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Draco pulled back another inch to search Harry’s face, and Harry had honestly no idea what he was looking for. All he wanted in the world was to be kissed again, preferably before he could take another breath.
“We’re dating,” Draco said.
“I’m living in your house,” Harry said back.
“You’re driving me mad.” Draco’s hands flexed on his face.
“D’you want me to leave? I can go stand on the sidewalk, if—”
Draco kissed him.
This time, it started out slower, his palms cool and gentle on Harry’s face. This time, there was no shove into the telephone booth. Draco tested his bottom lip. His top lip. He skimmed his tongue inside Harry’s mouth.
He was probably going to die in this telephone booth. It felt that wonderful. Heat and cool mint and snow. And something that tasted like silver, which Harry realised in short order was Draco’s magic. It was always around him, very faintly, but now he could taste it.
Harry’s cock twitched in his pants. Draco made a low noise into his mouth and turned his face, breathing hard. “We are dating, Potter.”
“I mean.” Harry found he had one hand curled around Draco’s wrist, the other at the front of his coat. “Does that mean we have to keep our hands to ourselves?”
“It means…” Draco came back to Harry and brushed his lips to the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I don’t shag people I’m dating.”
“Erm,” Harry said. “You don’t?” His mind was slowed by Draco’s face so close to his. He wanted, so much and on so many levels, that he couldn’t think.
“No.” Draco’s lips met his, but he didn’t press. It felt like a candle had been lit in Harry’s chest. A hundred of them. “I only shag my boyfriends.”
Harry couldn’t help himself. He skimmed his hands up over Draco’s body, on the outside of his grip on Harry’s face, and pushed his fingers through his hair. He had a jumbled joke prepared about how he expected to be hexed for mussing it, but Draco only breathed, the slightest shiver moving through his body.
“What’s your criteria for that, then, Malfoy? We have to date a month first? I have to push you into a telephone booth in Muggle London?”
Draco sobered, and Harry was struck by the sight. By those lovely grey eyes, threaded through with silver, cooling him and heating him at the same time? Merlin. Harry wished he’d been able to ask it in a posh way, like Draco might’ve, or even in a more sincere way. That was the thing. He meant it with all his heart. He wanted to know, more than anything, what it was going to take to be Draco Malfoy’s boyfriend. Setting aside the past conflicts that made this entire thing an almost impossible series of events, he had no idea how to translate the heavy desire in his chest into anything other than a jest.
“The person has to be sure,” Draco said finally. “They have to be absolutely sure.”
“What makes you think I’m not?”
“I haven’t given you the talk.”
“Malfoy, what blood talk could you possibly—”
“I was a Death Eater. “The words came out level and rehearsed. “My father was a Death Eater. There’s nowhere we can go in the wizarding world that people won’t know. Anyone I date has to be prepared for the eventuality—”
“Draco,” Harry interrupted. “I know all this. I was there, remember? I was—” Sudden guilt made his voice rough. “I should have done more, once I realised what was going on with you. I’ll always regret that.”
“I can’t change any of it.”
“Right.” Harry took a deep breath. In the telephone booth, he could smell Draco’s skin, clean with a hint of spice, something that reminded him of a forest, maybe, or a garden. A hint of parchment. It made him a bit dizzy. “Right. Okay. Is there more I need to know?”
“No,” Draco said at length. Harry knew, even in his current state, that there was, in fact, more to know about Draco. A lot more.
“My turn, then.”
Draco blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. I have a permanent scar on my forehead, and everyone knows. There’s no where we can go in the wizarding world that people won’t know. You’ll have to be prepared for people asking ridiculous questions and wanting me to sign pieces of parchment and being unbelievably bloody rude and they’ll always be staring at us.”
Harry watched Draco absorb this. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Staring at…us.”
“Yeah. You’d be doing me a favour, honestly. Everyone would be too distracted by you. They wouldn’t notice me.”
Draco’s face froze. “Because I was a Death Eater.”
“Because you’re gorgeous. I can hardly stop looking at you.”
The third kiss was more like the first. Draco leaned into it with his whole body, pinning Harry to the wall of the telephone booth, searching his mouth as if he could find proof there that Harry really did mean it. As if the hard, heavy length between his legs wasn’t enough evidence. As if the way his hips tilted into Draco’s, practically begging, told him nothing at all.
A sharp rap sounded on the door of the telephone booth.
Draco didn’t stop kissing them.
Whoever it was rapped again.
With a sigh, Draco straightened, and Harry caught his expression as he turned—frosty and imperious and mother of Merlin, he thought that was hot. He mouthed something Harry couldn’t see to the woman standing outside the booth with a sour look on her face. Her eyes wide. Draco took one hand from Harry’s face and gave her a little wave with his fingers.
She scurried away.
“What did you tell her?”
Draco released him, though Harry didn’t want him to, not at all. “I’m afraid I told her to sod off.”
Harry gasped, pretending to be scandalised. “You didn’t.”
“I very much did.” Draco took his arm and pulled them back out onto the sidewalk. They started walking again, Harry feeling loose-limbed and desperate for more kissing. A couple of blocks later, Draco stopped in front of a bookshop. HIs eyes lit up at the shelves inside, crowded with books.
“These are for Muggles, you know.”
“They smell just as good as wizarding books, you know.” Draco raised an eyebrow.
“I do,” Harry said, with a laugh. “I do know that. And I also know—”
“I insist you wait.”
Harry stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Twenty-four hours before you give me your decision.” A flicker of fear, of wariness, passed over Draco’s eyes, and Harry absolutely loathed it. Maybe more than he’d loathed Voldemort.
Harry pursed his lips. “Do I have to wait twenty-four hours to kiss you again?”
Draco cleared his throat. “No. No, I don’t think—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Harry kissed him, right there on the sidewalk. When he was good and finished—for the moment, anyway—he took Draco’s gloved hand in his. “The bookstore,” he said. “Take me inside. Tell me all about it.”