𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛 | drarry

Chapter 3

"So, that went well!" Draco beamed at Harry once they were alone in the flat. "I was good, wasn't I? The perfect Gentlewizard: funny, interesting, devastatingly handsome," Draco sighed dreamily. "They won't have a choice but to let me in after that. I mean, come on, we were brilliant!"

"Well," Harry shrugged. "I don't know."

"We were, believe me," Draco replied. "And you, Mr Killjoy, will be blinded by my utmost talent once I finally become a Gentlewizard."

"Right, until then, we still have the weekend to go through."

Draco made a dismissing gesture. "A simple formality. It will be a piece of Cauldron Cake."

"Yeah, whatever."

Sometimes Harry wondered how Draco always managed to always look on the bright side of life. For one thing, Harry had learned over the last few days that it wasn't always the case, that Draco, somehow, had his dark moments too, like everybody else. But still. Harry couldn't help thinking that the more Draco convinced himself he would be accepted by the Club, the harder the fall. And Harry hoped that when that happened - if that happened, Harry chided himself - Draco would be able to bounce back and set his mind to something else.

The rest of the week passed in a blur; Harry had thought at first that Draco would go back to live in his own flat but no. He'd told Harry in a rather patronising tone that it was much better for the credibility of their relationship to be together as much as possible until the weekend. Harry also suspected Draco rather enjoyed the fact he didn't have to cook at night, or that Harry's flat was really close to the Ministry, meaning he could laze about a little bit longer in bed in the morning.

Harry, of course, didn't mind one second. He tried to take things cautiously though, forcing himself not to get too used to Draco's presence too much because he knew the situation was temporary.

At night, things were different. At night, in the quiet of his room, with Draco just on the other side of the door, Harry's body was harder to subdue. It was always the same thing: Harry would feel the need to touch himself, but refused to do so. He would try to fall asleep, failing miserably as pictures of Draco kept invading his mind. Or he would recall something funny Draco had said during the day. Or else he would remind himself to check the recipe for the Butterbeer Cupcakes Draco had mentioned over lunch. And then, Harry would rationalise things by thinking that it was only because he spent his days - and now his nights - with Draco. But then, he had spent his days and nights with Ron and Hermione at one point and had never ever felt the need to touch himself thinking about either of them back then. Ew, just... ew. And it was not only due to the fact that all sexual activity had been tampered by the legitimate fear of being caught by Snatchers or Death Eaters on the loose, no. It was just... Neither Ron nor Hermione were Draco.

So after long minutes spent agonising on whether he should indulge in a little one on one with his right hand or not - and fuck, he really shouldn't - he always ended up relenting and wanking himself raw.

Every single night.

On Tuesday night though, his agonising predicament got up to another level when right after coming hard all over himself - just in that short moment when his brain was still fuzzy from his orgasm - he had distinctly heard a moan coming from the living-room. Yes, that kind of moan. No mistake about it. Harry had closed his eyes and been particularly thankful he had just come copiously because otherwise he would probably have had to change his whole set of sheets.

On Wednesday night, thankfully - and despite what Draco had told Harry - there was no date waiting for him anywhere. However, as they were quietly reading on the couch, the easily recognisable eagle owl from Malfoy manor had brought yet another letter to Draco from his father. Draco had opened and read it without a word, his impassive mask firmly in place before folding it and discarding it in the back pocket of his trousers. They did not speak about it, but the tiny ray of light filtering through the slit under Harry's bedroom door remained for a long time that night.