Chapter Text
It was all Ginny’s fault.
Harry was sure of it. If it hadn’t been for Ginny, Harry never would have found out about the Dragon’s Lair. If he somehow had found out about it, he certainly never would have gone. And if he had gone—which, yes, maybe he would have, actually, just out of a perverse fascination—he certainly never would have said anything. And he would have used a disguise.
Come down to it, if Ginny hadn’t pulled her mouth off his cock that day in eighth year and said, “Oh fuck this, I’m a lesbian,” Harry probably would have married her. They would have been miserable, and Harry would have probably been too cowardly to drop out of Auror training to see what else was out there. They probably would have had children with cute hair and embarrassing names, and they’d have ended up tired and boring and miserable, all so that they could have done what was expected of them as teenagers.
But Ginny did say it, and Harry said, “Oh, thank God, because I think I’m gay.”
Ginny had sat up, wiping her face, and said, “Why the fuck aren’t you sucking a cock then?”
And Harry had said, “God, I fucking want to,” and they’d looked at one another and started laughing, and they were still laughing when they went down to dinner in the Great Hall and told everyone they’d broken up.
And that was why it was all Ginny’s fault, that Harry had just knocked on the door of Draco Malfoy’s flat to ask him to fuck Harry into oblivion.
***
It had started so innocently. It had been their seven-year anniversary, and they were making a night of it.
“I don’t understand you two. You’re celebrating dumping one another?”
“We’re celebrating our shared gay epiphanies,” Ginny had said, flinging herself into Pansy’s lap and sticking her tongue down her throat.
“We’re celebrating the fact that Ginny hasn’t done that to me for seven years,” Harry remarked, watching them with a slight grimace from the doorway.
“You’re weird, both of you,” Pansy said.
“I’m friends with someone who tried to give me up to Voldemort, and you think the fact that I’m still friends with Gin is weird?” Harry said as Ginny got back up and grabbed her jacket.
“That was one time!” Pansy shouted after them. “I said I was sorry!”
“Night, Pans,” Harry called.
***
“What about him? He’s not bad looking.”
“Do you think I liked you because you were a more feminine version of Ron?”
“Say that again; I dare you.”
“I’m just saying; that bloke looks like Ron. I’m not shagging someone who looks like Ron.”
“Are you saying you wouldn’t shag Ron?” Ginny asked, and Harry nearly choked on his pint. “I think he might be a little offended by that.”
“Yes, surely, your straight, married brother is weeping into his pillow at the idea that his gay best friend doesn’t want to shag him,” Harry said.
“Ooh, what about him,” Ginny said.
“He looks—he looks a little like me,” Harry said, frowning and tilting his head to one side. “What kind of kinks do you think I have, anyway?”
“I am relieved to not know,” Ginny said.
Harry’s eyes caught a flash of palest gold. “Oh, him, on the other hand…” He craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the tall man’s arse.
Ginny stared, then started laughing hysterically, and she wouldn’t tell Harry why.
Three drinks later, Harry had reached the “uncomfortably honest and no longer squeamish about sex” stage of the evening.
“Have you ever heard,” Harry said, voice solemn, “of a prostate.”
Ron, who had joined them about five minutes earlier, choked on his pint. Hermione raised her eyebrows and turned to Ginny.
“Well,” Ginny said. “Have you?”
“Obviously, I have,” Hermione said. “It’s a gland just below the bladder in men. Stimulation, through the anus or via the perineum—“
“Godric’s gonads, please stop talking,” Ron said, face turning scarlet. Ginny was cackling, though she also had her hands over her ears.
“You’re a lucky man, Ron,” Harry said, finishing off his pint and grabbing the new one Ron had brought. “Your wife knows more about the prostate than your gay best friend.”
Ron stared for a minute at Harry’s sulky expression. “Before I go out and embroider that little bit of wisdom onto a pillow, d’you want to tell us what the problem is?”
With a sigh, Harry explained.
It had been bad enough, Harry thought, when he hadn’t known the first thing about sex, much less sex with another bloke. He hadn’t expected it to be great. But it was great! It was. Harry liked sex. He struggled a bit with most of the men he dated wanting him to be a top all the time, because obviously if you saved the world you wouldn’t want another man’s cock in your arse, or something, but he enjoyed it. He enjoyed it a lot.
And then, eventually, he had realised that the people he was enjoying it with were enjoying it much more than he was.
A little research (nearly fifteen years of friendship with Hermione and Harry did know how to use a library for himself, thank you very much), and Harry had discovered, at least intellectually, the wonders of the prostate orgasm.
Surely it wasn’t as life changing as everyone said. Surely he’d experience it, and think, “Wow, that was nice,” or “Hmm, lot of fuss about that,” and he’d move on.
The problem was, he hadn’t experienced it. Two boyfriends, three hookups, and no fewer than five mail-ordered dildos since he’d started his pursuit, and Harry didn’t think he’d felt so much as a twinge.
“Maybe I don’t have one,” Harry said. “Maybe dying and coming back does something to one’s prostate.”
Hermione’s lips were twitching. “I don’t think that’s very likely, Harry. I think it’s more likely that you just haven’t stimulated the right area, or not in the right way. You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
“You think I need less pressure?” Harry said. Ron got up and walked away. Hermione pushed a glass of water towards Harry and took away his pint.
“What you need,” Ginny said, sitting up with her eyes bright and looking more than a little devious, “is an expert.”
“I don’t think I want to hire a prostitute,” Harry said. Though he supposed it wasn’t off the table.
Ginny grinned. “No, a sexual expert. You need a sexpert, if you will.” Ron, who had been approaching again, turned away once more. “And I know just the person.”
“What kind of expert?” Harry asked.
“He owns a shop. He specialises in sex toys. Muggle and magical. He knows everything you would need to know. He’ll be sure to have something for you. He’s also got potions and the like—all legal and safe, but if I know him, he’d say you don’t want to mess with chemicals until you’ve figured out the physical.”
“That’s some tagline,” Harry muttered. He reached for his beer, grimaced, and picked up the water glass instead. “Gin, I can’t go to a magical sex shop. I don’t really want my sex problems in the Prophet. Again.”
“He cares very deeply about privacy. He has warding on the shop—he got special permission! No one can speak about someone they saw in the shop, or what they heard spoken about. They can only talk about themselves. Even if somebody saw you, they couldn’t say—but also, I don’t think people are that interested in what’s going on in your pants,” Ginny added. Ron looked hopeful at the end of that sentence, and slid into his seat again. Hermione handed him Harry’s beer, and Harry glared as Ron sipped it.
“I don’t know, Gin,” Harry said. It sounded dicey. On the other hand, he had been thinking about magical toys recently, wondering if there was something out there that could do what his Muggle vibrating dildos couldn’t. And even if it did end up in the Prophet, it wasn’t likely to be more embarrassing than what Terry fucking Boot had gone on record saying after they shagged.
“In any case, I know the owner personally. In fact, he owes me a favour. I’ve also brought him lots of business,” Ginny said, which made Ron get up and walk away again, and Hermione raise her eyebrows.
“He also knows that if he did something to you, I would kill him.” Ginny smiled sweetly. “Let me do something nice for you, Harry. It is, after all, the anniversary of my dumping you.”
“It was amicable,” Harry said automatically. “But all right. I’ll try anything.”
***
As the bell on the door to The Dragon’s Lair chimed, Harry peered around. It looked pretty much like a Muggle sex shop: wire racks piled high with boxes; a cabinet in one corner with beautiful glass pieces that Harry found rather frightening to contemplate; large signs labelled “clitoral stimulation” and “anal play” and “fetishry this way!”
Ginny was a few feet ahead of Harry as he got distracted by a display of butt plugs that would surely not be solving Harry’s little problem, but they did look rather nice, didn’t they. That one had a little gemstone on it. Cute!
Harry heard a second bell as Ginny reached the counter. Harry trailed behind her, picking up an absolutely enormous dildo and hefting it in his hands.
“Hello, welcome to the—Ginevra! I told you I’d call when I got those nipple clamps in.”
“Gin, that’s item number four hundred seventy-three on the list of things I really didn’t need to know about y—”
Harry broke off as he turned, to see Ginny leaned up against the counter. On the other side, grinning at her and looking achingly beautiful, was Draco fucking Malfoy.
“No,” Harry said. “Absolutely not.”
Ginny looked at him over her shoulder. “Get over yourself,” she said. “What happened to ‘I’d do anything’?”
“Anything but him!”
“I don’t think I invited you to ‘do’ me,” Malfoy said, leaning on his hands and giving Harry an assessing look. “Also, please stop touching my cock.”
Harry blanched, then looked down, yelped, and set the giant dildo down. He turned back, flushing and scowling in equal measure.
“Harry Potter,” Draco said quietly. “I haven’t seen you up close in, well, about six years, isn’t it,” he said.
“‘Spose,” Harry said. Harry had been planning to approach Draco after graduation. They’d spent the whole year tiptoeing around one another, being cautious and polite. It had just been starting to feel like things were thawing between them—Harry had even laughed at a snarky comment he’d made, and Draco had offered him a tentative smile in return—and Harry had wanted to tell Draco that, if he were inclined, Harry wouldn’t mind if they maybe kept in touch, maybe tried writing, or getting coffee together, or something. Make a fresh start and all that.
But then Harry had been dragged away by Ron to go look at something, and when he’d looked for Draco next, he’d been gone. Next Harry heard, he’d moved to Paris. He’d heard that Draco had come back—it wasn’t like he didn’t know that Pansy was friends with him. Harry had even suggested to Pansy that if she ever wanted to have them both over, Harry would be perfectly happy to have dinner with the git. But Pansy had made a funny face, and then she and Ginny had had an entire unspoken conversation with their eyebrows, and then Ginny had huffed and Pansy had made some excuse, and Harry assumed that meant Draco still hated Harry. He hadn’t asked again.
He looked at Draco now. He was stunning. He was wearing a pale pink button up shirt that must have been silk; it was very formal, but managed to look like sex all the same. Might have been because it was unbuttoned almost to the navel. His fingers gleamed with silver rings, and a long silver chain hung round his neck. His hair was shaved on the sides and back, but longer on top—how long, Harry couldn’t tell, because it was piled on his head in a messy topknot.
Harry realised that Draco had been examining him with equal curiosity. Harry wondered if Draco was as pleased with the results of his examination as Harry was.
“So. How can I help you? Oh, don’t look so stricken; I’m not going to to tell anybody about your sordid little sex games, not that I think anybody cares. Anyway, who’s going to believe me? For that matter, do you really think my customers would continue to patronise my establishment if I was gabbing about them? Use your brain, Potter; I do know you have one.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, I think,” Harry said.
Malfoy crossed his arms. “It’s been six years; I’m out of practice. Now tell me what you need.”
Harry stood there for a moment. He hadn’t really thought this through before he knew that it would be Draco Malfoy he was talking to. He felt utterly unprepared for the conversation.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, his ex-girlfriend was there.
“Harry wants a prostate orgasm and his boyfriends are all terrible,” Ginny said.
Draco’s eyebrows shot up. Harry’s face got hot. Ginny made a face at him and said, “Look, it was going to take you forever to say that.” Then she turned and walked away, leaving Harry alone, with Draco Malfoy, who knew that he wanted to have a prostate orgasm.
“Is that all true?” Draco asked.
“Well, she made it sound like I have a boyfriend.”
Draco snorted. “Well, what’s worked for you in the past? Digital stimulation? Toys? Actual cocks attached to actual terrible boyfriends?”
“Er … nothing.”
Draco looked up, eyes sharp. “Just so I understand: you’ve never had a prostate orgasm?”
“Never.”
He frowned. “Have you bottomed?”
“I hate this conversation, just so you know. Yes. But I haven’t ever—you know.”
“Terrible boyfriends is right,” Draco muttered. Then he looked up at Harry with a sharp smile. “It’s all right, Potter. I am very good at my job. And I do love a challenge.”
Harry passed a mortifying hour in Draco’s sex shop (what the actual fuck; Draco had a sex shop). Draco walked him around the shop, asking Harry to point out any toy that he had tried or was similar to one he had tried. Then Draco asked him, with a grave expression, to describe what using it was like.
“Are you taking the piss?” Harry had asked the first time.
“I assure you, Harry, this is my livelihood. Also, quite frankly, I have better things to do with my time than to try to wheedle information from you about your obviously pathetic love life. I don’t need a dramatic reenactment; I’m just trying to make a good recommendation.”
At one point, Draco was demonstrating a dildo that was surprisingly small. Harry scoffed.
“Size isn’t everything, you know,” Draco said, and Harry gave him a skeptical look. Draco coloured, but he smirked. “Present company excluded, of course.”
At last, Harry had left with three different toys, including the small dildo. He might have thought it was a sign that he’d been taken advantage of, except Draco sold them at cost. “Like I said, I love a challenge. Anyway, if I succeed, surely you’ll be singing my praises, and won’t that be good for business.”
“Have you met me, Draco? Do I seem like the type to go around telling everyone I know about my sex toy epiphany and how you helped me with it?”
Draco smirked. “Again: I am very good at my job. You’ll see! Now, I want you to try each them at least twice before I see your face again.
Harry was back in a week, a scowl on his face as he lurked in the bondage aisle while Draco helped a young witch pick out her first ever vibrator.
“Looking for something to cover that scar?” came a drawling voice behind him as he was peering at a gimp mask.
“None of them worked,” Harry said.
“You tried them all twice?”
“I tried them all four times.”
“It’s been six days,” Draco said, brows raised. He gave a little laugh. “Should we make you a wanking schedule, too? Your body probably wants a break from you.”
“Well, the feeling’s mutual sometimes,” Harry said.
Draco saw him eyeing the plugs again and presented him with a vibrating plug, which was very pretty and, as Draco put it, “subtle.”
“Sometimes you need finesse. A gentle touch. Actually, that’s a good point. Show me how you finger yourself.”
Harry gaped, and Draco started laughing. “Merlin, your face. No, I mean—” Draco held out his hand and grabbed Harry’s, bending his fingers so that he was holding out just two. He mimed rubbing against Draco’s palm. “Show me.”
Ignoring the little prickle of interest he felt, both at the idea and at Draco’s bossy tone, Harry rubbed his fingers against Draco’s palm.
“No, that won’t do. Like I said: finesse.” Draco said, grabbing Harry’s hand and adjusting the pressure. They stood very close; Harry ignored the way his face heated in Draco’s presence.
“So, why a sex shop?” Harry asked later, as Draco boxed up his things.
“Why not a sex shop?” Draco leaned over the counter. He was wearing a blue button up that day, in linen instead of silk, and cropped linen trousers. He looked like he’d just walked off his yacht into the shop. He huffed. “I like sex. I like good sex. I want people who want to have sex to be having good sex. With their partners, alone, I don’t care. They want to do something that I think is gross? As long as everybody consents, I’m thrilled for them. I just—” Draco shrugged one elegant shoulder and looked around. “I really like it. I like the potions part, but I’d be bored if all I did was brew potions.”
He had shown Harry his potions, just briefly. Like Ginny had said, he had insisted that it was too soon for Harry to consider “complicating matters” with a potion. Harry said he already had lube of his own, though really he was just a little freaked out by the idea of putting something in his arse that Draco had made.
“Also,” Draco had added, walking Harry to the door. “It does make Father ever so uncomfortable, and that is rather fun.”
Harry choked on a laugh as Draco chivvied him out the door.
***
“Good grief, Harry, if you’ve properly tested those toys already I’m going to have to insist that you go to a Healer. It’s been two days.
“Sod off, I was just in the neighbourhood. You said you had a busy day today, so I brought you lunch.”
Draco looked up with a frown. “You brought me … What is it?”
“Shish tawook and tabbouleh. Extra toum, though maybe not sex-shop appropriate to eat that much garlic.”
Draco made grabby hands. “Are you a wizard or aren’t you? There’s a spell for garlic breath. Here, come on behind the counter, I know you’re terrified to tarnish your reputation being seen in a filthy den of iniquity like this.”
“I just came to this filthy den of iniquity for lunch, by choice,” Harry said. “I think I’ll be all right.”
But Harry slid behind the counter and moved the book Draco had been reading (Sons and Lovers) to sit, handing a sandwich over to Draco and unwrapping one for himself. Draco scooped some toum onto his sandwich and gave a lascivious groan of pleasure when he bit into it.
“You keep bringing me lunch like this, I’ll think you’re courting me,” Draco said with a wink. Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the way his heartbeat sped up.
“If I start bringing you lunch with less garlic, maybe I will be courting you,” Harry replied, and smiled as Draco looked down at the garlic sauce in his hand, then back at Harry.
“Well, Harold—”
“That’s not my name.”
“—if you do decide to court me, I expect you to do it properly. Desserts, beverages, and other small treats may be delivered, but you take your beloved out for a meal. With, you know, a table.”
Harry rolled his eyes and ignored his rapid heartbeat. “Should I be taking notes?”
“Probably; you’re really very stupid sometimes, Harold.”
“That’s not—right, this is a thing now, isn’t it.”
Draco winked, then hummed and did a little dance in his seat as he smeared more toum on his chicken.
***
“So then Draco was saying, ‘The thing is, Harold’—”
Hermione frowned. “That’s not your name.”
Harry waved a hand. “It’s a bit; I’ve given in. I’ve realised that’s the thing with Draco. You just sort of have let him happen to you.”
Ron was looking at Harry very strangely. Ginny was grinning.
“And Draco is … happening to you?” Hermione asked, voice very calm.
“Yeah, I mean, I’ve been seeing him a few times a week—”
“Bloody hell, Harry, how many sex toys do you need?” Ron asked. “Don’t answer that.”
“I’m not always there for business. I just started stopping in. He works too much, you know, and he’s fun to talk to.”
Ron turned to Hermione. “D’you think Malfoy’s having a conversation with Pansy right now about how ‘Harold’ is someone you have to just let happen to you?”
“He happened to me for a while, but then I dumped him,” Ginny put in.
“It was amicable,” Harry said. “Wait. No, Draco and I aren’t like that. That wasn’t a euphemism. Bloody hell, that would be a terrible euphemism for sex. Also, don’t you think I’d tell you if I was shagging Draco?”
“Sadly, I do,” said Ron, and Hermione elbowed him.
“We’ll support you no matter what,” Hermione said. “We just want you to be happy, Harold.”
Harry threw a chip at her.
***
“Do your friends think it’s weird, that you and I spend time together,” Harry asked, the next time he was at the shop.
“I suppose if they knew, they would,” Draco said, not looking up from his inventory list.
“You don’t—wait. Am I, like, a secret?”
Draco scoffed. “Honestly, Harold. Remember when you came here demanding my silence? Doubting my willingness to keep your sordid little secret? I didn’t know I was allowed to tell my friends that you are my most devoted patron.”
“Sod off, it’s not like I’m shopping all the time.”
“Well you should be—you said that vibrator did nothing for you? Maybe we should go with a classic.” Draco stood and darted around the counter, then came back with a large box and an odd piece of silicone.
“Merlin’s balls, that’s giant!”
“Don’t insult the Hitachi Magic Wand, Harold. Take it, use the attachment. If you don’t like it, I’ll give you your money back.”
It was another week or two after that before things started to get weird.
“What about fantasies?” Draco asked, looking up from his plate with an intense gaze. “What do you think about when you’re masturbating?”
Harry flushed. “I’m not—I’m not telling you that!”
“Embarrassed? I promise you, I’ve heard it all.”
Harry thought about his fantasy the previous night, which had involved Draco, a pint of fudge ripple ice cream, and the shiny collar that he could, at present, see out of the corner of his eye. He thought maybe Draco hadn’t heard it all, actually.
“I’m not telling you about my fantasies,” Harry repeated.
“Fine, you coward,” Draco muttered. “In that case, I’ll offer you a suggestion. If you are thinking about trying to come, you’ve already lost the battle. You’re stressed, Harold. You’ve put too many expectations on your shoulders—honestly, our entire childhoods people were doing that to you; you’d think you could give yourself a break. In any case, You need a vivid fantasy. Something that’s going to distract you from all that nonsense you’ve got yammering on in the back of your brain all the time—don’t try to deny it, you’re a neurotic freak, I know the type—so that you can actually relax. And honestly, prostate orgasms take time. You need something enjoyable enough that when you start getting close you can still focus on the fantasy instead of thinking ‘are we there yet.’ That’s a recipe for disaster.”
“So, your advice is, what, ‘fantasise better’?”
Draco smirked and returned to his pasta. “Or, you know, fantasise dirtier? You won’t tell me your fantasies—that limits the usefulness of my advice. This pasta is exceptional, by the way,” Draco added, taking another bite. “You really made this?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
***
“I’m starting to think the problem might be psychological,” Draco mused a fortnight later. You’re stressing yourself out. You’re too jumpy—“
“I’m not jumpy!” Harry snapped.
Harry jumped as the bell jangled and a few teens wandered in.
“Oh, no, that was definitely my error,” Draco said, lip twitching. “You’re not jumpy at all.”
“The other day you called me a neurotic freak.”
“And I stand by that assessment. Anyway, is it really so important? Having a prostate orgasm?” Draco asked.
“Haven’t you had one?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “Many more than one, and yes, I quite enjoy them, but they’re not the be all end all of existence.”
“I never said they were, I just—”
“You’ve just decided, for some unearthly reason, that you won’t be happy until you’ve experienced a prostate orgasm. Now, if you ask me, you won’t be happy afterwards either, because you’re never happy, are you, Harold? You’ll be upset because it wasn’t good enough or because all your friends have better prostate orgasms or some rot. I’m not saying I do not approve of your endeavour—I own a sex shop, obviously I approve of the pursuit of orgasms on principle; it’s my life’s work.”
“The pursuit of orgasms?”
“Don’t make fun, you’re benefiting, or you will eventually.” Harry had benefitted, pretty substantially, even if he hadn’t found what he was looking for. He’d wanked more than ever before in his life since starting to come to the shop, and to great effect. He also spent at least three days a week bothering Draco at the shop, which was its own entertainment.
“I don’t want to wait for eventually.”
“Harold. You have to relax. I understand that me saying that doesn’t help, but it’s true. You can’t just pummel yourself into an orgasm, or at least, most people can’t. It requires finesse. Here, show me your technique, let’s see if you’ve improved. On my hand; honestly, every time.” Draco held out his hand, rolling his eyes at Harry’s flustered reaction, and Harry, trying to avoid thinking about how incredibly weird it was to show Draco how he fingered himself, demonstrated.
“That’s better,” Draco said. “Are you actually doing it, though, or are you getting impatient?”
“Well, I’m me, so probably the latter.”
Draco grinned. “You are, at least, becoming more honest, Harold. I appreciate that in a man.
***
“So, how’s the prostate hunt,” Ginny asked, slipping into the booth next to Harry at the pub.
“I’m not searching for it. I know exactly where it is.”
“What are we talking about?” Pansy slipped into the booth after Ginny.
“Motorbikes,” Harry and Ginny said in unison, then grinned at one another.
“You know where your motorbike is?” Pansy asked, sounding nonplussed.
“I do, as it happens; it’s in my garage.”
“Is this another euphemism?” Ron asked, sitting down. Harry threw up his hands.
Ginny cackled. “Honestly, ‘motorbike in your garage’ isn’t the worst euphemism.”
“It absolutely is, Ginevra,” Draco said as he stepped up to the group. “Hello Harold. Why are you making up motorbike euphemisms. That’s a little childish, don’t you think?”
“It’s a literal motorbike, not a euphemistic one. And a literal garage. I have a motorbike in my garage.”
Draco’s eyebrows raised. “You do. Do you drive it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Do you let anyone else ride it.”
“Sure, yeah.”
Draco’s eyes got a bit shifty. “Would you let me ride it?”
“Yeah, I’ll take you up sometime.”
“Up?”
“Oh, it, er, flies.”
Draco smiled. “You are full of surprises, Harold. I’ll see you all later—I’m meeting Theo.”
They all watched as Draco slipped away through the crowd.
“Are we *sure* that wasn’t a euphemism?” Ron asked.
***
Harry was absolutely the one who took it from weird to a problem.
“I’m starting to think that we should go back to basics,” Draco said. He sounded a little peeved, like Harry’s prostate was a personal affront to the sex toy industry.
“What kind of basics,” Harry sighed.
“Fingering, no toys. Maybe you’ve overstimulated yourself. A break would be a good idea. But until you can reliably experience pleasure from fingering—”
“It’s pleasurable, it’s just not—”
“Don’t interrupt, Harold,” Draco said. “Anyway, I think you need to practise fingering. It’s all about how you use your hands.”
“Maybe you can show me?”
Draco’s eyes got very big. “Harry, are you—you don’t mean—”
“Oh, no! That would totally inappropriate. I meant, you could show me on yourself.”
Draco’s face did … something. “Because that wouldn’t be inappropriate?”
Harry paused. “Okay. That’s fair. I don’t know, you’re always going on about being sex positive and—”
“Harold—”
“That’s not my name.”
“—just because I’m sex positive, that doesn’t mean I stick my fingers in just anybody’s arse. Or in my own arse, for just anybody’s edification.” Draco looked severe.
“Well, no, of course not.”
“Though if I did,” Draco added, looking disturbingly like Hermione, “that would be fine too.”
Harry nodded. “Of course.”
“But most importantly, you cannot just expect—”
“I didn’t expect! I was just asking! And I recognise, in retrospect, that it was really weird to ask it, and I apologise. But, well, our entire friendship exists in your sex shop in pursuit of my prostate orgasm, so it’s not surprising that it’s got weird, is it?”
Draco’s face was doing another thing. “We’re … friends.”
“Of course we are,” Harry said. “Aren’t we?”
Draco was watching very closely. “Yes, Harold, I suppose we are. And … I suppose when a friend is in need…” Draco’s eyes darted round. “This is really very unorthodox, you know.”
“I retract the request. I’m sorry. I—it didn’t sound so weird in my head.”
“That really says something about your head, doesn’t it,” Draco muttered. He was still looking pensive. “Yes, all right. What are friends for.”
Harry paused. “You’re uncomfortable.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly how I imagined—” Draco broke off and shook himself. “No. It’s … unusual. But then again, like you said, a sex shop friendship was bound to be unusual. Honestly, I would have guessed that a friendship with Harold Potter would be pretty unusual from start to finish, but I think I underestimated it.”
Draco looked around the shop for a moment, then nodded. “Now, then?”
“Er. Okay.”
“Right.” Draco cast a spell at the door; Harry saw the open sign flip; a lock clicked.
“Sit down, Harold,” Draco said, hands on his belt. “This will be educational.”