could see his face well in the light from the windows—his wide, honest eyes, his proud shoulders. 

“Are you quite sure?” Draco asked, frowning at him. 

“Positive.”

Slowly, Draco took a step. Then, at Mr Potter’s nod, he took another. His toes were lined up with the edge of the tile, hardly three steps away.  

“Alright?” Draco asked, and Mr Potter nodded again. 

“I feel fine. He—he came closer, though. About as tall as you are, but it felt like he was towering over me.” 

“Should I take another step?” Mr Potter nodded, so Draco did. He was in line with the front of the oven, the rest of the flat outside of his vision. All Draco could see was him. 

“I’m fine,” Mr Potter huffed, his eyes glinting as he studied Draco’s face. “One more?” 

Draco held his breath and put his hands in his pockets as he took the last step, coming toe to toe with him, holding his gaze to measure his panic. Mr Potter exhaled as he leaned against the wall, his chin up, eyes calm. 

“Why aren’t I afraid?” Mr Potter murmured. “If it’s a phobia, shouldn’t it be for everyone?” 

“Not necessarily,” Draco answered, hardly daring to breathe. “He was a stranger.” 

“You are too. A bit.” 

“Yes, I suppose,” Draco said, his voice shaky, feeling the warmth of Mr Potter’s presence—the smell of his shampoo. “Should I step back now?” 

“I was waiting to see if I would panic,” Mr Potter said, looking at Draco’s mouth. “I think you’re closer than he was. I—I shoved him away before he could get this far.” Draco nodded, hands in fists in his pockets, too aware of his own breathing now that he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Are you alright?” Mr Potter asked softly, his head lifting from where it had been resting against the wall. “You—you’re not claustrophobic, too, are you?” 

“No,” Draco huffed, smiling at him. “I—I’m just worried. Don’t want to induce panic. With such a recent traumatic event…I thought this would be unhelpful.” 

“I feel fine. Great, even. Maybe because I…I could feel him behind me, you know? He just…came out of nowhere. I asked you to do this, so…maybe it’s different because of that.” 

“Maybe,” Draco said. “I’m not going to attack you, so don’t ask.” 

Mr Potter laughed. “I wasn’t going to,” he murmured, and Draco smiled, too. “Shall we move to the bedroom?”

Draco’s gaze fell to Mr Potter’s mouth, then he hung his head and stepped away, frowning to himself.