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“How are you? Have you been recovering well?” Draco asked breezily, picking at his thumb behind his back.
“I’m fine,” Harry lied.
Harry scratched his scar. A quick jab of fingers and then back to his suit pocket. An obvious tell he never dropped.
He refused to look at Draco.
“Harry—”
“I’m fine. Let’s dance.”
Harry set his glass down… on the floor.
Draco blinked rapidly at the champagne on marble, not the cut of Harry's ass in his suit, and was not-at-all caught off guard when he was jerked onto the dancing hall.
With a strong hand at his side, and sure feet spinning him around.
Harry still refused to look at him.
Draco leaned close. As if they were bespotted and not panicking. “I know what mother said, but you have a choice —”
“It's a good match,” Harry spoke low in his ear, hot breath curling down his collar. Draco shivered. Harry smelled like a summer storm and sandalwood. “The Malfoy name needs rehabilitation. I need Old Wards strong enough to protect me after Grimmauld.”
“Yes, but—”
“Six months.” Harry inhaled deeply. “Until we arrest whoever did it.”
Draco swallowed.
“I do not want you forced into—”
Harry stepped forward.
Until Draco could feel the heat of his chest through his thousand-galleon-and-should-not-feel-anything-through suit.
Harry hooked his fingers at Draco’s jaw until he was forced to look at him. Eternal, evergreen forest the harshest winters could not kill. And press his lips to his.
Draco stuttered, lost his step in the dance, and by the time he collected himself from the warm, soft lips and scent of the storm so close, Harry was already gone, jerking him around again in dance.
“I will not marry someone I do not want to, Malfoy.”
Harry still refused to look at him.