Harry hadn’t been able to help himself, grinning widely at the spite audible in Draco’s voice, finding that to be such a familiar motivation. Harry had wanted to kiss Draco, keep him for himself for the day, enjoying him too much to share him with the world.<br/>Regardless, they had side-along apparated to Towthorpe, Harry hearing the crack of Draco’s arrival the same moment he himself became conscious of the ground beneath his feet.<br/>Though the late August sun burned bright above them, the barren heathland around them offered little protection from the chill wind. Beside them was a burgundy field tent, and several yards away towered the decrepit house, lonesome on its plot of land, and undoubtedly kept together mostly by Ministry magic.<br/>Harry’s eyes were immediately on it, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It had been months since he had last been here, but he found he couldn’t quite place the feeling it provoked within him - whether it be distress or simply an odd sense of disappointment, curdling with the gentle ease of the morning he had shared with Draco.<br/>Undoubtedly alerted to their arrival, Paul Buchannan exited the tent only moments after, holding its flap open.<br/>“Potter, Malfoy,” the cursebreaker offered in lieu of a greeting, attempting to meet their line of sight with a glance. The addition was, however, specifically spoken to Draco, Harry could tell as much.<br/>“Glad you both could make it.”<br/>Harry turned away from the house too late to meet the greeting, reluctant to retreat to the tent now they had only just arrived.<br/>“Hi Buck,” Harry greeted with a greater sense of familiarity. Nodding towards the house, a dismissal of the offer to step inside the tent, Harry took a step away. “Clue us in, will you? What are you up to?”