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One Big Misunderstanding

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It wasn’t like he meant to go and fucking fall in love with Potter.

He’d be the first to say it was a bad idea, ask anyone. Falling in love with Potter would mean dating Potter, which would mean seeing him, probably every day, and therefore having to deal with his horribly uncouth habits, his awful temper, and - worst of all - his penchant for being a self-righteous do-gooder. Draco could think of nothing worse, and if he’d been given any choice in the matter he would have dispensed with this silly love business, and nipped the rest of his inevitable descent into madness in the bud.

Except, it hadn’t meant any of that, had it? He still saw Potter - it would be difficult not to, since they shared an office and were forced by contractual obligation to ensure that the other’s untimely death was a distant possibility rather than a daily occurrence - but that was all he did. The crucial part of that, the part that made it all worthwhile - dating him - was nothing more than a dream; Potter had made that very clear.

Resigned to his fate, and teetering somewhere on the precipice of madness, Draco did all that he was allowed. He watched Potter, particularly the way he paced their tiny office and wore grooves into the carpet while he worried about a case; he listened to Potter, especially at three o’clock in the morning when he was reduced to incoherency after they connected the dots too late on a case and yet another innocent life was lost; and most of all, he loved Potter, quietly, painfully, irrevocably.

Draco had no idea when he’d become this pathetic, but here he was.

He drew himself up to his full height, crumpled the note that had just arrived by a very harassed-looking owl in his hand, and threw open the door just in time to have Blaise Zabini stride through and grip him in a one-armed hug that he was certain was crushing major organs.

“Draco!” Blaise roared into his ear. “So good to see you! Did you get my owl?”

“Seconds before you arrived,” Draco said drily, extracting himself from the hug and looking Blaise up and down. “Are those robes see-through?”

“Do you like them?” Blaise smirked and did a small twirl, nearly sending paperwork flying from where Potter had left it on the coffee table. “Of course they’re not entirely see-through - that’s very tacky, Draco - they just give a silhouette in the right light. Magically enhanced, of course.” He winked.

Draco massaged his temples. “Right.” He hadn’t thought it possible that time could erase the memory of the physical presence of Blaise Zabini, but nonetheless after three years he was ill prepared.

He realised that Blaise was still speaking, and tuned back in.

“So I just thought, why not? It’s been months since I’ve been back in England. Months.”

“Years,” muttered Draco. He was ignored.

“So I sent an owl to you and Pans, packed my bags, and caught the next portkey out.” Blaise beamed at him.

It was at this point that Draco noticed the shrunken trunk sitting in the doorway. He frowned.

“Where are you staying?”

Blaise clapped him on the shoulder so hard he went stumbling into Potter, who’d just walked through the door. Potter caught him before they both fell, strong hands sliding down Draco’s arms while Draco - shamelessly - steadied himself against Potter’s chest.

If he didn’t have these small victories, what did he have?

“Are you alright?” Potter’s voice was low, aimed so that only Draco could hear, and he smirked at Draco in a way that if he hadn’t known any better he would have insisted was an intimate prelude.

“So good of you to offer, Draco, but are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose!”

Draco gave a long suffering sigh, pushed himself away from Potter and gave Blaise a small nod. “Fine, it’s fine. You can stay with me.”

He should have expected it, really.

The room spun back into focus, shoving his maudlin thoughts rudely away, as he noticed a familiar look on Blaise’s face. Draco’s eyes widened. Oh no. No.


Blaise’s wide-eyed astonishment was all Draco needed to witness. He felt Potter go still beside him and take in the sight of Blaise Zabini, who, see-through robes or not, oozed at least five times more sex appeal than he ever had in school. He saw the moment Potter noticed the robes, his pupils dilating ever so slightly as Blaise ran a hand casually down his front, sending folds of cloth rippling sensuously over his body.

“Do you like the robes? I can arrange a fitting if they suit your taste.”

Draco hadn’t heard that purr in Blaise’s voice since Blaise had decided Draco’s cock was worth putting up with his prickly temper.

“Let’s go to lunch,” Draco said loudly, grabbing his coat and steering Blaise out the door despite the early hour.

“Bye,” Blaise called behind him, leaving a slightly flustered looking Potter standing in the doorway.

The Auror offices faded behind them as Draco marched them quickly past the reception desk and down to the elevators. Blaise stared around him in interest at the portraits of Head Aurors on the wall, and the pinboards full of mugshot after mugshot of low profile criminals. Draco wasn’t fooled; Blaise was simply biding his time. Draco bundled them into the empty elevator, pressed the button, and waited.

“You didn’t tell me Potter had filled out. ” Blaise turned a lascivious grin in Draco’s direction. “He’s practically steaming now, isn’t he? How long have you been holding out on me, Draco?”

Draco wrinkled his nose and grunted. It wasn’t his finest moment.

Blaise arranged his robes so they fell to maximum effect and leaned against the wall. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were still hot for him, just like the good old school days.”

Draco ignored Blaise’s smirk and raised his eyebrow imperiously. “Please,” he said, putting as much scorn and derision as possible into that one small syllable.

After a moment, Blaise gave an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank Merlin for that. Please tell me he swings our way. I’ll be devastated if he’s straight.”

Draco chewed on his tooth. If he lied to Blaise, it wouldn’t be very difficult for Blaise to find that out, which would lead him to the question of why Draco had lied, which was a conversation he very much did not want to have. “He’s bi.”

“Yes!” Blaise raised his hands to the ceiling before suddenly clasping them in front of him and turning his beseeching gaze on Draco. “You have to set us up. Please - I can tell immediately he’s the picky type, so I’ll have such a better chance if I come with a recommendation. Please, Draco. Please.”

Draco slid his eyes to his friend, his fingers twitching where they were stiffly holding onto his forearms.  If he didn’t set them up on a date, he’d never hear the end of it. And they’d be back to that dreaded why question. If he did set them up…

… it couldn’t really hurt, could it? There’s absolutely no way that melodramatic, self-serving, see-through-robes-wearing Blaise Zabini was Potter’s type. No way at all. They’d have one date and go their separate ways.

“Fine,” he ground out. “I’ll set you up.”

Draco was sure that Blaise’s answering whoop of delight could be heard all the way through the Ministry.




Through an immense display of will-power, Draco did not sneak along to observe their date. Blaise had selected The Lotus Room , a trendy little bar and bistro down in Diagon Alley. It was tasteful, expensive, and entirely unsuited to Potter, so Draco was confident the night would be a disaster. He bid good-night to Potter, left the office, and came home to pour himself a large glass of wine in peremptory celebration of Blaise’s mournful return and Potter’s distasteful recounting of the date the following day.

As the hours crept past, he arranged himself by the fire, his feet tucked neatly beneath him to give the appearance of nonchalance when Blaise walked through. He was surprised they were lasting as long as they were; Potter must be taken by one of his rare, respectful moods, and be unwilling to leave Blaise feeling too unwanted.

Shame he hadn’t been in that mood when Draco had asked him out. No, instead he’d laughed . He’d focused on inconsequential details, like the fact that Draco had needed several glasses of whiskey - complimentary thanks to the staff Christmas party function or whatever it was they were attending, Draco barely remembered - to build up the courage to ask the simple question. Draco , he’d said. Draco, you’re drunk. You’re not going to remember this. You probably don’t even know who I am.

As if he was even capable of not knowing who Potter was. There wasn’t a moment that passed by, not one moment in one day, that Draco wasn’t hyper aware of him. The way he smelled, the way he moved, the way he lit Draco’s senses on fire just by being in the same room.

It was unfair, it was devastating, and the only way Draco had gotten through it was by pretending that he had indeed been too drunk to remember, even when Potter probed him the next day, most likely to laugh at him. If he hadn’t wanted to date Draco, he could have just said as much. He didn’t need to make it out like it was such a ridiculous notion, like Draco was a fool for even considering it.

Draco realised he was gripping the glass a little too hard, and he set it down on the coffee table in front of him. Looking up at the clock, his eyes widened when he realised it was close to midnight. He pushed aside his book and stood up in alarm, wondering if he should drop by and make sure everything was alright.

A noise startled him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see Blaise coming through the front door. Draco took in his disheveled appearance, his laconic grin, and froze.

“Draco!” Blaise flopped down on the couch and gave Draco a beaming smile. “Can’t thank you enough for setting us up. What a night we’ve had.”

“You mean-” Draco began, his voice shaking.

He didn’t want to know, he didn’t. But it was just so unlikely, surely Blaise meant something else. He picked up his wine glass for something to do, turning away from Blaise and then turning quickly back; he had to know.

“You mean you-” Draco stopped and began again. “You slept together?

Blaise cocked his head and examined Draco, a small smirk emerging on his lips. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”

The wine glass in Draco’s hand shattered, exploding outwards with tightly compressed rage. With a wave of his wand, he vanished the mess, ignored Blaise’s surprised yelp, and left the room.


He could hear Blaise chasing behind him in the corridor, and he ignored the childish urge to run.

“I’m going to bed,” he yelled back.

“But, why? I want to tell you all the details! Merlin, Draco, Potter really knows how to-”

Draco stopped just inside his bedroom and whirled around to find Blaise leaning in the doorway, eyes bright and excited. Suddenly, it was all too clear: Potter’s hands running along Blaise’s chest; Blaise’s fingers threading in Potter’s messy, dark hair; their lips meeting in a flurry of kisses that became increasingly wilder with each breath.

Draco couldn’t take it, he couldn’t take it and with each passing second that Blaise stared at him with that self-satisfied smirk he was getting closer and closer to insanity.

“I’m going to bed,” he repeated, and slammed the door in Blaise’s face.




His one, remaining hope - that Potter would spend the entire of the next day complaining bitterly about the date - went down in a fiery blaze when Potter slunk into the office with a stupid grin on his face and a flush to his cheeks. Draco weighed up, momentarily, the benefits of cursing one’s Auror partner, and reluctantly decided that it was probably too much of a hassle.

“Had fun last night?” Draco ground out, because he was bitter and liked to torture himself.

Potter’s eyes shot to his and flush rose higher on his cheeks. “Er,” he mumbled. “Yeah. We did.”

The glass of water on Draco’s desk began to boil. Fortunately, Potter didn’t notice. Draco picked up the glass and threw it into the pot plant behind him, ignoring the quiet sizzle.

“Find much to talk about?” Draco bared his teeth.

Unsurprisingly, Potter cleared his throat and looked away awkwardly. The window behind them rattled in its frame, and a loud hooting suddenly interrupted them. Turning, they saw a small owl hopping from foot to foot on the sill.

Draco recognised the owl as the one that signalled his impending doom the previous day, and opened the window with a healthy amount of dread.

Potter’s eyebrows rose as the owl flew to him, but he gave it a treat and unrolled the parchment.

Two tickets fell onto the desk.

The room was silent as they both stared at the shiny offering. Draco couldn’t see what it was for. He didn’t need to - Blaise was already spending money on the man, which was as sure a sign as any that he was smitten. The question that remained was whether Potter returned the affection.

Draco looked up to see Potter smiling, a secret sort of smile that if Draco was honest with himself he had imagined many times before. It was the kind of smile you gave when you came into the office and found flowers delivered by an admirer, or a secret note hidden in a lovingly packed lunch.

Fighting back emotions he didn’t want to give a name to, Draco rose from his seat and left the room.

It wasn’t as though Potter hadn’t had lovers before. Draco knew this, in the general sort of way that he knew that the existence of Granger and Weasley’s children meant they must have done something more than kiss on the cheek. But it was one thing to know, and another thing to know.

Blaise was an old friend, and against all odds, Draco loved him. He’d stick his finger in a Muggle electrical socket before dating him again, but he did love him, which was what made this whole thing between him and Potter all the more awful.

Merlin, what was he meant to do if they actually lasted? He couldn’t exactly deliver gift baskets to their new house, could he?

Potter, I hope you’re well. I brought you a basket of oranges.

Actually, it’s Potter-Zabini now, Malfoy.

Oh, Darling! I thought we were going to keep it quiet!

Draco managed to end the day-dream just before he pelted the oranges at Potter-Zabini’s head, but only just.

He had made this happen. There were no two ways about it: he’d fucked up.




Draco drew the silver strand from his head and dropped it into the Pensieve. The water shimmered, rippling gently before once again becoming still. After taking a moment to regain his composure, Draco bent his head over the Pensieve and sank into the past.

The grey-haired man shifted nervously in his seat, tensing beneath the restraints of the interrogation chair. Potter sat in front of him, his face an expressionless mask, while Draco - past Draco - leaned against the wall to the side. His features were hidden by shadow, but Draco could see the way his past self didn’t take his eyes from the criminal, watching for the slightest sign of movement, the merest hint that the man had subverted them and transformed into a threat.

Potter asked the man a series of questions, and Draco was meant to be listening - it was why he was there - but all he could pay attention to was the way that Potter’s fingers stroked idle patterns beneath the table, hiding his restless energy from the perp. All he could see were the harsh lines on Potter’s face that betrayed the way he threw himself into his job, and all Draco could feel was how much he wanted to smooth those lines away and see him smile.

The interrogation ended as uselessly as it had the first time around. Even if he had been giving the memory his full attention, he would have found nothing - at least, that’s what he told himself. The case had been giving them nothing but dead ends, and Draco was at a loss of where to go next.

Potter waited until the man was removed from the room by Ministry guards before standing and running his hand through his hair. He turned to the Draco leaning against the wall, and something shifted in his face. His features softened, and although he didn’t smile, it was like the room had lightened. Draco watched the change in his past self: he pushed away from the wall, emerging into the light in the centre of the room, and walked to Potter like a moth drawn to a flame.

“He doesn’t know anything,” Potter murmured, his eyes never leaving Draco’s face.

He knew it was wishful thinking, but it was like their bodies were having an entirely different conversation to the one their words implied. Draco hadn’t noticed it at the time, but watching it now - seeing the way his past self’s eyes dropped to Potter’s lips, like he just couldn’t fucking help himself, and the way Potter didn’t step away, but moved closer instead - it was like a whole new world was being opened up to him.

He turned away, disgusted at himself for being so desperate that he saw only what he so obviously wished was there, and left.

“See anything interesting?” Potter asked when he emerged from the Pensieve and back into their sunlit office.

“Nothing at all,” Draco snarled, and with a flick of his wand he sent the Pensieve hurtling back into its cupboard across the room.

Potter watched him with a thoughtful expression, hand poised in the middle of turning the pages in their latest report. “Everything alright?”

“Fucking peachy.”

Draco stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him even though he knew he was acting like a petulant child, and all but running away to the Ministry cafeteria.

After he had spooned eleven teaspoons of coffee into his mug without even noticing, he was forced to acknowledge that he possibly wasn’t coping with the situation very well, so when he turned around and walked straight into Blaise - decked out in low-cut robes with a slit up the side - it was only by the slimmest of margins that he avoided hexing him.

“What. Do. You. Want?” Draco asked through gritted teeth.

Blaise blinked widely at him, the picture of innocent confusion. It made Draco instantly suspicious.

“I’m not allowed to stop by for lunch?” he asked, hovering a hand delicately over his chest. “You didn’t seem to mind the other day. I thought maybe we could make a little threesome of it, and drag Harry out for coffee?”

Draco shut his eyes against the deliberate innuendo and forced himself to count to ten. “No, Blaise. I don’t want to go for coffee with you and Harry . You two have fun.”

Blaise grinned in a lewd way that made Draco think immediately of how Potter had entered the office this morning: elated, dreamy, and just a little bit stunned, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Draco knew that they had gone to the theatre last night, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand how something so high class as the theatre could lead to Potter looking like that. Surely he should be hovering around, awkwardly scratching his neck and cringing at how formal everything had been and begging Draco to teach him how to act in proper society.

Instead, he looked like he had just been handed the love of his life on a silver platter after years of pining. It wasn’t fair. He’d only just met Blaise; how could he already be in love?

The fact that he had continuously tried to drag Draco into what was clearly going to be an excruciating conversation about whether Blaise actually liked him or whether he thought Blaise would like a picnic or something equally stupid had only made Draco even more furious, and led to the obvious conclusion to stick his head in a Pensieve for the entire morning.

When Draco opened his eyes, he found Blaise staring at him with an expression so smug Draco was tempted to hurl all eleven spoonfuls of burnt coffee into his face just to wipe it off.

“Actually,” Blaise said, adopting a mournful expression. “I’ll have to run so quickly it’s not worth just being the two of us; I’ve an appointment with Pierre Rose at two. Would you give this to Harry for me?” Blaise produced a tiny scroll from an impossible pocket in his robes and held it out to Draco.

Draco stared at it, wondering how many ways Blaise could have expressed the sentiment “ I want to fuck you into the mattress; meet me at eleven ” onto the tiny slip of parchment, and decided it was likely too many for Draco to want to think about. He considered burning the scroll - possibly right now, without discretion - but he’d already revealed far more about his emotional state than was ever wise with Blaise, and if he didn’t deliver the scroll he’d practically be signing a confessional.


He snatched the bit of parchment and walked off, ignoring Blaise’s delighted attempts to continue the conversation. He didn’t remember much about the walk to the elevator - he just kept looking at the scroll and thinking of all the many and varied positions that Blaise, over their years of friendship, had graphically and enthusiastically described to Draco with regard to his current lovers, and wondering how many of those positions he and Potter had explored last night.

His grip around the scroll was so tight now that he wondered how legible it would even be. At the same time, he could feel his grip on his own sanity slowly fading until even he wasn’t sure what he would do if Potter read the scroll and flushed in that way he had when he’d apprehended those male strippers and thought Draco wasn’t looking.

He had reached the door to his office, and he didn’t even remember the journey. The door creaked as he pushed it open - he’d been meaning to get that fixed - and Potter looked up at him from beneath his stupid glasses. Draco had never before wanted so badly to just bend him over the desk and fuck him until he screamed.

Instead, Draco closed the door behind him, handed Potter the note, and pulled out the Pensieve once again.

He could hear the sound of the parchment unfurling - heard the sharp intake of breath that made him grip the sides of the Pensieve so hard his fingernails scraped against the stone - and then there was silence. He picked up a vial at random and went to empty it into the still water.


He tensed as Potter tried once again to talk to him about Blaise, his voice tentative and hopeful and so clearly infatuated that Draco could have cheerfully smashed the Pensieve right over Blaise’s interfering head.

“Go away, Potter,” he ground out, and poured the memory into the bowl, dribbling it carelessly over the side and losing half of it in one fell swoop.

“Malfoy, I need to talk to you. Please.”

Something in Potter’s voice made him pause, and he forced himself to lower the vial, vanish the mess, and turn to his partner. He kept his expression neutral, telling himself that if he was owed one small thing after years of playing the perfect gentleman, he was owed this - just to make it through this conversation, this one small conversation about Potter’s new lover, without revealing what he could never reveal.


“I’m not fucking Blaise.”

Draco blinked several times before the words sunk in. He sneered. “Didn’t want to spread your legs too soon, Potter? Wondering how long you should wait before he gives up on you?”

Potter dropped his head to his hands and held it there. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is, Malfoy.”

Draco’s hands were shaking; he gripped them tightly against the edge of the table. “Then don’t drag it out, Potter,” he hissed. “He’ll give up after three dates. Though, I’ll hand you this, it’s the most interest I’ve seen him show in someone new before, given you haven’t already let him bend you over the-”

Malfoy, shut up!

Potter slapped his hands against the desk and shot up to glare at Draco, his eyes wide and crazed. Draco stared at him, distantly aware that his breath was coming more raggedly than it should for someone who was sitting quietly in a chair.

“For a smart person, you’re incredibly stupid sometimes,” Potter hissed, and before Draco had time to react, he had crossed the room and hauled Draco to his feet by the front of his robes. “I don’t want to fuck Blaise; I want to fuck you .”

Several long seconds passed, as if in slow motion, as every conversation, every glance, Potter had given him was cast suddenly into a new light. He remembered his drunken invitation, and the way Potter had laughed and dismissed it. He thought of the way Potter had probed him for days afterwards, and the way he’d finally given up, sinking into an uncharacteristic silence and refusing to look Draco in the eye.

Had Potter laughed it off because he thought it was too ridiculous to be a genuine invitation, or because he was terrified that it wasn’t?

Slowly, he became aware of their breathing, harsh and loud in the silent room. Potter was still gripping him by his shirt, and was staring up at him with a fierce determination that did nothing to hide his terror. Draco had no idea how his own face looked, but he was fairly certain if he were to examine it later in a Pensieve, and see the vulnerability for himself, he would be forced to Obliviate the two of them.

“Why didn’t you say yes when I asked you?” Draco managed, his voice breaking as he spoke.

Potter’s eyes widened. “You were drunk . You hardly knew who I was-”

Draco groaned in frustration. “Of course I knew who you were, you bloody-” he cut himself off, grabbed Potter by the back of the neck, and kissed him.

He expected Potter to put up a fight. Not by complaining, of course - that would be counter-productive - but by some sort of protest against the way Draco just assumed control of the kiss. Potter was stubborn, recalcitrant, and refused to back down in a fight. Which was why he was caught completely off guard when Potter melted against the desk, gripped Draco’s forearms beneath strong fingers, and moaned filthily into Draco’s mouth.

“Please,” Potter breathed.

Draco had no idea what Potter was begging for, but he had every intention of delivering, and with a quick wave of his wand he locked the door and Silenced the room. His fingers dropped, shakily, to the buttons of Potter’s shirt, plucking them away one by one while Potter leaned back against the desk and watched him, his eyes hooded and his pupils blown wide in anticipation. Draco had never before seen that look on Potter’s face, and he found himself fumbling more and more with each new button until he finally had to tear the remaining fabric away with a perfunctory apology and push him back down onto the desk.

He took a moment then just to admire him. His shirt, pushed halfway off, had hooked around his elbows, partially trapping them together while he gazed up at Draco. It gave Draco an idea, and once he had thought of it, he couldn’t let it go. He crooked his finger, and with a hastily bitten off moan Potter followed, pushing up until he was sitting on the edge of the desk. Draco ran his hands down Potter’s arms and pulled off the remains of the shirt. Then he slowly, deliberately, undid his tie, pulled Potter’s arms above his head, and bound his wrists together.

“I should have guessed you liked it kinky.” Potter smirked.

In response, Draco simply pushed him back down on the table and began to undo Potter’s trousers. His breath hitched when Potter pushed slowly, deliberately, up into Draco’s hands, his cock hard beneath the fabric of his pants. He paused and ran a hand down Potter’s front, relishing the way his eyelids fluttered closed and his hips thrust upward, seeking friction. With a muttered curse, he tugged them off and threw them behind him without looking, gazing down instead at a sight he’d never thought to see - Potter, completely naked, and stretched languorously across Draco’s desk as if it were an everyday affair.

His eyes widened at the sight of Potter’s cock, thick and hard and unfairly generous in size, lying against his stomach. He thought of dropping to his knees and taking it in his mouth, rolling it along his tongue and letting Potter thrust into him in long strokes until he came down Draco’s throat.

With admirable self restraint, he lifted his eyes back to Potter’s face.

“You could tie these to the drawer, you know,” Potter suggested, flexing his wrists and holding Draco’s gaze.

All thoughts of dropping to his knees fled from Draco’s mind. He didn’t even bother with his wand; he flicked a hand and the loose ends of his tie snapped themselves tightly around the drawer handle while Potter’s breath caught in response.

He’d never expected Potter to be the subtle type in sex. Not that he’d imagined him a screamer or anything, but Potter was a man who wore his emotions on his sleeve, and Draco hadn’t expected to find himself attuned to the slightest change of breath, the creeping blush across his cheeks. He hadn’t expected to find himself captivated by the way his eyes traced a pattern across Draco’s skin, beginning at his lips and ending at his cock.

Part of that, he supposed, was because he had never expected this at all. A wave of possessiveness flooded him, and he felt his eyes harden as he looked up to meet Potter’s gaze. True to form, Potter stilled - the barest of movements - and the only evidence Draco had of how he was being received was the way Potter’s eyes glazed over and his tongue darted out to wet lips that were made dry from his ragged breath.

“Good idea,” he said idly, tracing a finger along Potter’s inner thigh. “You know, you’ve given me a lot of grief over the last few days.”

“Only because you’re an idiot.” Potter’s voice was shaky.

He ran his fingers lightly across Potter’s cock, paused when it twitched, and moved down lower. “I’d almost say that you and Blaise planned this.”

Potter shifted, looking like he was focusing every ounce of attention on not rutting against Draco’s palm. “Not exactly,” he gasped.

Draco smirked. “But Blaise did have a hand in this, didn’t he?”

Soft moans had begun to fill the room, and Draco felt dazed at the knowledge that they were because of him. He lifted his hands to his shirt and began to pop the buttons open.

“He asked if I was single,” Potter’s voice was low, his eyes following the path of Draco’s fingers. “And I said I had my eye on someone.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “He always did love to play match-maker,” he muttered to himself before Potter’s words caught up with him. He felt a rush of heat flood through him. “Did you, now?”

Their eyes met, and Potter shifted, grinding upward in infinitesimal strokes while a pink flush spread across his chest.

“I told him I’d wanted you for years,” he murmured, watching as Draco let his shirt fall and dropped his hands to the buttons of his trousers.

“Bet he loved that.” Draco wondered if Potter was even listening to him anymore, or was responding simply to the purr of his voice. A niggling thought hit him, along with memories of drunken nights at Hogwarts spent pining loudly and shamelessly over messy-haired boys. “Blaise didn’t-” he cleared his throat. “He didn’t say anything to you, did he?”

A familiar smile spread over Potter’s face - the same smile Draco had been fuming over for the last few days, certain that it was proof of his own failings. “He might have reminisced a little.”

Draco lifted an eyebrow. It was all falling into place now, but right at this moment, he very much did not care. He’d deal with Blaise later.

“But I told him that you kept giving me mixed signals,” Potter finished, practically panting now.

“Still getting mixed signals?” he enquired, stepping out of his pants and trousers in one fluid motion.

Clearly, that didn’t warrant a response, and Draco waited only until Potter had stilled in anticipation before conjuring a handful of lube and stepping forward. He dropped his fingers, tracing a path across Potter’s cock and balls, before reaching down and gently pressing his finger forward. Potter’s eyes closed and he moaned, moving onto Draco’s finger in an unmistakable demand. Draco pulled back, unwilling to hasten the preparation simply because his partner, against all odds, had turned out to be more enthusiastic than his wildest dreams.

For a second, he felt Potter resist, chasing after him and demanding that Draco give him what he wanted. Draco smirked and withdrew completely to rub slow, gentle circles across Potter’s inner thigh. He waited. With a whimper, Potter looked up at him, and whatever he saw in Draco’s eyes made him grow still.

Slowly, carefully, he relaxed, gripping the table behind his head and letting his legs fall open. This time, when Draco returned to him, he let Draco set the pace, his eyes falling closed as he gave himself over to the sensation.

“That’s it, Potter,” he murmured, gently rubbing back and forth. “You’re doing so well.”

He said the words before he could think about how Potter might react, and once they were out he couldn’t take them back. His fingers stilled as his mind began to race, fear flooding him as he imagined all the ways that Potter could respond to him with scorn, but before he could withdraw entirely Potter groaned, thrusting forward onto Draco as he threw his head back against the desk.

Draco was glad Potter couldn’t see him as heat flooded his cheeks and his cock twitched, leaving him slack jawed and desperate as he finger-fucked Potter as slowly as he could bear.

It was as if another wall between them had crumbled, and Potter began to moan desperately, rocking himself backwards and forwards against Draco’s fingers.

“You feel so good, Harry,” Draco whispered. “Don’t stop.”

At the sound of his name, Potter’s mouth fell open and he arched back off the table. Draco bit down on his lip and gently teased another finger forward, slipping inside so that he could scissor slowly. Potter moved against him, rutting back and forward until even Draco was certain there was no reason for him to hold back any longer. Still, he hesitated.

“Are you sure you want to?” he asked, stilling his features against the possibility that Potter would change his mind.

Green eyes snapped to his, their expression a mixture of incredulity and blind rage. “I think I’m pretty fucking certain, yeah.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “So tetchy.” He stepped closer in between Potter’s legs, brushing his cock against the crease of his arse so that whatever words Potter had been about to utter in retort broke off in a gasp. “And you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

Before Potter could gather the wits to respond, Draco pressed forward, easing his way slowly inside to the delicious sound of Potter’s incoherent begging. He took his time, slowing when Potter froze, working him carefully open with slow, small thrusts until Potter’s feet found the edge of the desk again and he began pushing enthusiastically forward. Convinced that he was no longer in any danger of rushing things, Draco reached down to grab hold of Potter’s hips, stilling his movement and thrusting forward in one long stroke.

“That’s it,” Draco said softly when Potter made an unintelligible sound at the back of his throat and arched off the desk. “You take it so well, Harry.”

Potter whimpered and began writhing again, fighting against the hands that still held him down, and fucking himself single-mindedly on Draco’s cock. Draco gave up, letting go of Potter’s hips and running his hands along Potter’s thighs until they came to rest on his knees. He held them open and began to fuck properly into him, thrusting forward in long, slow strokes. He couldn’t look away from Potter, his eyes drawn to the sheen of sweat across his chest, the tension in his arms as he tugged futilely against the cord around them, and, finally, the thick, hard cock that Potter hadn’t even once begged him to touch.

Draco frowned. Was he waiting for permission?

With a small smile, he ran a hand back down Potter’s thigh and gripped him loosely in his fist. Potter’s eyes snapped to his and he held himself suddenly still, as if he was waiting for something.

Draco felt his eyes glaze over with new awareness, and he slowed his own thrusts down as he gently began to stroke. “Look at me,” he commanded.

Potter held their gaze, letting Draco touch him but remaining still, apart from the slightest writhing against Draco’s cock.

“Move,” Draco told him, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears. “Fuck me.”

His eyes closed for the briefest of seconds before he forced them open again, meeting Draco’s eyes and thrusting slowly up into Draco’s fist.

Draco smiled. “Just like that.”

Potter’s eyes glazed over, and he began to move faster.

“You fuck so well.” Draco’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Look so good- I can’t-”

Potter bit down on his lip, his movements becoming more and more erratic while Draco dropped his other hand to the base of his own cock, gripping himself while he fucked Potter in long strokes, knowing he was only seconds away himself.

With a harsh cry, Potter threw his head back and began to come in long stripes across his chest, his cock twitching and pulsing in Draco’s hand. Draco worked him gently through his orgasm, stroking him lightly until his head fell back against the desk, and then he began to thrust quickly again. Within seconds, he was spilling himself inside while Potter watched, his eyes dark and his lips flushed and swollen.

He dropped his head to Potter’s knee, slipping out of Potter and holding himself there while he recovered his breath. He felt Potter’s legs begin to shake, and carefully pushed himself away so that Potter could drop his feet back down and relax on the desk. The sight made his cock stir again, but he reached forward reluctantly to undo the ties around Potter’s wrist.

Before he could pull away, Potter’s hands slid up to his waist, holding him still while their lips pressed together, earnest and sweet in a way that should have felt incongruous to what had just happened, but instead felt wholly, irrevocably, right.

Draco took Potter’s hand and pulled him up so that he was sitting on the edge of the desk and Draco was standing in between his thighs. He ran a hand through the thick, messy hair and felt his stomach flip when Potter looked at him with eyes that were bright and hopeful.

“What did the scroll say?” Draco asked, suddenly remembering.

To his surprise, Potter smirked. Waving his hand, the scroll shot across the room and into his palm.

Taking it from Potter with a suspicious glance, Draco unfurled it.

I think we’ve made him a little too jealous, old bean. Best make a move, quick.

Draco stared down at the note and felt the beginnings of a persistent headache in his temples.

“You’re going to stay friends with him, aren’t you?” he asked flatly, feeling an inevitable certainty that there was about to be a significant, permanent increase of Blaise Zabini in his life.

“Of course,” Potter said with a grin, snatching the note back and eying it fondly. “I like him.”

Draco glared at him. “So long as you don’t start wearing see-through robes. I hope you know a Malfoy can’t be seen dating someone who wears see-through robes.”

To his horror, Potter only laughed.