Disclaimer - No copyright infringement intended. It's all the property of JK Rowling & co.

A/N - This was written for the 2012 H/D Career Fair on Livejournal (originally posted there under adonis-flammea).The prompt was for art student!Harry and life model!Draco.

Thanks to birdsofshore for the great prompt. And a million thank yous to amorette for being a wonderful beta.

It's not that Harry Potter would say he was good at art, it's just –

Okay. He was good.

And it felt fantastic.

It was something he could work on, something he could improve. It was a talent he had never even considered before, that he could now develop and test out. And when he managed to create something he was proud of, he could take complete credit for it. It wasn't his duty, it wasn't his destiny. It wasn't in his blood either, like Quidditch, so he wasn't just expected to do well.

Of course, everyone had been shocked when it was discovered that he was studying to become an artist (and that was putting it mildly – the Daily Prophet had had a field day speculating about his new life path, and his friends had been stunned, to say the least).

Harry had gone into Auror training during the year after the war, having completed his NEWTs that summer. But that year had turned out horribly. He was racked with grief over his losses and he had a large amount of survivor's guilt. He had also fallen out with Ginny – and consequently the rest of the Weasleys, for a short time. He then decided the only thing he could do was to try and please himself, so he dropped Auror training out of the blue and retreated to Grimmauld Place. (Harry called that period "relaxing and recovering." Hermione called it "hiding and hibernating.")

The truth was, Harry was tired of doing what everyone expected of him, and hadn't he already fought the Dark Arts enough for one lifetime? His life was finally his own now, and after several unsatisfying months of trying to steer it in a direction he wasn't sure about, he decided to try to satisfy only himself for once.

After that, he had drifted. He read a lot, at Hermione's insistence, trying to find a new career path he might like. He considered playing Quidditch professionally, but while he still did enjoy a match among friends, he decided that he wouldn't much like the spotlight and press that came with being on a team.

And then, half a year ago, he had discovered that he could draw. He had grown to be very close friends with Dean Thomas (he had spent a lot of time with him in the aftermath of his break-up with Ginny and abandonment of Auror training, when things with Ron were tense) and was fascinated by Dean's work.

Dean had decided to become a wizard artist – it turned out that there were all kinds of art techniques involving magic that could be combined with Muggle ones. Dean must have realized how interested Harry was in all of this, because one day when Harry was studying a scenery painting that Dean was working on, he said, "You could try, you know."

"Try what?" Harry had asked, confused.

"You know. Art." Dean handed Harry a pad of paper and a graphite pencil. "Try drawing something. Draw me. Draw the table. Anything."

So Harry had tried – hesitantly, dubiously – and had been astonished and pleased to find that the results weren't half bad.

From then on Dean had sort of taken Harry under his wing and was showing him the ropes of drawing and painting, coaxing both skill and eagerness from him.

One day Dean suggested that Harry take classes. "You can always stop if you decide you're not actually serious about it. It shouldn't be bad, though; we can take the class together."

Harry had been feeling more and more serious about his artwork, so he accepted the invitation. "Why are you taking classes, though?" he asked Dean. "You don't need them. You can already do so much."

Dean had laughed. "Maybe. But I do want to get proper qualifications. Who knows, maybe I'll teach an art class myself one of these days."

So that was how, almost two years after having killed Voldemort, Harry found himself walking into his daily wizarding art class at a small centre hidden in the heart of Muggle London, which he had never noticed until his first lesson a few months ago. If, on that fateful day of May 1998, someone had told him that in a couple of years' time he would be on the road to becoming a professional artist, he would have had a good laugh and asked if they were friends with Trelawney.

But now, as he chose a stool and easel between Dean and a blonde girl whose name he didn't know, it certainly all felt both real and plausible to him. The rest of the wizarding world was beginning to accept it, too – although some journalists still liked to think that he was using the whole artist career as a cover so that he could secretly train a child army to take on the Ministry.

"Good morning, class."

Professor Wilson stood at the front of the room, looking stern as she waited for the students to settle down. She was a small, elderly witch with a keen eye and a severe sort of face. While she rarely smiled, she was a good teacher and fair in her critiques of students' work, and Harry really had nothing to complain about.

"Today we will be continuing our unit on charcoal," Professor Wilson announced. "I trust that you all remember the incantations for shading properly, as well as how to choose compressed charcoal sticks depending on your intent, because we're moving on from the basics." She cleared her throat – possibly for effect – before continuing. "In today's lesson we will be focusing on sketching the human form."

A murmur of interest rose up from some of the students. Harry turned his head and saw that the blond girl next to him was whispering something excitedly to the girl on her other side.

Well, Harry thought, I expected we'd get to portraits at some point.

"As I'm sure you're all aware, the naked body is one of the most fascinating and complex subjects in the art world. You'll be able to get started" – Wilson paused and pulled out a pocket watch – "as soon as the model, who is late, arrives."

Wait.

Naked? They were actually going to paint someone… naked? Harry looked around in confusion, but nobody else seemed to be particularly fazed, and Wilson definitely didn't look like she was joking.

Surely they can't actually have someone sitting around naked, though. This is a class, after all. It wouldn't be appropriate in a learning environment. He repeated his reasoning to Dean.

Dean laughed. "Harry, don't be a prude. It's not a big deal. This happens all the time in art classes."

Does it? Harry supposed he wouldn't know.

Five minutes later, the class was chatting loudly, lesson forgotten for the time being. Professor Wilson was leafing through some papers on her desk, alternating between glancing impatiently at the door and her watch every few seconds. Harry, meanwhile, was trying not to panic.

Get a grip, Harry, he told himself sternly. Nobody else minds about this. You were a Gryffindor. You killed Voldemort, for Merlin's sake. Man up already.

But it just didn't seem right. To look at a naked body, something that personal, for so long, studying it, copying it… that was an invasion of privacy, right? Not to mention it seemed perverted.

The model's late, though, Harry thought somewhat desperately. Maybe she forgot, maybe she won't show up...

There was a knock on the door. "Good, here he is," Professor Wilson said.

He? Harry thought, mouth going dry with shock. The model was a he? Had he misheard?

Then the door opened, and Draco Malfoy walked in.

Harry's jaw dropped. Bloody hell.

Harry hadn't seen Malfoy since he had given him his wand back soon after the war. Malfoy hadn't even shown up to catch up on his NEWTs in the summer, and Harry hadn't heard a scrap of news about what he was doing with his life.

Not that he cared. He had barely given Malfoy a thought, really. Except for a bit of curiosity about where he had disappeared to, which he may have tried to discuss with his friends. But that was only natural.

And now, here he was, strutting into Harry's art class, of all places, as the nude model, of all things. One could forgive Harry his astonishment.

"Class, this is Mr. Malfoy, who will model for us today... now that he's actually here." Wilson gave Malfoy a severe frown in reprimand for being late. "Mr. Malfoy, you may disrobe, and then sit on the stool in the middle there. Class, the supplies are at the front here. Take what you need."

Harry stared, still stunned, as Malfoy casually sauntered to the centre of the semicircle of easels. Malfoy, noticing Dean and him, nodded briefly in their direction, as though the whole situation was perfectly normal. Harry was vaguely aware of Dean giving a nod in return beside him.

Malfoy then pulled his robes off in one fluid motion, pausing to fold them and place them carefully beneath his stool before unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slide off his arms, fully exposing a pale, lithe torso. Then Malfoy undid his trousers and Harry found himself frozen in his seat, unable to look away.

"Harry, come on, you need to get your charcoal."

Harry turned away abruptly. Dean was shaking his shoulder and watching him curiously.

"Right," Harry said, feeling strangely flustered. He stood, looking anywhere but at the stripping Malfoy in the middle of the room. "Right. Come on, then."

As Harry was picking out his charcoal, he was embarrassed to see that his hands were shaking. It's only natural to be nervous, he tried to tell himself. No one should have to see their sworn enemy undressing. But that didn't seem quite right – because of course, Malfoy had never really been his enemy. Still, he swallowed at the thought of seeing him naked.

Malfoy was sprawled elegantly across his stool, nose lifted haughtily and looking the picture of bored sophistication. Harry perched on the edge of his own stool and made sure his sheet of canvas was properly placed on his easel.

He cleared his throat. He adjusted his easel so that he could see Malfoy between his canvas and Dean's. He cleared his throat again.

"Harry, stop fidgeting and get started!" Dean said. "Wilson's coming this way."

Dean had already started outlining Malfoy's neck and torso. Harry hastened to do the same – after all, he wanted to do well in this class.

Right. So. The shoulders seemed as good a place to get started as any. Harry sketched them out and then filled them in, trying to capture the sharpness of Malfoy's pointy shoulders, and how they dipped inwards before meeting the long line of his neck.

There. Not bad, Harry thought.

"Not bad," Professor Wilson said to him with a nod of approval, before moving on to praise Dean.

Next, Malfoy's chest. Harry moved his focus away from the shoulders and stared at Malfoy's chest, trying to decide how to do the shading. He had always assumed that Malfoy was just skinny, but now he saw that his muscles were defined, if not bulky.

And then there were Malfoy's nipples, which Harry thought might be more difficult to get right. They were small and a light pink colour. He had never given much thought to nipples before, but now he found he couldn't look away.

He wondered if the peaks were always that pointy, or if that was just because Malfoy was cold in the drafty room. He wondered how they would feel, were he to touch them.

He wondered what the fuck was wrong with him.

Harry, just draw them and get this over with. Harry, stop staring like that. Seriously, Harry, this is weird. Look away.

Harry lifted his head and his gaze snapped to Malfoy's face. Malfoy was looking straight at him, smirking, one eyebrow raised.

Fuck. Harry felt himself go red, and Malfoy's smirk grew wider.

What does it matter? Harry thought crossly and a bit defensively. I'm drawing him. I'm supposedto be looking at him. He looked back at his canvas and continued drawing, making sure to focus on the parts of Malfoy he was drawing at the moment, and not up at Malfoy's face, or… below.

This was better, this methodical, systematic approach. He had to look at Malfoy's body as an object, and not look further ahead than his current task. Yes, this way was more… considerate of Malfoy's privacy.

As Harry concentrated, he gradually became aware that the girls to his right were talking, quietly enough so as not to be heard by Wilson but not so quietly that Harry couldn't hear.

"We are so lucky," one of them was saying. "Here I was thinking we'd get some saggy old woman, and it turns out to be this fit bloke."

"More than fit," the other one said. "He's bloody gorgeous. Do you think he's free after class?"

They both dissolved into a fit of giggles, causing Professor Wilson to glare at them in warning.

Harry frowned. He felt a bit disconcerted, and inexplicably irritated.

Dean, clearly having heard the girls as well, leaned closer to Harry and said, "A bit strange, isn't it? Malfoy modelling, I mean. Never saw that coming."

Harry wasn't sure what to say. He found the entire situation to be more than a bit strange. It was more like surreal. And disturbing, of course.

He settled for making a vague noise of agreement and continued shading Malfoy's abdominal muscles. His mouth was very dry and he felt a little lightheaded. He had walked home in the rain yesterday; could he be coming down with something?

He was tired, too. That was probably it.

He shaded in Malfoy's sharp hip bones, blending and muttering spells to make them appear to jut out at the right angles. Then it was time to move lower.

Harry swallowed nervously. He didn't want to have to look at, and draw, Malfoy's bits.

He'd work on Malfoy's face for now, Harry decided. But when he brought his eyes back up to his face, Malfoy was still looking at him. When they made eye contact, Malfoy just blinked at him coolly.

"Why's Malfoy staring at us?" Harry hissed at Dean.

"What?" Dean glanced up from his work. "Oh. He's not staring, exactly; he just can't change positions now that we've all been drawing him."

How could Dean just take this in stride? Malfoy was clearly trying to infuriate him. Harry made ahmph noise. That was it. He would rather look at Malfoy's prick than his stupid arrogant face.

Then he began to feel a little, well, curious. The childish, competitive side of him, which so often had featured in his interactions with Malfoy back when they were in school, was making an appearance. It occurred to him that he should want to have a look, just to see if he was bigger than him.

Harry supposed it didn't matter as much now, but when he was, say, fifteen, he would have taken vindictive pleasure in winning against Malfoy in that department.

He decided to take the Gryffindor approach and plunge right in, so to speak. He brought his charcoal stick back to the canvas and began to sketch. And, well, oh.

The very fine, fair hairs that trailed down Malfoy's stomach got denser where his thighs met, and his legs were carelessly parted so that Harry could see his balls beneath his cock. Harry could feel a wild thumping in his chest, and he struggled to keep his breathing calm enough to focus on drawing.

He had seen his Hogwarts teammates in the Quidditch showers, of course, but it was nothing like this. Malfoy was completely bared, displaying himself for their observation and scrutiny. It was indecent, that's what it was.

On another note, Harry couldn't tell if Malfoy was bigger than him or not. He might have been, but then again, maybe he was slightly smaller. Really, the only way he would be able to tell for sure would be a side-by-side comparison.

Harry quickly tried to steer his mind away from that thought, because he was frankly notenjoying the mental images it evoked. And maybe his trousers were becoming a little tight, but he was a nineteen-year-old male; these things tended to happen at inconvenient times.

He just had to continue his drawing, and not look at Malfoy's face.

Ten minutes later, Harry was shading in Malfoy's thighs, which, he decided, were unappealing, scrawny things. He was still sort of (very) hard, but that was just those blasted out-of-check hormones. When was the last time he'd had a girl over, anyway? He couldn't remember – he had always been rubbish at dating.

He resolved to get laid soon.

As he was finishing up Malfoy's legs, Professor Wilson announced that they had twenty minutes left. He leaned back and studied his drawing, in which Malfoy had no head or arms. He would have to work quickly to get everything done properly.

He turned his attention to Malfoy's long, lean arms and then remembered something: Malfoy's Dark Mark. He hadn't even thought of that before, and it occurred to him now because nobody else had given it any thought either – because Malfoy's left arm was bent at an angle, hiding the Mark from view.

Harry wondered if this was intentional on Malfoy's part or not. Malfoy's pose looked casually nonchalant, not premeditated or calculated. Though, he realized, finishing the left forearm, the concealment was probably done on purpose – he could only imagine what everyone's reactions would be if they had to see it.

Harry felt sorry for Malfoy, a feeling with which he was definitely not comfortable. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't hated Malfoy since that night on the Astronomy Tower when he had been unable to kill Dumbledore. Recognizing that fact now took him completely off guard.

Harry sighed and put his charcoal down to survey his work so far. Malfoy's bare (and headless) body lounged languidly on his sheet of canvas, and Harry found it much easier to look at his charcoal strokes than at the actual Malfoy. He studied the details, making sure everything was how he wanted it to be, and tapped various areas with his wand to add some more motion and dimension.

He knew he still had to do Malfoy's face – he was putting it off, not wanting to look up and see Malfoy staring at him – but he thought that his drawing was pretty good. "Capture reality but make it your own," Professor Wilson always said. It made Harry feel slightly uncomfortable (definitely not aroused) to see Malfoy's bare body drawn in his own style, all his private areas illustrated by Harry's strong, blunt strokes.

He couldn't put it off forever, so he raised a charcoal stick to the canvas and looked up at Malfoy's face. Sure enough, Malfoy was still looking straight at him, and Harry flushed at the thought of Malfoy having watched him drawing his prick. He glanced at the clock – about ten minutes left – and got to work, trying to avoid eye contact.

The angles of Malfoy's face were as sharp as they had always been, but he seemed to have grown into them, making them look sculpted instead of overpowering. His long, pointed nose was lifted and his thin lips were curled up slightly in a lazy sort of smirk.

When Harry got to his eye area (cheekbones, bridge of nose, eyebrows, and, of course, eyes), his hand started to shake. He felt half embarrassed and half ridiculous, looking into Malfoy's eyes, studying him as Malfoy looked back (probably relishing his discomfort, the bastard).

Malfoy was staring at him challengingly, daring him not to break the eye contact. Harry didn't. He shaded the white-blond eyelashes in, very lightly, and it occurred to him that he didn't know as much about Malfoy as he thought he did.

Why had Malfoy become a model? It had never seemed like the type of job he might have. Harry had always pictured him poncing around the Ministry, handing out money like his father. But if Malfoy had to have a career of some sorts, he supposed that modelling made sense. Malfoy's features were attractive in a refined, precise way, his body elegant and faultless, and he certainly seemed to have no qualms about showing it all off.

Harry immediately wanted to kick himself for thinking that. The glint in Malfoy's eyes made him feel like he knew exactly what was going on Harry's head.

Maybe he does, Harry thought with sudden panic. He spent lots of time with Snape. He probably knows Legilimency.

As Harry quickly drew the high planes of Malfoy's forehead and sketched out his sleek, pale hair, he frantically tried to clear his mind. Then he saw Malfoy's amused expression and stopped, realizing that he had been screwing up his own face in his rubbish attempt at Occlumency.

He was more than relieved when Professor Wilson said, "Alright, time's up," and everybody put their charcoal down. Malfoy stood up and started to get dressed again. Harry averted his eyes and turned to Dean.

"You doing anything this afternoon?" he asked him.

"Yeah, I've got a lunch date." Dean grinned, looking pleased with himself. "Sorry, but I won't ask you to come with me."

Harry laughed. "No, that's okay. Have a good time." Dean left and Harry gathered up the charcoal he had been using and stood up, surreptitiously arranging his robes so that they concealed what was left of his embarrassing erection.

His hands trembled as he stuffed the different charcoal sticks back in the right boxes, trying to be quick so that he could leave as soon as possible.

He wished Dean hadn't left right away. He could tell that the room was emptying out behind him, could hear the sounds of people packing their things hurriedly, footsteps fading away. He was almost afraid to turn around; he didn't want to be alone in the room with just Malfoy and Professor Wilson.

When he did turn around, though, he saw that he wasn't. Professor Wilson had already gone, leaving just him and Malfoy. Just my bleeding luck, Harry thought, groaning inwardly.

Malfoy was pulling on his robes, his hair falling across his face as he made sure his expensive-looking clothes were all properly in place. Harry watched the way the tips of his hair brushed his cheekbones, the way it gleamed in the sunlight coming in through the windows.

Malfoy straightened up. "Potter," he said, catching him staring. His face twisted into what seemed to be a half-hearted imitation of his signature sneer.

"Malfoy." Harry tried to say it with as much venom as he had in the past, but failed and ended up just sounding awkward. "Um. Hi."

"So the shocking rumours are true," Malfoy said, his tone of voice indifferent. "The great Harry Potter has abandoned the Aurors, all to become an artist. Touching."

"Well, it's not like the Aurors need me," Harry snapped, his chest beginning to burn with the familiar angry fire that always came when he was fighting Malfoy. "And what about you? A life model. Isn't your father disappointed that you haven't followed in his footsteps?"

"Shut up about my father," Malfoy said heatedly, stepping towards him. Then he stopped and gave a small sigh. "You may not have noticed this, but it's not easy for former Death Eaters to find work at places like the Ministry nowadays. Not to mention that the Malfoy name doesn't have as much influence as it once did."

He didn't sound bitter, just weary. Harry, surprised both by Malfoy's sudden change in demeanour and his candidness, could do nothing but gape at him.

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at him. "And modelling is working out pretty well for me, all things considered. How did you enjoy your lesson today?"

Harry's face flooded with heat. "I was – er, surprised – to see you here," he stammered, not sure why he felt so uncomfortable.

Malfoy smirked, and Harry watched the left side of his mouth curve upwards, stretching his smooth pink lips. He couldn't take his eyes off those lips. He wanted Malfoy to speak again, wanted to watch them move, wanted to touch them, wanted to –

Harry looked away with some effort, horrified at the path his thoughts were taking. He didn't dare look back at Malfoy just yet.

"I, um, I just didn't know what you'd been doing or what had happened to you," he said, trying to divert Malfoy's attention from his staring. "I never heard anything."

"What, you expected me to owl you? Or you thought the details of my life would be made common knowledge?" Malfoy said sarcastically. "You may not know this, Potter, but you're the only person who has every move you make, every career decision, every date with a girl, made into public information. The rest of us are not so blessed." He paused and looked directly at Harry. "Although if it were me, I suppose there wouldn't be any news about dates with girls."

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Was he just trying to wind him up? Or was Malfoy gay?

Why does it matter, anyway?

Harry coughed uneasily, choosing to ignore Malfoy's last comment. "Well, then, Malfoy. It was good catching up with you." He winced at the formality of his tone.

Malfoy leant down and picked up the smart leather bag at his feet. Straightening up, he brushed his hair out of his eyes. Harry watched the graceful movement of his long fingers, the sway of his hair against his eyelashes and forehead.

"Yes, Potter," Malfoy said primly. "A real pleasure." He dropped his hand from his face and Harry followed it with his eyes, only to realize that Malfoy was actually extending it for him to shake.

So he shook Malfoy's hand, and maybe he should have noticed the significance of this moment.

But he didn't think of that, because he looked at Malfoy, Malfoy's hand smooth and warm in his, and Malfoy looked back at him. And then Malfoy slowly licked his lips, the tip of his pink tongue leaving behind a wet glaze, and Harry found he could do nothing but stare helplessly.

Malfoy smiled, released his hand and stepped back.

Was I just looking at his tongue? What the hell is wrong with me? Harry stuck his hands in his pockets, thinking that he couldn't get away from Malfoy fast enough.

"Where are you going now?" he blurted as he followed Malfoy to the door.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at the question. "Home, I presume," he said dryly. "Why? Do you have a better plan?"

"Well, I'm going to get lunch," Harry said. "Aren't you hungry?"

What in Merlin's name am I doing? he thought. Shut up Harry, shut up now.

"Are you asking me out to lunch, Potter?" Malfoy seemed to be enjoying himself immensely and Harry fought the urge to punch the stupid git in the face. "I wasn't sure if we were at that stage yet, but if you think we are, I accept."

Okay, this is your cue, Harry instructed himself. Tell him no and leave, as civilly as possible. Or tell him to shove off. Whichever.

"Come on, then," he said.

What?

Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise. Wait, shit, no, go back –

"That certainly clears things up," Malfoy said, smug smile back in place. "Are you taking me somewhere special?"

Harry wanted to say, 'I'm not taking you anywhere. Go home and keep your house elves company.' He wanted to say, 'We're just going to the Muggle café around the corner.' He wanted to say, 'This is not a bloody date, Malfoy.'

He said, "There's a nice French restaurant nearby that has homemade wine and great seafood."

"I could certainly do worse than you." Malfoy's smile and voice were both unexpectedly soft. He walked out the door, leaving Harry to wonder whether he should take that as an insult or compliment. He settled on ignoring it altogether and followed Malfoy out of the room.

Harry walked down the hall after Malfoy, trying not to look at Malfoy's arse and resolutely thinking very straight thoughts.

Besides, this obviously isn't actually a date, he reasoned, after a very embarrassing moment in which Harry had unthinkingly gone to hold the door open for Malfoy on the way out of the centre, then realized what he was doing and carried through awkwardly, while determinedly avoiding eye contact. He's just being a prat about it, as usual.

He glanced sideways at Malfoy, who was walking beside him on the sidewalk now. He had to admit that Malfoy cut an impressive figure, striding along in tailored robes that made him look even taller than he actually was. When he noticed Harry looking at him, he slowed his steps and spoke.

"So what are you going to do with that drawing of me you've done?" His tone was light, playful, no trace of the nastiness that Harry would have expected. Still, something about Malfoy – the hint of a smirk that lingered on his face, the gleam in his eyes that Harry had never seen before, which made his stomach twist oddly – made him want to be contrary.

"I don't know, Malfoy. Do you want me to give it to you? I expect you'll want to frame it and hang it up."

"Maybe it's you who wants to 'frame it and hang it up.'" Malfoy stopped walking and raised his eyebrows suggestively at him.

He's just trying to wind you up, Harry told himself. Don't rise to the bait.

He had never been very good at listening to himself. "Well, maybe –" he began loudly, stepping closer to Malfoy, prepared to release all the tension that had been building up inside of him in the form of a good angry tirade. Then he noticed two things: first, that the small smile Malfoy was giving him was warm and surprisingly genuine, and second, that he was standing so close to Malfoy that he could feel his breath fanning over his face.

He cleared his throat, feeling somewhat dazed, but Malfoy broke in before he could say anything.

"Really, though, you should show me your art sometime. I mean, I'm curious."

Harry wasn't sure if it was he who kissed Malfoy or Malfoy who kissed him first, but one moment they were staring at each other, faces inches apart, Malfoy's words hanging in the air, and the next their lips were touching, sliding together, tentatively then roughly. The fire was back in Harry's chest and he leaned into Malfoy, pushing his tongue into his mouth as Malfoy gripped his shoulder.

Harry had never felt anything like this with anyone before, this burning want. He could feel Malfoy's chest flush against his, solid and smooth, and he could smell his aftershave. He knew he was starting to get hard again, and it occurred to him that they were in the middle of a sidewalk in Muggle London, and it also occurred to him that he didn't care.

When they pulled back, out of breath, the full awareness of what had just happened hit Harry. He had locked lips and twined tongues with Draco Malfoy. And he had liked it.

"I think I might be gay," Harry said.

Malfoy – Draco – laughed. "Well, save the crisis for later. You're taking me to lunch now, remember?"

"Lunch," Harry repeated, heart still beating fast, mind reeling with shock and arousal. "Right."

Draco took a step back and straightened his robes. "You rumpled my robes, you tosser. I sure hope we're not going somewhere formal."

This time it was definitely Harry who leaned in to kiss Draco, quickly deepening it at Draco's tacit encouragement and pushing him up against the nearest building. He could feel all the pieces falling into place inside his mind, but he stopped thinking about anything except the kiss. They would stop eventually, reluctantly, conscious of the number of people walking by. They would go to lunch and it would be a little awkward and Harry would feel bewildered and Draco would seem entertained. They would go back to Harry's flat afterwards and Harry would clear his throat nervously as Draco studied some of his paintings, and then Draco would turn to him and they would forget all about the paintings.

And maybe the Daily Prophet would get wind of this and print farfetched rumours, and maybe their friends wouldn't be quite as surprised about this new development as the rest of the world. Maybe they would see each other again, but not just for class and lunch, and maybe Harry would feel a bit jealous that classes full of other people got to see Draco's body, too.

For now, though, he focused on ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was saying "what the hell is happening here?" in favour of the one saying "fuck, this feels good." He also wanted to make sure that Draco's robes would be sufficiently wrinkled by the time they were done.