I'm Here | 8k | E
Harry and Draco are caught on Kiss Cam at a Quidditch game. This would be fine, if they weren't friends and auror partners, or if the camera person weren't so damned stubborn.
Preview under the cut
"What row is it? How far must I climb?” Draco asked.
“This says row seventy-nine. We’re on…” Harry leaned over the railing, reading the sign. “Fifty-three.”
Draco groaned loudly as he continued up.
“You’re welcome for getting such good seats,” Harry called.
“At what cost? I could go into cardiac arrest, you know? You’d think they’d come up with some sort of lift system. This is absurd, having to climb our way to the top.”
“Maybe you could quit the aurors and dedicate your life to lift-installation in sports arenas.”
“I would, but nobody else would be able to put up with my git of a partner. They’d beg me to return.”
“As if!” Harry said, jabbing a knuckle into his ribs, making Malfoy run up the next several steps to get away from him. “It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed in an on-the-job accident.”
“I’m too clever to be killed by some low-life criminal.”
“Not by a criminal—by me.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be an accident, now would it? You’d have about a decade and a half of pre-meditation, at least. You’d never get away with it.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t done it.”
“Maybe you could try in the winter when things get slow. It could be fun. What level are we on now?”
“I don’t know, look at the blasted sign yourself,” Harry said, breathing hard, dragging himself up by the railing, trying to take the effort of climbing off of his legs. His eyes caught on a sign as they passed by, and he groaned. “Sixty-one.”
“Circe’s tits, Potter, you’re going to have to carry me. I can’t make another eighteen flights.”
“I’m not carrying you, dickhead. You can stop if you want, but I’m getting this over with.”
At the next landing, Draco slumped against a railing, head tilted back, resting on his elbows. Harry glanced at his throat as he passed by, head ducked as he started up the next flight, breathing hard as he carried up several more flights and then stopped, clung to the railing, wiped sweat from his brow. His lungs ached—his thighs burned—his shirt was sticking to his back.
“I always knew you were pathetic, Potter,” Draco said from behind him, and Harry lifted his head, looking at him as he passed by, his face red from exertion.
“You gave up first!” Harry bellowed, following up after him, hand on his chest as he struggled to breathe.
“Yes, but I recovered quicker,” Draco said, his steps slow and heavy. “I’ve got better stamina—always have.”
“Go fuck a broomstick, Malfoy,” Harry murmured as he jogged up the flight ahead, seeing there were three more flights left.
He could hear Draco keeping pace behind him, ignoring the fatigue in his legs, the burning of his lungs, the rasp of his throat as he drew in breath and reached the seventy-ninth row. He tried not to seem too relieved, looking down at his ticket, wiping sweat from his eyes to read their seat number and then the signage, turning left. He dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his face to dry it, trying to get control of his breathing before they found their seats.
Squeezing past the other people in the front row, he sat down and rubbed his hands on his knees, looking up as Draco passed in front of him and collapsed beside him.
“I hate you so much,” Draco gasped, his hair clinging to his forehead.
“We’re exactly on the centre line. These are great seats. Stop complaining.”
“I taste blood.”
“Already? But I haven’t even punched you yet.”
