1  

"Bwomp-phhhhh!"

That was the sound the curse made, the one that left Draco Malfoy blinking. In the dark.

"Well, shite!" he swore, and that earned him his team member's attention.

"Wot'cher, Malfoy?" Potter asked. "Problems?"

"Can't fucking see," Draco replied, still blinking furiously. "Fuck."

"Here. Episky!" Draco couldn't see Potter's wand, either, but he inferred it was pointed at his face. He flinched, for old time's sake. "Give it a moment, alright?" Potter warned. "Keep blinking. Should work."

"Yeah, alright."

He could hear Potter rustling about, going through dusty papers and old manuscripts that festooned the Secretive Society for Subverting Historical Accuracy's hidey-hole in the meanwhile, but he couldn't see him—or them.

"Potter," he piped up, after another long moment of total, absolute darkness.

"Saint Mungo's?" Potter replied, with a disheartened sigh. "Again? Gods, Draco! You're a right pain."

"Thanks for that, Potter. Feeling's mutual."

"S'not. You know it."

"Shut it. Was you, last month. Now, I'd like to see properly again, if you don't mind."

Draco felt warm arms wrap around his waist and shoulders. He felt about 'til he found Potter's ribs and latched on securely. "Hold up," he said, thinking furiously, when he felt Potter's muscles gather to impel them away.

"Yes?"

"Did you find anything worth taking with?"

"No, but we can come back. Still be here later; no hurry."

"Alright; carry on."

"Got it."

And the whirl of Disapparation was much worse when one was visually impaired—either that, or the stupid curse was more powerful than Draco thought.

0000oooo000

It was far more powerful than Draco had thought. Of course.

"A week, then, give or take a few days?" Potter was quizzing the Healer, as if Draco wasn't right there, with ears and a mouth that still worked perfectly well. "So, Friday next?"

"Err," he said, but Potter and the Healer weren't paying attention. "Potter."

"Yes, Mr. Potter. He'll need constant supervision, too. The blindness is temporary, but there'll be dizzy periods, as well, and some nausea. He'll have to take his prescribed potion at precise intervals and, remember, no excess stress to the eyes or hurrying it along with Charms. This is an old-fashioned curse, the Stygian. No real workarounds."

"Excuse me; I've house elves available, you know?" Draco tried again, not at all enamoured of the prospect of a solid week of Potter minding him, day and night. Their relationship was tenuous enough without that. "I can manage perfectly well on my—"

"Don't be silly, Malfoy," Potter's voice was impatient, but the hands on his hips weren't. "Come along. You need to eat something light and then have a lie-down."

"Not an—"

Whoosh!

"Invalid, Potter," Draco finished, stepping out of the Floo without a stumble, despite Potter's usual lack of grace. He clutched Potter to right him, something he could do perfectly well without sight. "Where the fuck? Your place, Potter?" He could tell by the smell. Take-away Muggle Thai, lemon-scented cleaner, eau-de-Harry. All good things to Draco's nose.

"Uh-huh and shut it, Draco, as of right now. Stop your whinging; it won't do you any good. You need a week's worth of that potion to regain your vision and you can't be left alone, so, yes, I'm so sorry and all that, but you're still stuck with me. Here, this is the sofa."

He was taken by the hand and guided, 'til the backs of his knees met the edge of Potter's shabby couch. Draco knew it was shabby because the last time they'd shagged on it, there'd been a loose coil thrusting up into his spine as he moaned his completion and if he'd not been so caught up in Potter's matching expression of bliss, he would've complained bitterly.

"Sit down; I'll get tea. You could probably do with a cuppa."

"Alright, alright," Draco said sulkily, "Though I don't see why my house elves can't—"

"Because you're stubborn, Draco, and you'll rush it. Healer says you can't, not with the Stygian Blindness, so it's me on deck in the meanwhile. Besides, you can still work on the assignment if you're here. Can't do that at the Manor. Not by yourself."

"Potter…" Draco allowed his voice to trail off as Harry's footsteps receded. "Potter."

"Yeah?" Sounded like Potter had moved off to the kitchen, and in a moment Draco heard pots and pans clanging faintly and the cool box whooshing open and shut. "Fancy a stir-fry?" Potter called out. Draco tilted his head, listening intently.

"Potter, look. This isn't going to work," Draco announced reasonably enough to the darkness that surrounded him like a stifling blanket. "I mean, it's fine for a day or two, but an entire week—"

"Why?" Potter's voice was quite near again, and Draco distinctly heard the sounds of wet hands being dried on a dishtowel. "Or rather, why not? It's no trouble, really, and besides, we need to work on the Society's records, Draco. You can be reading while I'm—"

"With no eyes, Potter?" Draco demanded sarcastically, tightening his grip on his kneecaps. "Exactly how am I supposed to do that? And anyway, what if I don't want to stay here? Have you thought about that?"

"Draco." Potter was right next to him, and Draco felt himself stiffening even further, if that were possible, until he quite thought he'd congealed. "Draco, I don't mind. Could use the company, actually. And it won't be all work and no play, either."

"I don't think shagging a blind man's going to be much fun for you, Potter," Draco replied dryly. "Fumble fuck fiddling around doesn't do it for me—"

"No different than shagging in a closet, dim bulb," Potter retorted. "Or a cellar—or a tunnel. And remember that one vault under Gringotts? Couldn't see our hands before our faces in there and Lumos wouldn't even work properly. Besides, I'll be happy to guide you, Draco. And you can use your sense of touch, can't you? And hearing—and smell? Don't blind people do that?"

"Potter, I can't simply smell out what I'm supposed to be spelling," Draco replied, though his shoulders maybe weren't as tight as they'd just been. He shifted uneasily when Potter laid a hand over one of his. "And the Healer said to expect nausea and dizzy spells. Can't imagine I'll be a load of laughs, sicking up on your carpet—or very useful, either. Look, take me home. Let the Manor elves take care of me, please—I'll Owl out this week. Take me home; it'll be easier all 'round."

"…Draco, please?" Potter's voice was very soft by his one ear; his neck was being nuzzled. Draco lifted his hands, unerringly finding Potter's jaw and wrapping fingertips around the firm shape of it, holding it steady when Potter trailed moist butterfly kisses across his lips and his left cheekbone. He felt the warm weight of Potter swinging across his lap and then settling in, straddling him, and then there was nothing but steady snogging for a bit, 'til Draco was breathless.

"Potter…" he murmured, sitting back against the cushions flattened by years of hard use."Potter, really—"

"Please stay?" and Potter's voice was all dark chocolate and black velvet and he smelt of salt and urgency and tasted like heaven. "I want you to, really I do, Draco. Please. Don't go yet."

"Yes, alright, Potter," he allowed reluctantly, and let Potter's nimble fingers undress him. "Just don't expect much in the way of progress—"

"The project can wait, Draco. Can go hang, for all I care. Kiss me."

Draco did, since he couldn't possibly—no way in Seven Hells—contemplate not snogging Potter if he'd just been handed the opportunity to do so on a fucking platter.

0000oooo000

He'd plenty of opportunities to do exactly that over the following week. Potter seemed bent on inventing them. Every tome he successfully waded through with the help of a rented Talking Scribe was rewarded with a heavy make-out session or a rimming; every tiny clue about the Society's convoluted history they dug up together from the assembled Minutes and crumbled-edged Reports earned an enthusiastic shag on the Library floor or sprawled across Potter's desk.

"You—are—fucking—huge!" Draco gasped when Potter had him tumbled over the back of that stupid paisley-printed sofa, digging his fingernails into the upholstery and holding on for dear life. "Fucking—enormous, Potter! Your dick goes right through me—gonna choke on you!"

"You love it," Potter replied, entirely too smug at the compliment. Draco could imagine his cheeky grin and he winced, colouring. Potter adored the sight of him helpless and gagging with want; he must, as he engineered it often enough. "You love my huge dick, Draco. You're a size queen. Admit it."

"Just…harder, alright?" he mumbled, trying not to bite right through his lower lip when Potter instantly complied, battering his arsehole into a quivering, yielding hotspot of visceral sensation. "Faster! Make…me…lose my mind! Need to come already!"

"Draco!"

Potter groaned, and Draco could feel Potter thickening within him, his blunt-headed, he-man club of a prick swollen and ripe with semen. He clenched his cheeks and hole as tight as he could manage 'round Harry's girth, hand on his own dick frantically pulling, and howled a bit when Potter finally let go. The pressure of Potter's grip on his sweat-slippery hips was unbearable; he winced in fleeting agony and loved it. Maybe the marks would still be there come Friday, when he could see again. Something to remember fondly next weekend, when he was safely back at the Manor and everything reverted to normal. Normal being shagging only when one or the other of them had the urge and weren't busy elsewhere. Normal being never often enough.

"Draco…!" Potter moaned, and pounded into him all the harder, his incredible dick throbbing. "Oh, Draco!"

"Yesss!" he hissed, lost in the hot flood that pumped out to fill him, heart rate escalating ever higher and brain sizzling 'round the edges like a fried egg. "Potter, yes! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

Coming down after, his ribcage still heaving, Draco reflected on the fact it didn't say quite all he wanted to: 'Fuck me!' But then again, he and Potter were shag buddies solely because it was convenient and safe, so…yes. 'Fuck me!' did the job nicely. Very appropriate, really. Better that way.

"Here, budge over—I've got you," Potter ordered him ten minutes later, in the lav, and Draco felt a washcloth trailing down his spine, hot and soapy. He shivered; still sensitive to Potter's every passing touch.

"You could enlarge this thing, you know," he remarked, but stepped back obediently anyway, one side fetching up against warm tile. "So it would fit a normal-sized Wizard."

"I am a normal-sized Wizard, Draco," Harry's voice was tinged with patient good humour. "You're just an outsized freak, all elbows and knees. And very sharp and pointy they are, too. Turn 'round."

"I, Potter, am perfectly in proportion for my size," Draco replied, and then sighed when Harry's fingers began moving across his scalp, massaging in the inferior shampoo he favoured. "Oh, but that's nice, though. Keep it up."

"Isn't it?" Potter chuckled. "You can do the same for me in a minute. Work on sharpening up your other senses, Draco. Feel your way, yeah?"

"Huh," Draco scoffed. "Hardly worth the trouble to learn, is it? Wednesday already. Be over soon enough."

Potter was silent as he rinsed away the shampoo, and Draco fancied he could literally feel them, the unspoken words trembling in the steamy air that separated them. But then there was a blunt finger poking gently at his hole, gradually working its way in, and he saw a flash of red lust instead. That was all right with him. Could do that again.

The finger was followed by another and then, soon enough, Potter's dick. Draco gulped as he spread his legs, swallowing hot, soap-tainted water and unwanted confessions.

Better rendered silent by good old reliable lust than be left babbling on of how he had dreamt of this, being with Potter day and night. He bowed his head instead, and felt Potter lick and suck away at the jut of his shoulder blade, and knew the moisture on his lashes and the hitch in his breath could just as easily be attributed to the heat and force of the shower spray.

"Let's just think about the here and now, Draco," Potter murmured, and Draco nodded blindly.

0000oooo000

"I think that's it, Draco," Potter announced, and Draco heard the flutter of parchment shuffling itself into order and a QuikQuill scratching out the final report. Potter would Owl the Ministry Archives personnel tomorrow, after Draco's final appointment at Saint Mungo's, and they'd hand over a copy personally to Susan Bones, Head Research Librarian, as well. Tomorrow—Friday—he should be able to see normally again, and this uncomfortably intimate time spent at Potter's flat would be ended.

"Hungry? Want to go out?"

"And dump my food all over my trousers, Potter? I don't think so, thanks."

"We can go Muggle, Draco. Then it won't matter." Draco heard a soft pop and then there was an oblong object being pressed into his hand. "Take this; perfect excuse for wearing your meal."

"You're such an arse, Potter," Draco remarked. "What is this, anyway?"

"White cane," Potter had risen; Draco could tell by the shift in air currents. "Universal Muggle mark of blindness. Should work."

"Great," Draco replied acidly. "The Muggles can perceive me as disabled. Which I'm not, really. Not exactly according to Hoyle, is it? Potter, I don't think this a good—"

"Draco, I'm hungry and so are you. I don't feel like cooking and I don't want any more take-away. We've had enough of that this week. We're going out."

"You never listen, Potter," Draco was moved to point out. "We could Apparate to the Manor; the elves can put together a decent meal in minutes if you're so famished."

"I would like a chance to treat you, Draco," Potter had come closer; Draco could feel breath move against the whorl of his ear. His hair, tucked back so that it wouldn't tickle his jaw when he was leaning over the Society's record books, shifted, swinging forward with a silken rush. He could smell Potter's taste: a gust of their tea's Earl Grey blend and strawberry-infused butter and leftover spearmint from the morning. "You've been so very patient, despite everything," Potter sounded vaguely proud of him. "Hardly said a negative word, all this week, and I know you've been frustrated by it—"

"Potter, stop," Draco commanded, drawing back. Certainly he'd been frustrated, but more so because he couldn't gauge Potter's emotions the way he was accustomed: by noting the way Potter's lips moved or his eyes flashed. Potter was damned skilled at speaking volumes only with his vivid gaze and the way he carried his thin, athletic body. Draco had lost a whole week's worth of observing Potter up-close due to the Stygian curse and he wasn't best pleased. But…

"Just stop. There's no point in me complaining about what can't be helped, is there? I'm not that much of an arsehole," he pointed out impatiently, turning his chin sharply away. "No matter what you may think. Now, I suppose I should conjure up some dark glasses to go with this cane?"

"No," Potter murmured, and Draco felt Potter's hands settle onto his upper arms. Potter's weight followed, pressing Draco into the leather armchair Potter kept in his study. Draco felt the tufted buttons dig into his spine. Somewhere off in the near distance, the QuickQuill still scratched away, compiling facts and dry-as-dust data on the defunct Society. Another week's work complete, despite his own temporary setback. "No, Draco. You're not that. Not an arsehole, at all."

2

"Potter."

He was kissed again, Potter's lips drifting slowly across his frowning brow, his likely dusty fringe. The aged Society records were full of a grayish, foggy must; Potter's workspace reeked of it, no matter how many freshening spells Draco cast discreetly.

In a moment, the unseen cane had fallen with a clatter. Draco didn't heed it.

"Please!" he gasped, when Potter thrust his tongue firmly into Draco's ear, wiggling it 'round and exploring, thrusting methodically in a mock-shagging motion. He fluttered his lashes rapidly and listened with all his heart to the suction the saliva made, and the harsh sounds of his and Potter's accelerated breathing. "You shouldn't—we ought," he began, meaning to say that if Potter was actually hungry, they needed to stay focused, but Potter's fingertips were already distracting him.

"I shouldn't?" Potter drawled, and licked Draco from jaw to hairline, slowly. "But I want to. You want me to, don't you?"

"…Yes."

Draco closed his useless eyes—they weren't doing him much good anyway—and hoped Potter wasn't paying too much attention to his expression. All week he'd been at the mercy of Potter's sharp gaze. He could sense it when it rested upon him; could feel the calculating assessment going on behind those long lashes; the logical conclusions Potter was no doubt drawing as to Draco's tacit lack of resistance to Potter's every whim, his uncharacteristic willingness to simply be, here in Potter's home. He'd already acknowledged privately he was well beyond mere 'convenience' and deep into dangerous territory. Potter wasn't at all dull or blind; he'd sort out what Draco was hiding soon enough.

"Shall I do more, Draco?" Potter's body heat was slipping away from him. Draco flinched. But it wasn't far at all that Potter went; only to his knees on the polished wooden floor by the sounds of it, and then Draco's own knees were being forcibly levered apart. "Do you want that, too?"

"Yes!" He no longer cared if his face was contorted, or if his chest was heaving. Potter had to realize what he could do to Draco's body with the slightest of his casual, tormenting touches, much less the vivid impression he left on Draco's normally cool, still surface when he was actively fancying a shag. Or even without, as Draco had a vivid imagination and used it, often. "Yes, Potter—anything!"

"Brill," Potter murmured happily, snapping his fingers like a whip-crack, and Draco was all at once nude from the waist down, the musty air in the Library sending goose pimples skittering across his exposed thighs. His eager dick sprang up and poked out proudly, bobbing for attention. Drooling damp, too, because Potter on his knees could only lead to some very good things. Draco would've clamped his thighs together in a vain attempt to conceal how fiercely he craved them, but Potter wasn't allowing it.

"No, Draco. Don't," Potter scolded, and Draco, straining, heard an answering want in his soft command. "I need to taste. Hungry, remember?"

Draco bit back an actual sob when Potter's tongue finally found him; arched back into the armchair when he was taken fully into that mouth. It was—it made him—he couldn't breathe properly, not at all. He was panting as if he'd sprinted a mile and Potter had only just begun.

"Potter!" Draco cried out, and slid his bum forward on the seat of the armchair eagerly, thrusting his pelvis without thought, to milk more of that avid wet heat. "Potter…" he whispered, though everything inside him cried out 'Harry!'

He didn't say it aloud. First names meant more than just casual shags on the fly, at least in his book. He didn't want Potter to believe he was considering this to be anything more than just the usual scratching of the usual itch. It would be vastly uncomfortable, that; it wouldn't work with what they had on.

And Draco desperately wished it all to remain status quo, this convenient thing they'd between them. For as long as it possibly could.

Potter's throat was seated 'round him fully, at last, swallowing convulsively. Draco squeaked and jerked. Raised his hands, clenching blindly, and then he was one long arc of bowstring tension, pulled taut, and tied inextricably to the sucking hot well of Potter's mouth.

"Harry!" he cried out despite himself, but thankfully muted, when tongue pressed swollen vein, and he saw that familiar scarlet washing down the backs of his eyelids. Potter was rutting against his leg, rocking and moaning. When at last Draco blinked eyes dried-out from staring blindly, transfixed, there were scattered blips of black (hair!) and walnut (desk!) and (golden!) dust motes, hanging silent and still in the late afternoon spill of sunlight. Colour again, and light.

Draco collapsed with a grunt, and felt the spreading damp of Harry's ejaculate through the thin twill of the trousers Harry'd not bothered to shed, brushing up sodden and satisfying against the back of Draco's bent leg. He'd yanked Potter's wiry form against him as they'd both come and it was hot and wonderfully heavy sprawled atop him. He kept his eyes closed and quietly revelled.

It was true: blindness heightened all the other senses, at times unbearably. And all of his were attuned directly to Potter.

0000oooo000

"Argh! Merlin! That smarts, damn it!"

First thing he saw when he finally blinked his eyes into focus was his research partner, Potter. Green eyes, black hair, faded scar—concerned frown.

"Alright?"

Draco, wincing, shielded the upper half of his face with the back of his hand and nodded. "Yes, I think. Better certainly than being blinded, Potter."

"Git," Potter grinned his satisfaction. "You're just fine—I can tell."

In truth, he'd had partial use of his vision since very early that same morning-or late yesterday, rather. He'd used it almost exclusively to examine Potter asleep at his side in the grey dawn light; swollen pink lips parted like a veritable babe's, hair spilling wildly.

Hadn't wanted to ever leave Potter's bed, though he went without too much complaint when Potter slapped him on the arse hours later, when the sun had climbed to a more reasonable angle.

"Up, slug!" Potter had sung out, dancing away when Draco sent his forearm sweeping out in a quick low arc, trying to trip him. "Saint Mungo's this morning, then the Archives, then lunch directly after. Bones Owled yesterday late; we've another paid assignment already on the books. No rest for the wicked!"

"Arse," Draco returned comfortably, shifting to his back. He sighed and stretched, yawning, and blinked furiously at the bright blur that was Potter's bedroom in the daylight. It wasn't clear yet, his vision, but certainly the potion had done its job. No more dark. "I wouldn't be so wicked if you didn't keep me so weary, Potter," he grumbled,more to himself than Potter. "Sleep deprivation is not good for the state of my immortal soul." He rolled over again restlessly and propped his bristly chin on one fist, head cocked to the sounds of Potter's bustle. "And what was that, last night, exactly? Were you trying to kill me?"

Potter grinned-or must've. Draco could hear it in his voice. He'd nipped in and out of the en suite and was presently standing before the gaping closet, busily flipping through his robe choices. Charcoal, chocolate, navy—green, like his eyes. "You liked it, Draco," he smirked. "You told me so."

"That one," Draco remarked, pointing lazily. "Wear that one. Goes with—"

"Oh!" Potter was beside him before he could finish his blink. "Draco! That's brilliant! I was a little anxious, you know," he confided. He laid his hand across Draco's quick frown as if he could feel the cursed Stygian darkness receding; hurrying it along. Draco was reminded of the Muggle meal, which consisted of Potter touching him constantly, practically hand-feeding him, as if he were a rare animal at the Zoo.

"I'm so glad," Potter smiled. Draco felt his face flush, the betraying heat blooming slow and dark across his cheekbones.

Or perhaps merely a stray, lost and needy at the wayside.

Draco dragged in a deep breath and abruptly rolled over, avoiding the pale blur that was Potter's pleased face. The huddle of pillows was comfortably dim, and plump enough to shield whatever his own undiminished frown wasn't managing to cover. "Go ahead and get dressed," he mumbled into the goose-down. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Alright, but hurry," Potter replied, stepping back. He hesitated for a moment before he turned back to the closet, hopefully to grab the green robes. "I want to go back out to Muggle London for breakfast. It was fun, last night, yeah?"

"Yes," Draco allowed. It had been. Excruciatingly sensual, incredibly wearing on his nerves, but yes—'fun'. Certainly, he'd laughed an awful lot, especially when Potter demonstrated how to scoop up rice with chopsticks, the blurry blue-and-white China bowl just under his chin. He'd had his hands all over Potter's face, learning by touch, and his fingers had slipped into Potter's mouth along with the rice grains, and he'd nearly come right there and then when Potter sucked them. Had laughed like a fool at the silly creases in Potter's cheeks leftover from smiling and the wry twist to his firm lips, because he'd have moaned aloud otherwise, and he was not allowing that to happen in public—ever. "Fine, alright, Potter. But I need a shower. I reek and I'm still sticky. You're pants with that one cleaning spell."

"Sorry," Potter brushed it off with a careless flap of a hand. "I'll use Scourgify next time." He likely shrugged, too, but Draco wasn't looking, even though he could, now, and almost see. "I'll be just downstairs, pulling that report for Susan together. Ten minutes, alright?"

"Bastard! Yes. Go, already!" Draco ordered, and rolled up and out of the bed in one smooth athletic movement, defying the pleasant ache in his arse. He was fine with finding his way 'round Potter's bedroom and bath at this point; had memorized the locations of everything early on. Didn't need his hand held, not a this point. "Stop chattering and let me get on with it, Potter."

"Yes, yes," Potter laughed and was gone, pulling his robe haphazardly on as he went. Draco would tidy it later, as he always did before Potter met with the general public.

He took his time in the lav, despite Potter's 'ten minutes'. Might be a while before he used it again. Might not be, either, but he wasn't taking chances. Depended on what Potter thought of his work partner fancying him something fierce. Unrequited, like.

0000oooo000

"Very well, Mr. Malfoy. You're free to go," the Healer informed him briskly to him a hour or so later, and handed him a close-written parchment. "This has a list of any side effects and related conditions that might crop up later on. Don't hesitate to pop back in if you need to."

"Thanks, very much," Draco replied, and rose. Potter nodded too, and pushed himself off the wall he'd been slouching against. "Let's go, Potter."

"Ready, Draco?"

"Yes, more than. Archive lobby, right?"

"Mmm, hmm; I'll take you. Used to it, now."

"Potter, there's no need—"

Whoosh!

"Now," he finished as they stepped through the Floor. "For that sort of thing. I'm healed, remember?"

"Welcome, gents," Lucinda Turtlebeck, Bones's PA at the Ministry's Archives, greeted them with a wide smile. "Susan's waiting; go straight on in. Tea?"

"Ta, Lucy," Potter smiled, and politely held the door for Draco. "Sounds just the thing."

"Please, Lucinda," Draco added, nodding. "That would be lovely."

"How was your appointment at St. Mungo's, Draco? All better now?" Susan Bones asked, as she stuck out a welcoming hand. Harry clasped it; Draco barely brushed his lips across the back of it when it was his turn right after, with an old-fashioned courtesy learnt at his mother's knee.

"Hey, Suz," Harry said, and took one of the comfy chairs across from her desk. "What's up?"

"Beautiful as ever, Susan," Draco noted, and settled elegantly into the other. Leaning forward, he laid the final report on the Society on her blotter. "And I'm very well, thank you for enquiring. Never better."

"Oh, now that's excellent to hear, Draco—and thanks for this!" Bones took up the thick file with greedy hands. Her eyes sparkled with the fervour common to all Librarians, when presented with fascinating new information to devour. "I've been looking forward to this report for days now."

"Good, good," Harry nodded cheerily. "You'll like; they were an odd bunch, that Society. Glad they're defunct, though. A little too odd, if you know what I mean."

"We aim to please," Draco concurred hastily, eyeing their Ministry contact with professional interest. "Potter mentioned another project in the works, Susan? Something for us?"

"Yes, it's one of Luna's creatures, so you'll be travelling abroad. That alright?"

Draco's stomach clenched, though his face stayed bland as ever.

"Where to, Suz?" Harry asked, and leaned forward, eager as always. "Europe? Asia?"

"Tibet," Bones replied, plucking happily at the corner of the file they'd just given her. "'Roof of the World', as the Muggles call it. That's not too far, is it?"

"Oh, no," Harry said easily, settling back in his chair again and crossing his legs at the ankles. "I've always wanted to visit."

"I—alright, Potter," Draco allowed with reluctance, when Harry caught his eye meaningfully. "If you want." Travelling that far translated into the necessity for lodging; the distance was too great for daily Apparation. They'd have to take an International Portkey and it might be days away, researching. Together, alone.

There was a small part of him utterly transported by the very idea of yet more intimate time spent with Potter, and a far greater portion that was stricken with fearful paralysis. They'd managed to be very casual about this whole shagging thing, thus far. Didn't interfere with their work at all; enhanced it, rather. But it was conceivable that Potter might very well tire of it, from sheer overkill.

"If you're sure?" He raised his brows at Potter, offering him an easy out. Best to know if Potter was…well, if they were in need of a break, after a whole seven days spent tied at the hip. "I'd, um, I'll need to stop at the Manor for a few things first, of course. Consult my calendar. Loose ends; all that."

"Absolutely, I want to go!" Potter's face revealed nothing but enthusiasm. "Looking forward to it, Draco, really. Tibet's lovely, or so Luna's said often enough." He turned back to Bones, a question poised on those expressive eyebrows. "But, Suz, do you have anything more…concrete to go on with? Luna's got a lot of creatures, if you know what I mean. Which one are we after, exactly?"

"Yeti," replied their old schoolmate, succintly, grinning. "Or, 'Big Foot', if you'd prefer. The Magical Creature's Bureau is tiring of protecting them officially if they don't truly exist: far too much red tape and paperwork. If we can confirm or deny it statistically, that would be super."

"So, a tally of eyewitness reports?" Harry asked. Draco whipped up a notebook and quill and got busy."You don't need current photos or plaster casts of footprints or anything like that?"

"Merlin, I should hope not, Potter!" Draco interjected, appalled. "We're not exactly equipped!"

"No, no. Just archival data," Susan smiled genially. "The monks at Drepung have agreed to open up their records for this one thing. Should be relatively painless, I'd think; they've very well organized."

"When would we begin?" Draco asked, all business. "And how soon would you need the final report?"

"Still want your tea?" Lucinda poked her head in the door after a brief knock. "Susan? Gentlemen?"

"Thanks, Luce," Harry replied, getting up to take the tray. "I think Draco's feeling light-headed over there. Needs biscuits, certainly. Or something. He's terribly grumpy."

"I am not grumpy, Potter!" Draco protested. "How am I grumpy?" Lucinda giggled delightedly as she closed the door behind her. "Do be quiet. Carry on, Susan. We're listening."

"You are," Harry informed him staunchly, setting the tray down for Bones to pour. "Isn't he, Suz? Not exactly leaping out of his seat at the prospect of getting his grubby little mitts on a six-hundred year old university library, is he? That's very unlike him. I'd've expected far more enthusiam, really." Potter glanced Draco's way again and sent him a sizzling-wicked grin, all sparkling green eyes under lowered lids and brilliant teeth. Draco caught his lower lip between his own teeth and bit down, hard, as Potter's eyes glinted and he cranked it up a notch.

"Draco, my love," he went on, his tone richly intimate, and Bones had to be hiding a huge grin behind the report they'd just given her, Draco was certain, "you're decidedly peaky-looking, yet. Paler than ever; almost pea-green. Must be low blood sugar. You're faint with hunger, aren't you? We should be off to have that celebratory luncheon I promised you."

"Potter! That's enough," Draco's growl was a warning Potter handily ignored. "Shut it!" Bones fortunately distracted him by finally handing over his cup and saucer, and Draco wasted no time burying his pink face in it, more than glad not to meet either of their stares for a moment.

"Come on, old prat," Potter coaxed him, in no way abashed. "Drink up your tea and then we'll be shoving off," he stated, in a mock-avuncular fashion that set Draco's teeth on edge. Shrugging amiably at Draco's set expression, Potter shifted to regard Bones, who was eyeing them both with a certain fascination, eyes sparkling. "Sorry 'bout that, Suz. I'll have make certain to feed the foul beastie before he snaps altogether-or collapses."

"Potter!" Draco glared, and then glanced over at Bones, as well, concerned she might be taking Potter's teasing seriously. "Don't mind him, Susan," he advised her earnestly. "The prat simply enjoys making trouble. I'm perfectly hale, trust me. Now, you had some preliminary data on these Yeti?"

"You two," Bone chuckled, busily rummaging through an open drawer in her massive desk for the pertinent file, "are purely priceless."

She found what she wanted and handed a thin manila folder over. Draco snatched it up, duly pleased with not having to rely on the rented device Potter had dug up for him shortly after his accident-the Talking Quill. He was more than capable of doing his job properly and without help, finally.

"Right, that's all we have, at the moment," Bones went on sensibly, taking up her cup and visibly moving back on track with the main reason for their presence in her office, "which is damned little, considering Luna works for Magical Creatures!"

Potter chuckled and Draco smiled, a small sly curl of shared resignation with Lovegood's starts and fits.

"Well, anyway, go over what's there as you have a moment and then plan on Portkeying to Drepung early Monday morning, if you would. Lucinda will arrange your accomodations and all the permits and working visas, so not to worry about any of that nonsense." Bones' smile grew wider, and she twinkled, as if she knew something Draco didn't and quite liked it that way. "Oh, and a few weeks is fine for pulling it together; we've plenty of leeway on this one. But Owl me, alright? To stay abreast."

"Sure," Potter nodded, agreeably. "Happy to, Suz. Thanks for the work, actually. Appreciate it."

Potter glanced fondly over at his research partner, who was quietly following along, making notes and intently perusing the measly lot of information their contractual employer had just supplied them.

"How're you holding up over there, Draco?" Potter prodded. "Alright? That tea doing its job?"

"What? Wanker!" Draco snapped, eyes narrowed at Potter's arch tone. He scowled. "I'm perfectly fine, Potter, so cease and desist, will you?" Draco snapped the wafer-thin file shut crisply, setting it aside. "Thank you, Susan. Looking this over, I think we've enough to make a decent start-barely. We'll be happy to Owl you once we've a better idea of what we're up against, though. I'd imagine by end-of-day Monday we'll know. Tuesday morning, at the latest."

Beside him, Potter smiled cheerily and nodded his agreement, raising a rude thumb's up to jab in Draco's direction. "What he said, Suz. That alright?"

"You two! Such a howl! I just adore it when you drop by and see me," Bones giggled with girlish delight and bent forward over her crowded blotter, looking for all the world like an excited Fourth Form, full to the brim with gossip. She took a tiny gulp of the black stewed brew the Ministry laughingly called Darjeeling and then set her empty cup down again with a little clatter.

"Right, brilliant," she grinned, eyes gleaming, cheerfully patting the folder she'd just been given. "Glad to know that's all tied up and you'll take on Luna's project, as well. You know, I really couldn't think of a better team to tackle something so daft, other than your firm. So versatile, really." Harry choked into his tea cup on his last swallow and Draco had yet another opportunity to glare at him.

"And I'll look forward to reading all about the Society's assorted oddballs, later on," Bones went on. "Thank you, Draco, Harry," she nodded at their hastily summoned matching professional smiles, and then leant even closer, nearly knocking her tea cup askew. "Now, before you go, do let me pass on what I've just heard from Seamus about the Patil twins and Michael Corner! It's bloody hilarious!"

0000oooo000

"Still a bloody wanker," Draco remarked, when Potter handed over the oily remains of his chips for Draco to finish. They'd stopped at a stall instead of lunching out, and were presently seated on opposite sides of Potter's scarred kitchen table, the last of a generous pile of steaming fish and chips between them. They'd gobbled the majority of it down in a mere fifteen minutes. "I'd appreciate it if you'd not fuss at me in the presence of our employers, Potter. That was entirely unprofessional. Also, Potter, I thought you were supposed to treating me. How'd I end up with Muggle street food yet again?"

"What's wrong with this, then?" Potter demanded. He leant forward, grabbing at Draco's busy hands and finally capturing one at the wrist. His warm fingers circled it, stilling Draco's arm as if it were frozen. "You like fish and chips, Draco. It was a fine meal; very filling; just the thing for a recovering patient-and you know it. And now, I do believe, you're in dire need of a rest, Grumpy, and you won't take a nap if I let you alone. Pig-headed nit."

A nap. In Potter's bed. Another, in a recent rash of them.

Draco considered, in the space of a blink. Naps generally led to...other things. They'd gotten into the habit of taking them together, this last week, when Draco's energy flagged from the curse's effects and he became headachy. It sounded terribly inviting, a nap...and terribly frightening, too, now he could clearly discern Potter's every expression once more. He'd gotten used to knowing Potter only by touch, and by taste, and by the changeable shades in his voice. Having a clear view of those speaking eyes and mobile face wasn't at all comfort-inducing for Draco; at least not presently. He'd felt the weight of Potter's attention too often recently to be at all confident he'd be able to pull off 'casual', at least not when pinned by brilliantly piercing green lenses. It'd been different when he was blind. Better.

He turned to examining the greasy crumbs on his plate quite carefully, as if they-and only they- held the secrets to all of life's little mysteries. Studiously avoided Potter's unrelenting gaze and air of expectancy, well aware he was sadly out of practice with guarding himself with cool professionalism, and all that in just the one week.

In truth, Draco had almost forgotten what it felt like, hiding behind a chilly front that took careful note of everything, but particularly of Potter. Camouflaged in plain view, as it were, as he'd been for the entire two years they'd worked together-shagged each other, too. For nothing more than convenience, naturally. Because they were both always in each other's company, and shared the same basic needs and inclinations. Somehow, in some arcane manner, the blasted Stygian curse had lent him a deceptively romantic cloak of innocence for a single week out of time; he felt the loss ever so keenly now it was done and over with.

But Potter had just insulted him, yet again, and that warranted some sort of snippy response, as usual.

"Not, and I'm not particularly tired, either; don't carry on fussing, prat," Draco retorted sharply, turning to glance fretfully at the kitchen clock. He flapped a hand at it, and its unstoppable hands. "And we should really begin revising for the Yeti project, Potter. Monday's not all that far away."

"We have the whole, entire weekend before us," Potter replied expansively, though his fingers tightened 'round Draco's wrist. "It's Friday, love, and time to wind down a bit. You, especially, Draco. You've had a rough week, haven't you?"

Draco lifted his shoulders dismissively as Potter rose, shoving his chair back with a threatening scrape, and watched impassively as the other man stepped agilely  'round the table's sharp corner, never once releasing his grip on Draco's wristbone.

"And, too," Potter went on, a hint of smile touching the corners of his compelling eyes, "I want to make certain you're fully recovered from your harrowing experience," Potter smirked. "Which translates into a restorative nap, Draco. Now. With me."

"You're awfully demanding, Potter," Draco carped, idly looking over the mess of scribbled notes and Wizarding photos Potter had stuck to his cool box. "Rude, even. As always. I'm not at all tired. There's no need for this nonsense."

Potter blandly ignored him, shoving an impatient leg between Draco's knees and leveraging them apart sufficiently so he wouldn't tip off when he sat down. Which he did, promptly, twisting his narrow hips sideways and inserting himself jauntily onto Draco's freshly-minted lap, balancing with help of Draco's stiffly held forearm, and grinning like a cheeky little monkey, all the while.

"There," he announced, "that's much better, Draco. Don't you think?"

"And you're as heavy as a tonne of bricks, Potter. Get off me; I'm still eating," Draco added, taking care to appear appropriately offended by the unasked for intrusion. He tugged fitfully with the hand Potter stubbornly refused to release, fidgeting with the discarded chips packet with the other. "Potter. I mean it. Get off."

"Bed," Potter drawled, apparently deaf. "My bed. Best place for you, Draco."

"Work, which is what we must do daily, Potter, to afford such luxuries as beds," Draco retorted quickly. He scowled; his stupid prick was already interested, the warm pressure of Potter's buttocks coaxing it into ready life. He glared at Potter all the more sternly, determined to ignore what his traitorous body demanded. "Finish your excuse for a lunch and let's get on with it."

"Bed now," Potter carried on, unfazed, "while your defenses are down, Draco. You can Apparate us right there, right this instant. You know the way well enough, I'm sure."

"Defenses, Potter?" Draco was startled into asking, eyebrows climbing high. They never addressed such topics; he couldn't imagine why Potter would want to, after so long. "Whatever do you mean?"

"…Draco," Potter raised his free hand and cupped Draco's jaw with an oily palm. He quirked his brows in that way he had and Draco melted internally, also as per usual. "Why do you never say it, even now?"

"Say what, Potter?"

"My first name. Is it so hard to think of me that way—as 'Harry'?"

Draco stared blankly at Potter and wished the Stygian curse was still in effect. He didn't want to see-or be seen. Seeing was so difficult, really. Here he was, trapped, the stark desire in his eyes reflected so clearly in that beguiling, refracting deep green mirror; his dry lips parted as if to speak but all his quick ripostes blunted, stifled at birth. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

"No." His response was slow and rusty, grudging. Honest.

"Then say it, right now," Potter whispered. He tilted his chin, brushed his fried-cod scented lips across Draco's vinegary ones. "Say 'Harry' for me. Please."

"Harry."

"Again." Potter gnawed lightly on Draco's clenched jawbone. "Again," he coaxed, murmuring.

"…Harry."

"Now, tell me what it is you want, Draco," the seductive voice continued, caressing his ears. Draco let his eyelids sink shut; confessions of intent were marginally easier to manage in the dark. The blessed, comforting dark. "What do you need?" Harry purred. "Draco?"

"You," he croaked. Couldn't, for the life of him, come up with another syllable. Except, he could. Two, even. "…Harry."

"How do you want me, Draco?" His beetled brows were being smoothed out of their pucker, his tangled lashes tongued ever so lightly. "Tell me."

"In me." Draco was struck still as a statue, not daring to inhale, not daring to move a single muscle. His fingers were talons, curling 'round nothing solid, waiting. "Harry."

"And where do you want me, Draco?" Harry's voice was sultry, but infinitely gentle. Draco's sensitized hearing detected no sign of malicious teasing, no baleful challenge. It was nothing more than what it seemed: a lover's invitation.

"Bed," he replied instantly, "or here, on the table. Now. Doesn't matter—anywhere." He sucked in a huge gulp of comfortably kitchen-scented air; felt his lungs expand gratefully. He couldn't stop saying it, not now he was allowed. "Harry."

"Perfect, Draco. You've finally gotten it."

"Yes, I—" he began, but Harry's mouth halted him, mid-stream.

Draco literally felt the pleased smile blooming across Harry's lips and taking fire on his own. Grinned idiotically in return with his burning, branded mouth; blinking fast to adjust to this new sort of vision. He was right there, still, large as life, reflected in Harry's wide-open gaze, a great blond blur of grey and pale and shiny white, pink 'round the edges. He was right there, as always, but he was different.

"Think I might. Harry."

"Brill. Now," Harry settled his bum even more comfortably, and gave Draco another tiny kiss for his troubles. "Draco. It's naptime."

"Well...alright, Harry-if by that you meant a euphemism for something better than mere sleeping. I've told you, I'm not tired."

"'Course it is,"Harry grinned saucily and Draco smiled right along with him.

"Then, definitely alright," he replied. "Harry."

Finite