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A red arrow pointing downwards slides up the screen, followed by one pointing up. Malfoy’s feet follow.
Perfect.
The screen’s words, not Harry’s.
Then, a flurry of arrows, red, blue, yellow, impossibly fast. Malfoy twists his body, sways between the two panels — hands encircling the handlebars, tendons jutting from the tight grip, arms half-bent at the elbow, muscles straining under the hem of his T-shirt sleeves.
A single droplet of sweat runs down Malfoy’s temple, down until it reaches his cheek. Harry wants to lick it.
Malfoy is none the wiser — his eyes never leave the screen, his feet don’t miss a beat.
“You’re full of surprises,” Harry says, leaning over a handlebar, once the foreign song is finished.
“You’re full of surprises,” Malfoy says, not twenty minutes later, in a poorly scourgified bathroom stall, as Harry rises to his feet and wipes cum from the corner of his mouth.