Harry’s team, possibly the red one, weren’t doing well. After another missed goal, Harry flung himself on the ground, resting his head on Draco’s thighs, shoulders slumped in defeat. Draco ran a soothing hand over the back of Harry’s neck, whispering what he hoped were comforting platitudes about getting the next one. Harry nuzzled forlornly against Draco’s thighs just above the pair of Pansy’s shorts he had accidentally packed the previous day. Harry hadn’t shaved and his scraggly beard scratched against Draco’s thighs, making him gasp.