“It’s funny, isn’t it,” Draco says as he drags the head of his cock against Potter’s slicked arsehole, almost coming on the spot at the hiss his action elicits, “that we’ve met again, here, of all places.”
Potter starts undulating his hips, trying to get Draco closer, but he puts a hand on the small of Potter’s back, making him still.
“You know, I never even thought I’d get an invitation to this event, and yet, last week there was this gold-rimmed envelope on my doorstep. Imagine my surprise,” he says, lining himself up, “that someone at the Ministry thought I was worthy of attending a party with such distinguished guests.”
He pushes in slightly, and Potter groans, then stills, as if surprised at his own loudness. Draco chuckles.
“Careful now, Potter, you wouldn’t want anyone coming in here now, would you?” he says, grabbing Potter’s hips and gently pressing himself through the tight ring of muscles, biting his lip as it gives way to let him in.
Potter gasps and puts the back of his hand to his mouth to keep from making any more sounds.
“Oh, that’s a good boy,” Draco says, rolling his hips experimentally. “Can you imagine what everyone would say?” he says, sinking deep into Potter’s tight, wet heat. “What if someone came in here? What would they say, seeing their Saviour taking Death Eater cock like this? Hmm? Imagine if someone were to come through that door right now, Potter, and see you bent over, getting fucked like this.”
Potter doesn’t answer; he only arches his back to allow Draco further in, meeting him.
“I don’t know what would be the greater shock, their precious Golden Boy being gay or the fact that I’m the one he takes it from,” Draco continues, finally bottoming out.
Potter huffs, as if he’s about to say something, but then Draco pushes himself out a bit before slamming back in, making Potter bite his hand to keep from moaning again.
“What was that?” Draco drags his cock almost all the way out and drives it in again. “You wanted to say something?”
Potter only shakes his head, a muffled groan escaping from behind his hand.
“That’s right, Potter, keep it quiet. Don’t let anyone out there know how good you are at taking cock like this.”
He sets up a slow pace, pulling his cock almost as far back as it can go and slamming back in forcefully. Draping himself over Potter’s back, he winds his arm around Potter’s hips and grabs his erection, pulling it in time with his thrusts. Potter turns his head, and their lips almost touch before Potter turns away again.
“Oh that’s right, you only kiss people you’re in love with, wasn’t that how you put it?” Draco says, straightening up and squeezing one of Potter’s arse cheeks, a little harder than necessary, earning a gasp.
“And what about all your failed relationships?” He starts thrusting faster. “All those heartbroken witches scattered in your wake. Do you kiss them?”
He squeezes again, harder this time, smirking when Potter hisses in pain.
“How come none of them last? Are you still broken by the war, or is there another reason? Are you not enough for them? Perhaps they’re not enough for you.”
The only answer he gets is a huff from Potter, his head slumped forwards as Draco fucks him.
“Such a shame they can’t see you like this,” he murmurs, “such a shame they can’t see the real you. Always hiding, always scared. Poor little Saviour.”
Potter growls, straightening up slightly by extending his arms. “Fuck you, Malfoy.”
Draco slaps him on the arse, not as hard as he would like but sharply enough for it to sting. He does it again for good measure.
“Shut up Potter, or I’ll make you scream so loudly, everyone will come in here to see you with my cock in your arse.”
Potter sucks in a breath; Draco can’t decipher if it’s out of anger or arousal, but knowing Potter it’s probably both. He grabs Potter’s hips, fucking him with abandon, the only sounds in the room the gentle slapping of skin against skin, Potter’s stifled moans, and his own panting breaths.
Draco loves Potter like this, completely at his mercy. It’s better than all the fantasies he had about him during school combined.
Suddenly there’s a gasp and a shudder, and then Potter stills, come spurting in long, hot-white stripes over the dressing table he’s braced against. Draco slides a hand over his back, up to his head, grabbing the messy tangle of black hair and tugging - keeping him in place while he fucks him faster, his vision going blurry, his cock disappearing into Potter over and over and over again. He tightens his grip, making Potter moan; and the way the sound mingles with the wet slide of Draco’s cock through Potter’s loosened hole finally makes him come with a groan, his cock pulsing. Potter grinds his hips slightly, milking the last drops from Draco as he slips out of Potter, panting from the exertion.
Potter is still standing, bracing himself on the dressing table, his breath coming in shallow bursts, as Draco in quick succession tucks himself back in, checks his clothes, and uses an anti-wrinkle charm on them. Potter’s trousers lies pooled around his ankles when he turns around to look at Draco, and Draco already knows what he’s going to say.
“I’m not gay.”
Draco scoffs, smoothing his hair. “Well I’m so very honoured you’re making an exception for me, then.”
Potter scowls at him.
“Well, this has been fun, but I really do need to go back to the party,” Draco says while checking his reflection in the mirror.
Potter looks at his watch, his eyes widening almost comically. “Wait. How did you do that thing with your clothes?” he says while fumbling with his pants and trousers, vanishing the mess in the process. “Can you show me?”
Draco puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side, assessing him.
“I could, but I’m afraid I don’t have the time, there’s a big speech to be held soon and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Potter opens his mouth to say something, but Draco is out the door before he has the time.
He’s almost blinded by sharp sunlight as he steps out onto the patio where Ministry officials, business people, and Potter’s friends are mingling. Anyone who is anyone is here. The Ministry has spared no expenses on the event to announce Potter as new Head Auror. It’s fucking ridiculous, Draco thinks as he looks at the swaying palm trees and the house shaped like a Mediterranean villa. None of Potter’s predecessors have had this kind of spectacle, but of course, The Boy Who Lived must always have special treatment. They’ve even cast the most impressive Atmospheric Charms Draco has ever seen, making the October air warm and pleasant with a light southerly breeze. He doesn’t want to think about how much effort or gold that cost.
Pushing himself through the crowd, he scans the area for Pansy. Unsurprisingly, he finds her at the bar, getting her champagne flute refilled.
“There you are, darling, what took you so long?” she says as she hands him a glass of the sparkling drink.
Draco doesn’t have time to answer, as Fen Foxglove, the junior undersecretary at the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, is calling for attention.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! It is so nice to see so many people here to celebrate our newly appointed Head Auror!”
Draco snorts, leaning his head closer to Pansy.
“As if anyone would pass up the opportunity to see the Chosen One at another one of these preposterous events.”
Pansy hums in agreement. “They should form a line for everyone who wants to kiss his arse.”
“Well, I have to admit it is quite an enjoyable arse,” Draco chuckles.
Groaning loudly, Pansy pokes him in the ribs with her elbow. “Merlin, spare me the details! I do not need that mental image!”
Draco barks out a laugh but quickly stifles it after a reprimanding look from the witch standing in front of him.
“...but don’t let me ramble on any more!” Foxglove continues, “We are very proud to announce our new Head Auror. Please, let me welcome Mr. Harry Potter up on stage!”
There’s a thunderous applause, but instead of Potter showing up, an anonymous-looking wizard comes up on the stage and approaches Foxglove, whispering something in their ear. Foxglove listens, their eyes going wider, and the two of them start whispering frantically to one another.
Pansy frowns, looking around them.
“Where is he?”
The question seems to be spreading through the crowd, bouncing from person to person. Where is Potter? Pansy turns to Draco, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t suppose you have anything to do with this?”
He only gives her a smugly raised eyebrow as an answer, nodding to the door where Potter has just appeared, his clothes wrinkled and hair messy, and she gives him a weary look.
“Didn’t what?” he says, schooling his face into an exaggerated look of innocence.
She grabs the front of his robes, hissing into his ear. “You did not fuck the bloody Saviour right before he’s appointed the new Head Auror!”
“And what if I did?”
Pansy lets go of him, giving him a reproving look.
“Look, why did I get an invitation at the last minute if he didn’t want me here?”
“I don’t know! And I don’t much care for whatever sick game the two of you are playing.”
Draco rolls his eyes, then turns to the stage where Potter has just stepped forward. Sipping his champagne, he raises one eyebrow at Potter, studying him over the rim of his glass. Potter refuses to meet his gaze, but there’s a blush tinting his cheeks as he shuffles his paper notes, scowling.
“Come, let’s go,” Draco says, grabbing Pansy by the elbow. She trips a bit before regaining her balance by putting her hand on his shoulder.
“Yes,” he says simply, looking at Potter by the podium, saying something about new regimes and reorganisation. “I got what I came here for.”
The first time it happened was, of course, entirely Potter’s fault. Pansy had insisted on going to The Unicorn and Thestral for drinks, yet again, solely for the purpose of flirting with the bartender, yet again. Draco didn’t much fancy sitting at the bar and nodding along to whatever tripe the admittedly good-looking gentleman had to say to try to get into Pansy’s pants, when all he wanted to do was scream at the idiots to go shag already. And of course, that night, Potter and his usual gang of Gryffindors were there as well, taking up too much space with their raucous laughter. Draco kept shooting them filthy looks in between his “mhm”s and “really?”s, and finally Potter snapped, standing up abruptly and walking over on slightly unsteady legs.
“Is there a problem, Malfoy?”
Draco didn’t answer, he merely looked Potter up and down with as much contempt as he could.
“Oh no, not at all. Why would I have a problem with you lot dominating this entire establishment? I mean, that’s your privilege, after being on the right side of the war, isn’t it?”
Potter huffed. “You’re un-fucking-believable.”
“I am. Now, hop along and join your little gang and leave me alone,” Draco said, waving his hands to shoo Potter off.
“Yeah, sure Malfoy, I’ll leave you alone. Wouldn’t want to keep you from pulling yet another unsuspecting Wizard.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Now, Potter was the one looking him up and down, his lip curling in distaste.
“It’s a bit predatory, don’t you think, going after blokes who are too young to remember your role in the war,” he said before turning away to join his sycophantic Gryffindor gang.
Draco could barely hear anything over the screaming in his head. Trust Harry sodding Potter to remind him that he would always be defined by his stupidity, no matter how much he tried to make amends. Admittedly, the wizards he had been flirting with lately had been younger because he, in his foolishness, had thought they would be safer, but it had been evidently clear that they all just wanted an opportunity to defile the filthy Death Eater and brag about it afterwards.
Without Draco noticing it, he grabbed his wand, anger coursing through his veins, and he cast a Tripping jinx at Potter’s retreating form, which would have been innocent enough if he wasn’t so mad with rage, making the jinx a little too powerful. Potter flew all the way across the room and landed on a table. He was up in an instant, throwing a Stupefy, which Draco blocked and retaliated with a Levicorpus, easily blocked by Potter. Hexes and jinxes were flying all around, and Draco was struggling to concentrate because Potter was a force of nature, strong and beautiful but quite possibly fatal. Finally, Draco cast a Protego so strong that Potter’s hex bounced forcefully off it and blew the nearest table to smithereens.
“ENOUGH!” the bartender bellowed, disarming them both with an Expelliarmus (Draco noticed the mutinous expression on Potter’s face with satisfaction). “This isn’t a duelling club! Keep your business outside!”
Draco looked around them. The bar was a mess, with upturned tables and chairs everywhere, and patrons cowering behind them.
“He started it!” Potter said, pointing at Draco.
“So? What are you, seven? Get out of my bar!”
There was a bout of whispers in which Draco could hear Potter’s name being uttered.
“So what?” the bartender said, raising his voice and turning around as he spoke so everyone could hear him, “I don’t care if he’s the bloody Queen of Sheba herself, anyone causing trouble isn’t welcome in this bar!”
Draco straightened his robes, turning to the bartender and fishing a few galleons from his pocket.
“I’m terribly sorry for the disturbance. Here’s some money to restore the broken furniture.”
Potter scoffed behind him.
“Well, I see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Buying yourself out of trouble, just like dear old Daddy, aren’t you, Malfoy?”
Draco gripped his wand tighter, and focused with all his might on not throwing a hex at Potter, but the bartender must have seen his struggle as he yelled, “OUT! Both of you!”
Draco glared at Potter, then turned with a huff and shoved his way through the crowd towards the door. It hadn’t even slammed shut before Potter was out as well, grabbing Draco by the cuff of his robes and pushing him up with his back against the wall.
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you, Malfoy?” he said, his voice low, hot puffs of air hitting Draco’s ear, sending shivers through his entire body.
The sound Draco emitted was as involuntary as it was unexpected, but Potter’s body pressed close against his, the warmth of it, the hard muscles underneath his robes, the smell of him, the anger still swirling inside him was too much, too arousing, and without being able to control it Draco let out a gasp that turned into a soft moan. Potter let out a surprised rush of breath against his throat, and then Draco felt it, the unmistakable hardness of Potter’s burgeoning erection against his thigh. Draco took a chance by shifting his hips slightly, rubbing against Potter’s groin, and felt a surge of satisfaction as Potter’s bottom lip disappeared between his teeth, his eyes fluttering closed. Potter was still pinning him to the wall, but Draco’s hands were free and he used them to his advantage by guiding Potter so that one of his legs was between Draco’s, making Potter’s rutting give him some friction as well.
Potter’s face was buried in the crook of Draco’s neck, his panting breaths leaving a damp spot on Draco’s shoulder. Draco traced his tongue over the shell of Potter’s ear, before sucking his earlobe into his mouth. Potter gave up all pretence and moaned loudly, rutting frantically against Draco, his hands now on Draco’s hips instead, grabbing them so hard that Draco knew he would have bruises the next day, but he quite enjoyed that thought. Suddenly, Potter stilled, his hips moving ever so slightly, his breathing coming in quick bursts just below Draco’s ear, and then he groaned softly, letting out a long, shuddering breath. Draco moved his legs against Potter, rubbing small circles into his groin, guiding Potter through his orgasm, desperately seeking more friction so he could come, too.
Potter wrenched himself free, staring at Draco with wide eyes, then, without warning, he Disapparated with a pop, leaving Draco alone and still hard in the dingy alley.
The next day, as Draco was visiting Pansy at the Ministry for lunch, he was unceremoniously dragged into an empty corridor. His first instinct was to hex whoever it was into oblivion, but as he got his bearings, he saw Potter standing in front of him, looking sheepish.
“I need to talk to you,” he said, apparently realising that he was still holding onto Draco’s hand and quickly letting go of it.
Draco folded his arms. “I’d say so. Have you any idea how impolite it is to just disappear after you’ve come, without even offering some release to your partner?”
Potter’s expression shifted into one of annoyance.
“I’m not gay,” he said, his lip curling ever so slightly, just enough for Draco to notice.
“Oh, of course not. How would it look to the wizarding world, their saviour liking to be fucked by other men? You’re supposed to marry your childhood sweetheart and breed little hero sprogs to keep up morale, isn’t that right?”
Potter’s eyes flashed, his face drawing into a scowl. He grabbed Draco’s wrist, just this side of painfully.
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he spat, so close that Draco could feel little bits of saliva hitting him.
Arching one eyebrow, Draco said, “Well, I thought you’d never ask.”
Potter let go of his arm with a sound of frustration.
“Just stay the fuck away from me,” he said, storming away and leaving Draco with a small sense of satisfaction.
After all these years, it still felt wonderful to be able to rile Potter up this way. He smoothed his robes and went to search for Pansy.
“That’s it, Potter, nice and easy. Breathe through your nose.”
Potter’s eyes are shut, shallow breaths puffing out from his nose, Draco’s cock firmly lodged at the back of his throat.
“Aren’t you a good little cocksucker, Potter? Have you been doing research?” he asks, remembering the first fumbling, sloppy blow jobs he received from Potter - the only thing making up for them, really, being the way Draco had always fantasised about getting sucked off by him. This time, however, Potter is excelling at his task, hollowing his cheeks and swallowing around Draco’s cock. “Or perhaps you’ve been practising? Have you sucked so much cock that you’re ready to take me in all the way?”
There are shivers of pleasure down Draco’s spine at the thought of Potter on his knees in front of a steady stream of faceless, nameless wizards and Muggles.
Potter’s eyes snap open, a defiant glint in the steady gaze he gives Draco. He grunts, and Draco hisses at the vibration of it around his cock. He retaliates by grabbing Potter’s hair, holding him still while he starts fucking into the warm wet heat that is Potter’s mouth, Potter’s throat, and he has to concentrate not to come on the spot. He wants this to last. He needs to commit it to memory, the way Potter’s lips look stretched around his shaft.
Potter closes his eyes again, but Draco yanks his hair, making him look up at him.
“Keep those sparkling green open, Potter, I want to watch them while I fuck into that slag of a mouth of yours.”
Potter looks straight at Draco, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. Draco rolls his hips slowly, experimentally, and Potter moans around him.
“That’s a good boy.” Draco stills, stroking Potter’s jawline with light fingers, letting them rest on his chin. “Remember, you can always stop this when you want to, okay?”
Potter nods minutely, and Draco sets up a slow rhythm, shallow thrusts at first, but soon, he can feel Potter relax, and he starts pulling out and going back in further, with more force.
“Look at that, Potter. What a lovely little cock slut you are. You should see how you look with my dick deep in your throat.” Draco moves his hand so it rests on the back of Potter’s head, keeping it in place. “I think I will look at this later in a Pensieve. Maybe you want to join me? Would you like to see your slutty mouth around me? See how deep I can go into that needy throat of yours?”
The pace of Potter’s breathing is picking up and he closes his eyes again, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. Draco doesn’t reprimand him this time, instead throwing his head back as he feels his orgasm building up, the tingling at the small of his back growing as Potter keeps moaning and swallowing around his cock.
“Fuck, Potter, I’m going to—” he says as his thrusts become more erratic. Potter makes a sound of approval, and that’s all it takes to pull Draco over the edge, his cock pulsing his release down Potter’s throat.
Potter keeps swallowing, and it takes Draco several moments to come down from the rush. His head is spinning, there are tiny stars dancing in front of his eyes, and he braces one hand on the desk behind him to avoid using Potter’s hair to keep his balance. Tiny puffs of air from Potter’s nose tickle his groin, and Draco reluctantly pulls himself out of Potter’s wet heat. After several moments where Draco regains his breath, he looks down at Potter, still kneeling on the floor, still gasping, his hair messy, a string of come and saliva slowly trickling down his chin. He looks absolutely wrecked, but still has that defiant glint in his eyes.
“Do you want help with…?” Draco says, gesturing to Potter’s groin. He might as well offer his services, right?
Potter shakes his head, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. “No, I already…,” he says, and Draco needs to stifle a groan at the sound of his voice, hoarse from taking him so deeply.
“Well, in that case, you’re dismissed.”
Potter glowers at him.
“This is my office.”
“Oh, that’s right, I forgot. Do you want me to leave through the door, say hello to all your subordinates?”
His words have the desired effect, as Potter’s eyes flit to the door, then back to him, his mouth hanging open in panic.
“Don’t worry, Potter, I’ll see myself out.”
After tucking himself back in, he crouches down, trailing his thumb along Potter’s jaw, swirling it around that trail of come and putting it into Potter’s mouth. Potter sucks it in, his gaze unwavering.
“You did well today,” Draco says, delighting in the way Potter shivers at his praise. “I’ll send you those memories to look at, they really are quite exquisite.”
Potter sucks in a breath. Draco isn’t sure if he’s indignant, or if he likes the idea of watching himself sucking Draco off. He leans forward to brush his lips against Potter’s, then remembers he’s not allowed. He stands up abruptly, making Potter almost topple over as he pulls his thumb out of his mouth.
“I’m not gay.” Potter is stubbornly looking at the floor as he says it.
Draco huffs. “Oh, but you’re so good at it, you have no idea.”
“I’m not in love.”
Pansy sits beside him at one of the Muggle café tables that line the city street. She takes an exaggerated forkful of salad, forcing it into her mouth and chewing slowly. Her whole posture is a telltale sign that she’s pretending not to hear him, that she’s pretending to look at the people passing by, but he can tell that behind her sunglasses, her eyes are still.
Draco takes a drag of smoke, forcefully blowing it in her direction. “Did you hear me?”
The chewing continues until she swallows, with a little help from her glass of white wine. “I did.”
“I’m just not sure who you’re trying to convince, me or yourself,” she says, setting her knife and fork down.
Draco snorts. “As if you would turn down the opportunity to shag the prat who lived.”
Pansy lifts her glass again, tipping it in Draco’s direction. “Fair point.” He sits back, arms folded, feeling pleased with himself. “Although, in all honesty,” Pansy continues, effectively wiping away his smugness, “I don’t share the same history with him as you do.”
She gives him a weary look. “Don’t play stupid, Draco, it doesn’t suit you.”
He doesn’t answer, instead looking at the people passing by; Muggles with their shopping bags rushing here and there.
“You’re playing with fire, Draco. And I know you’ll get burned eventually.”
He rolls his eyes at her. Fuck, but she can be so dramatic sometimes. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Merlin, I hope so. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Groaning, he lets his head fall back. “Even if I was in love with him, which I’m not,” he says, sitting up again to look pointedly at her, “I would never start a relationship with someone closeted. Circe knows I’ve spent enough time in there myself.”
Pansy sighs, fiddling with the napkin in her lap. “Just… be careful, Draco. Please. I know you. You’ve never been able to be casual about Potter.”
“Would you relax, it’s only a fulfilment of all my schoolboy fantasies! Of everyone’s fantasies about what they want to do with Potter.” He lets out a long breath. “Can’t you be happy for me? At least pretend. Ask me for details about his cock or something.”
There’s a splutter as Pansy chokes on the sip of wine she’s just taken. Draco turns his attention away from the bustling street and looks at her. She’s hiding her face behind her hands, shaking with coughs and suppressed giggles.
“Dear Morgana, I can’t!” she says, after regaining her breath and wiping a tear from her eye.
“What? Aren’t you dying to know?”
“Sure, Draco, I’ll indulge you. How is the Chosen Cock? Big? Small? Crooked? Smell okay?”
He bats her arm, which only makes her laugh harder.
“Shut it. You’re the worst friend ever.”
“Right, I’m the kind of friend who doesn’t give a shit about your wellbeing,” she scoffs.
“Yes, yes, I hate you too,” he says, blowing her a kiss. “And do not, I repeat: do not say a word to Granger!”
Pansy sighs. “Hermione and I are just colleagues, nothing more.”
“I know you, Pansy, and you wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to get on Little Miss Hero’s good side.”
“And you think telling her that her best friend is secretly gay and fucking his ex-enemy will help me achieve that?”
“Just keep it quiet, okay?”
“Fine,” she grumbles, before draining her glass.
With a dull thud, Draco’s bag falls to the floor. Draco wishes he could follow its example, after the day he’s had. These past few weeks have been endless meeting after endless meeting with the goblins of Gringotts, and still no closure deal in sight. Raking a hand through his hair, he steps into his kitchen and puts the kettle on. The sound of water boiling and the smell of the finest lapsang tea leaves make his shoulders drop several inches. It’s nights like these when he wishes he had someone to come home to, someone who’d have a meal ready for him and ask him about his day, but as it is, being a former Death Eater doesn’t leave him with a lot of options.
He’s only just reheated some of the boeuf bourguignon Mother sent home with him after his last visit at the Manor and had one spoonful of it, when there’s a tap on the window. Looking up, he sees a weatherbeaten owl, swaying a bit in the harsh wind outside. He hurriedly lets it in, and it hoots at him in a way that sounds like it’s thanking him. It looks really worn out, like it’s going to faint at any moment. He unties the scroll of paper attached to its leg, but apparently the fatigue was just for show or quickly evaporated, because the little owl briskly snatches a bit of his bread and flies off with it.
Frowning, Draco opens the envelope, only to find an old plastic lid, that Draco assumes is a Portkey, and a note. He instantly recognises Potter’s messy handwriting.
Fancy a fuck?
Draco rolls his eyes. So elegant. But he can’t deny his piqued interest, nor the stirring in his pants.
He doesn’t go straight away, no, he takes his time finishing his meal and going to the bathroom before he takes the little plastic lid. In an instant, there’s that familiar hook behind his navel, and he’s jerked forwards through whirling colours, before landing in a room lit only by the fire in the grate. Potter is sitting in a chintz armchair, his skin golden in the dancing light from the flames, a smirk on his face that doesn’t quite look as conceited as it should. There’s a flicker of relief there, merely a passing shadow that quickly disappears. He leans back, putting one foot on his opposite knee.
“Well, look who decided to show up at last,” he says, his voice trembling slightly, something that would probably pass most people by, but Draco picks up on it instantly, he’s so used to being completely tuned in to Potter.
He leans on one hip, cocking his head to the side, assessing Potter. “Oh, you can do better than that, having arranged for me to come here.”
Potter’s eyes flash dark, and then, in a fraction of a second, he’s up and in Draco’s face.
“You think so? Well, in that case,” he says, crowding Draco against the wall, pressing his groin against his hip, revealing a fully hard erection, “turn around, Malfoy.”
Draco stays still, defiantly locking eyes with Potter for a beat too long before he obeys, noticing with satisfaction they way Potter falters. He turns, hands braced against the wall, waiting. Potter wastes no time ripping his trousers and pants down in one swift motion, then stills.
“You… You prepared yourself?”
Draco looks over his shoulder and sees Potter looking in awe at the shiny crown of his buttplug, tentatively reaching a hand out to feel it.
“Well, I felt it was necessary, the last time you went back there it felt like being fingered by a Erumpent, and I have an important presentation this week, so I need to be able to walk properly.”
Potter’s face darkens, and something like hurt flickers across it. Instead of feeling victorious for getting to him, Draco just feels remorse seeping into his body.
“Oh, is that right, Malfoy?” Potter says, stepping closer, putting a hand on Draco’s head and forcing him to face the wall again. “Your delicate arse couldn’t take a little inexperience?” There’s a rustle and a clink as Potter’s belt fall to the floor along with his trousers and then his warm cock is bouncing against Draco’s arse cheeks. “You need silk gloves, do you? What if I told you I’d been practising? First on myself, alone in my bed, imagining someone was going to come and use that loosened hole.”
Draco closes his eyes, suppressing a moan at the thought of Potter fucking himself with his fingers.
“What if I told you I’ve used all the skills you’ve taught me to fuck others?” Potter continues, grabbing the buttplug and yanking it out with a little more force than strictly necessary. “That I’ve convinced more than one witch that taking it up the arse isn’t so bad, after all, if you know what you’re doing.”
Draco inhales sharply. Surely Potter is just trying to rile him up? He’s not been in a relationship as of late, he usually won’t see Draco when he is, because apparently he’s “not the cheating kind”. This must just be a way to make Draco jealous. Well, the joke’s on Potter, because if Draco’s not in love, he can’t be jealous.
“I was planning on opening you slowly this time, Malfoy, using my tongue and my fingers until you were begging for me to fuck you, but I guess you’re just an impatient little slag, aren’t you?” Potter grabs his hips roughly, and then the spongy head of his cock is circling Draco’s waiting hole. “Aren’t you, Malfoy? Aren’t you just aching for me to fuck you?”
Draco forces down a shiver of arousal, refusing to dignify Potter’s statement with an answer. He scoffs. “Well, aren’t you clever, Potter? Does it make it easier for you to fuck them if you do it up the arse? Is it easier to block out that they’re witches?” He presses back against Potter’s groin, undulating his hips to rub against Potter’s cock, smirking as a suppressed moan escapes Potter’s lips. “If you close your eyes, maybe you can almost forget that they’re not what you want. As long as you don’t try to reach around them to pull them off you can pretend that they’re someone else?”
There’s a low growl, and then Potter pushes in all the way in one stroke, and Draco almost loses his balance, the sting of it is so exquisite.
Potter’s voice is low in his ear, his chest flush against Draco’s back. “And you think I imagine them being you, don’t you, Malfoy?” He scoffs. “You think I have to pretend that they’re you to be able to come?” He sets up an agonisingly slow rhythm, making Draco bite his lip to keep from fucking himself faster on Potter’s cock.
“And don’t you? Can you honestly say you’re able to keep it up without some sort of fantasy playing in your head? Do you need them to be quiet to keep the illusion that you’re fucking someone you’re actually attracted to?”
Potter grabs his hair forcefully, yanking it so that Draco’s neck bends backwards, the awkward angle just below painful.
“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.”
“Oh, but you like it when I’m mouthing off, don’t you?” Draco says to the ceiling. “Am I the only one who doesn’t fawn over you, Potter, doesn’t agree with everything you say? Yes, Harry, I’ll take it up the arse if that’s what you want. Yes, Harry, I’ll keep quiet if that’s what you need. No, Harry, I don’t find it odd that I always have to stimulate myself’,” he sneers. “Admit it, you’re sick of it.”
There’s another growl as Potter drags himself out and slams back in, still with his hand tightly fisted in Draco’s hair.
“I said: Shut. The fuck. Up,” he hisses through clenched teeth before he starts pounding into Draco in a steady rhythm, faster now.
Draco chuckles, knowing it will drive Potter absolutely mad with rage. And a mad Potter is a rough Potter, and rough is what Draco wants right now, rough is what they have together, what Potter is willing to give him, what Potter wants from him. “Am I too close to the truth?”
“I thought I told you to shut up,” Potter pants into his ear. He’s so close now, Draco can feel his thrusts becoming erratic.
“Make me,” he breathes.
Potter makes a frustrated sound, releasing Draco’s hair and instead putting two fingers into his mouth. Draco wastes no time in sucking Potter’s fingers like they were his cock, swirling his tongue and taking them deeper and deeper in. Potter’s pants sound more like moans now, and he snakes his other hand around Draco, grabbing his erection and pulling it it rough strokes. It’s almost too rough, verging on painful, but it’s precisely what Draco needs right now, and he lets out a loud groan as he spills over Potter’s hand. Potter thrusts hard once, twice, three times, then stills and he’s coming, twitching, throbbing deep inside.
They stand like that for a while, catching their breath before Potter slides out of him, his mouth still at the nape of Draco’s neck, his breathing hot against his skin. Draco closes his eyes, his forehead against the wall, feeling Potter’s release slip out of him.
“I’m not…,” Potter begins, his lips moving against Draco’s neck.
“If you’re going to ruin this high by telling me yet again that you’re not gay, you can fuck right off, Potter.”
Potter freezes then steps away, leaving Draco cold against the wall.
“It’s my home.”
Draco turns around, fixing Potter with his deadliest glare.
“Indeed it is,” he says, curling his lip in the way he knows makes Potter absolutely furious. Bending over, he finds his wand among some of his clothes, summons the rest of them, and straightens up, still completely naked. Potter just stands there dumbly, his arms hanging limply by his sides. “Don’t bother seeking me out again,” he tells Potter before Disapparating.
Of course, it only takes Potter showing up at Millicent’s birthday party at The Happy Griff, the latest club in wizarding London, looking better than what is strictly legal and gazing at Draco from across the room, for him to throw all pretences aside and follow him into the gents. Locked in a cubicle, they frot desperately against each other, Potter’s face buried in the crook of Draco’s neck as he comes. In a sort of twisted tribute to their first time, Potter Disapparates straight after a perfunctory cleaning spell, leaving Draco alone, panting and feeling that he did something wrong. He tries to soothe himself by washing his hand, but the feeling of being dirty lingers.
When he comes out from the loo, Pansy is standing outside, arms crossed and lips pursed.
“Save it,” he mumbles as he shoves past her.
She grabs him by the arm. “Draco, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
“Doing what, exactly? Enjoying myself?”
“Are you? Are you really enjoying yourself? Because that is not the face of someone having a good time.”
He stares at her with his most imposing glare, knowing full well that it doesn’t have that much effect on her anymore.
“I’m not in love, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
She closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Of course not. This is just you fulfilling your schoolboy fantasy. This is you scratching an itch.” Her gaze is unwavering; he can tell she’s equal parts angry and worried. “Tell me, Draco, when you had mosquito bites as a child, did it feel better to scratch them, as well, but then after you did they’d start itching even more?”
Draco clenches his teeth hard to keep from screaming at her. This is the problem with letting people in, of showing them your true self - they know just where to stab you. How fucking dare she be right?
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, pushing past her out into the club again, hoping that the sweaty mass of dancing people will take his mind off brilliantly green eyes and hot breath against his skin.
I’m not in love, it’s only sex, he thinks, on his knees with his face buried between Potter’s arse cheeks, the sounds he’s making enough to pull Draco over the edge with just a few lazy pulls.
I’m not in love, it’s only sex, he thinks when he Apparates home to an empty apartment from a hotel room paid by the hour, already missing the warmth of Potter’s body.
I’m not in love, it’s only sex, he thinks, looking at Potter’s retreating form in an abandoned corridor at a Ministry function, his spent cock still out of his pants and covered in Potter’s saliva.
I’m not in love, it’s only sex, he thinks one morning when he decides not to heal the bruises Potter had left on his hips the previous night as he came louder than Draco had ever heard him.
I’m not in love he thinks as he turns down another interested man at his favourite Muggle gay bar. It’s only sex.
It’s the middle of the night, and Draco has a big presentation with the goblins tomorrow; he really should be sleeping. In any case, he shouldn’t have Potter tied to his bedposts and be riding him like his life depended on it. But when Potter showed up unannounced after an Auror raid, the adrenaline still pumping through him, making his hands shake and his breath shallow, it only took Draco one look to make up his mind and let him in. He knows this is dangerous territory, allowing Potter into his home, letting him in far more than he’s ever intended, but as it is, he likes that Potter needs him, if grudgingly.
“Fuck, Malfoy, these ropes are cutting into my wrists.”
Draco leans forwards to check that there’s no immediate danger of chafing or loss of blood flow, making Potter slide out of him a little. Finding everything in order, he still loosens them a bit before he sits back, making Potter hiss. Smirking, he rolls his hips.
“Do you have a problem with my spellwork, Potter?”
Potter groans, bucking his hips, but Draco places a hand on him, making him still.
“Patience, Potter. You’ve had a rough night, just take this opportunity to relax.”
Potter pulls at the ropes, his toned muscles flexing. He really is a sight to behold, stretched out on Draco’s bed, his golden skin glistening with sweat.
“I don’t want to relax, I want to fucking come!”
“And you will, you just need a little more patience,” Draco says, untying the ropes with a swish of his wand, instead pinning Potter in place with his hands. “Is that better?” he murmurs softly, sucking Potter’s earlobe into his mouth.
Potter gasps, trying to get loose.
“I want to touch you,” he breathes. “Please, let me touch you.”
Draco’s breath stutters, but he hopes that Potter is too far gone to notice.
“That’s a good boy for using your words, I think I’ll reward you,” he manages. He lets go of Potter’s wrists, straightening up again and picking up the pace.
Potter growls, “Thank fuck!”, and his hands fly to Draco’s sides, resting there for a while before he slides them down to Draco’s arse, grabbing his cheeks and starting to buck up in earnest to meet him. It’s almost a caress, almost loving, the way he holds on as if Draco is the one thing that can ground him.
Draco closes his eyes. It’s too intimate to keep them open, to see Potter’s flushed face, his furrowed brows, his bottom lip disappearing between his teeth as he chases his release. He leans forward, one hand on the headboard for leverage and the other one pulling at his cock with quick strokes, bouncing up and down over Potter’s cock, seeking pleasure. Then, finally, there it is, the tight coil of his orgasm unfurling, rushing through his veins, his limbs, setting him on fire, and he’s coming all over Potter’s stomach. Potter makes a strangled sound, his hips stuttering and stilling. Still moving, Draco chances a glance at him, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his red cheeks, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. Draco collapses on the bed beside him, panting, rolling over onto his back, exhaustion taking over him.
He lies there for a while, arms above his head, catching his breath, listening to Potter’s breathing even out. He can’t look at him anymore, he can’t stand seeing Potter in his bed, can’t handle that image becoming a memory.
Rolling over on his side, he murmurs, “Close the door when you leave, will you?”
There’s a moment of silence before he vaguely registers a cleansing charm washing over him as he drifts off to sleep.
It’s still dark when he wakes up several hours later, the unfamiliar presence of a warm body behind him probably what pulled him from his sleep. He fumbles for his wand, lighting it carefully, not too brightly, so it doesn’t wake his sleeping companion.
Potter looks so peaceful in sleep, his usual stern-looking face relaxed, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheek. Draco gets the sudden urge to count them, he wants to kiss them softly, every fibre in his body is aching to reach out and touch his face. But even looking at Potter feels like trespassing, like Psyche watching Eros unpermitted.
Afraid to wake Potter up, he extinguishes the light and fits himself into the space in front of Potter’s body, hesitating before he takes his arm and wraps it around himself. If Potter notices when they wake up, he will never know it was Draco who arranged for them to lie like this.
It takes him a moment to relax into the warmth of Potter, but concentrating on his steady breathing finally lulls him back to sleep.
The next time he wakes up, it’s to his alarm, and he’s alone in bed. He turns to see Potter standing by his bed, frozen in the task of putting on his travelling cloak. His eyes briefly flit to Draco and then he averts them.
“Oh, you’re awake. Sorry, I er… I didn’t mean to spend the night,” he mumbles, bending over to pick up his wand.
“No, it’s fine, don’t mention it,” Draco says, rubbing his neck in soothing circles. Did Potter wake up with his arm still around Draco? And if he did, what did he think of it?
Potter fiddles with his wand, twirling it between his fingers. “I’m… I’m not gay.”
Draco gathers the sheets around him, suddenly feeling very naked.
“Right. Because that would be awful, wouldn’t it? Really fucking disgusting.”
Potter’s eyes snap to him, and he has the grace to look sheepish, before his eyebrows draw together and he purses his lips.
“I’m not homophobic or anything!”
“You’re not? Well, you’re doing a great job hiding it.”
Potter opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but closes it again, jutting his chin out. In an instant, all of Draco’s anger evaporates, replaced with a sadness that sets deep in his bones. He’s so fucking tired of this, so fucking tired of everything. He stands up, still with the sheet around him.
“I’m going to the bathroom, and when I get back, either you’ll have your shit together or you’ll be gone, understood?”
He doesn’t wait for a reply before leaving Potter flabbergasted, restraining himself from slamming the door to the bathroom.
When he returns, his room is empty, with no sign at all that Potter was ever there.
Draco goes over his notes for the umpteenth time, sighing deeply, then gives up. He slumps back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. The presentation with the goblins had been dreadful, as expected with the late night and the awful morning he had. He really needs to get his bearings and stop obsessing over Potter.
A knock on his door makes him look up. He frowns as he sees his visitor.
“Granger? What are you doing here?”
She purses her lips, folding her arms across her chest, reminding him eerily of Pansy.
“Is that the correct way to address a visitor, Draco?”
“Sorry. To what do I owe the pleasure of welcoming you to my humble venue of gainful employment?” he says with a tiny bow of his head. “And what are you doing here, Granger?”
She rolls her eyes but steps inside. “May I?”
“Why yes, Granger, I believe you already are,” he says, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
Primly, she sits down, crossing one leg over the other.
“I came to talk to you about Harry,” she says, looking him straight in the eye.
Draco freezes, eyes fixed on her and his mind going a million places at once. Does she know? Did Potter talk to her? Or worse, did Pansy?
Seeing his facial expression, she puts her hands up in a placating gesture.
“I swear, there has been no breach of trust on Pansy’s part, she merely confirmed my suspicions.”
Feeling relieved that his trust wasn’t misplaced, but unwilling to make things easy for Granger he asks, “Which are?”
Swallowing, she says, “That you and Harry are… are having…” She looks at him pleadingly, waiting for him to finish her sentence.
He leans back and smirks. Gryffindors are so easy to fluster.
“Go on, Granger, you can say it.”
She huffs, a strand of hair blowing out of her face. “That you’re having some sort of… physical relationship.”
He smiles even wider. “Very good, Granger, was that so hard?”
She glares at him, and suddenly he’s happy that there are a few feet of hardwood desk between them. He still hasn’t forgotten the sting of her slapping him all those years ago.
“Anyway,” she says with an air of nonchalance, “I know he’s acting sort of… reluctant, one might say.”
Draco doesn’t say anything, waiting for her to continue, not willing to acknowledge exactly how reluctant Potter is.
“It’s just… his upbringing was… not the most supportive, to put it mildly. Especially regarding being ‘different’, or what people say about those who are.”
Draco stays silent, trying to hide the fact that his interest is very much piqued. He’s often wondered, like so many others, about Potter’s background, but the subject has always been effectively shut down in interviews.
“I just think you need to be a bit patient with him,” she says, looking at him with a face of kindness and openness. He wants to wipe that understanding expression off it.
“And why are you telling me this?” he says, genuinely curious about the answer. “This agreement, no sorry, relationship, between Potter and I is, as you said yourself, physical. Only. And if Potter wants to stay closeted forever, then who am I to force him out?”
“Well, between two people who care for Harry—”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Granger, I don’t care about Potter. I only care about my own satisfaction, and so far, Potter has more than provided on that part.”
She gives a short laugh, leaning back in her chair, fixing him with a piercing stare. “Listen, Malfoy, I know you’re really fond of this bad boy image you’ve created, and I understand it’s easier to hide behind that facade rather than show vulnerability. But I’ve seen the way you look at Harry; I know you care about him more than you let on.”
And there it is: another slap from her. It’s impressive that she still has impeccable aim.
“Well, this has been lovely, but I’m terribly sorry, I really must continue working now. Thanks ever so for your advice.”
He walks over to the door, opening it to show her out. To his annoyance, she remains seated, regarding him for what feels like an eternity before rising from the chair and walking over to him.
“Just think about what I’ve said,” she says, looking at him for far too long, making him squirm, before she squeezes past him and walks away, the flowery scent of her perfume lingering long after she’s gone.
A week later, Draco finds Potter on his doorstep, looking at him from under his fringe, coy and shy at the same time. The right thing would be to tell him off, to say that meeting in one of their homes is off-limits, but Draco is only a man, after all, and when it comes to Potter he knows he lacks self-control, even if he’ll never admit it to Pansy.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Potter says into the crook of Draco’s neck, and that is enough for Draco to cancel his plans for the evening and drag him into his bed.
And this time, he hasn’t prepared himself, and this time, Potter slowly opens him up with skilled fingers and mouth, making Draco delirious with want and jealousy, wanting to ask who taught him how to use his tongue, his lips, like that. But he keeps his mouth shut, not wanting Potter to get the upper hand by Draco admitting he can’t stand the thought of him with someone else, man or woman. Instead, he obeys when Potter slides a hand over his back, gently pressing him down onto all fours. Instead, he widens his knees, allowing Potter easier access. Instead, he focuses on relaxing when Potter breaches him and slowly rocks into him until his pubic hairs tickle Draco’s arse.
“Fuck, Malfoy, look at that gorgeous body of yours,” Potter says, slowly rolling his hips.
Draco closes his eyes and breathes, the sensation and Potter’s praise almost unbearable.
”Gods, I could do this all day, just watch you stretching around my cock like this, taking it again and again and again,” Potter says, snapping his hips faster, harder.
Draco is unable to answer; he drops his forehead onto the soft, cool sheets of his bed, his back arching of its own will.
“Fuck yes, Malfoy, like that, give me all of that glorious arse of yours.”
Potter lets his hand slide up along Draco’s spine, then wraps his arm around Draco, hoisting him up so that they’re chest to back, and he pounds into him relentlessly. Draco slings his arm around Potter’s neck to keep his balance, and it’s almost too much - the heat of Potter’s body, the sounds of skin against skin, Potter’s hot mouth just below his ear licking sucking - and Draco angles his head to give him better access.
“Look at that,” Potter murmurs with awe, “look at you coming undone.”
Draco whines, it’s an embarrassing sound, but he’s too gone to care; pleasure is coursing through his body, and his balls draw upwards as he starts to come. He turns his head, and suddenly Potter’s lips are there, brushing against his, and without warning, they’re kissing. It’s all too much and not enough, and then he feels Potter’s cock pulsing its release inside him and they’re still kissing, Potter doesn’t even seem to notice it as they collapse on the bed in a sweaty tangle of limbs. Draco turns, his chest flush against Potter’s, kissing him until they’re both breathless, and Potter’s hands are in Draco’s hair, the touch sending shivers down Draco’s spine.
It’s ridiculous, really, of all the places on Potter’s body that Draco has had his mouth and tongue, this feels strangely intimate. Potter is a really good kisser, firm but soft, and Draco feels a pang of jealousy at the thought that someone else has been lucky enough to experience this before him, has had the pleasure of being kissed by Potter, of being devoured by him. And yet, at the same time, his stomach fills with butterflies as he allows himself to think about what this means; what it really means that Potter is kissing him like this, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Potter’s breath comes in tiny huffs, it feels like a soft laugh, and Draco’s whole body is on fire.
He is almost ready to have another round when the whole room lights up unexpectedly. It takes Draco a moment to realise it’s a Patronus in the shape of a fox standing by the bed, telling Potter that he’s needed immediately at the DMLE. An Auror raid against a potions ring has gone wrong, with several Aurors injured or taken hostage.
Swearing, Potter rolls out of bed, summoning his clothes from different places around the room without even using his wand, and if that’s not a turn on in itself, he does it while naked, with come still dripping from his now softened cock. Draco takes his wand and surreptitiously casts a cleaning charm, which makes Potter look at him for the first time since the message arrived.
“I’m sorry, I…,” he starts, looking like a little schoolboy caught misbehaving.
“Don’t apologise, you don’t have any obligations towards me.”
Potter swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Right. Except… Can we meet again? When I get clearance? I think… I think we need to discuss some things.”
Draco’s heart skips a beat, the traitorous thing. “Sure. Let me know when you’re available, I’m… I’m right here.”
Potter looks at him for a beat too long, his gaze intense. Draco suddenly has the urge to use Occlumency.
“Yes,” he says slowly, “you are.”
He looks like he’s about to approach the bed again, but then thinks better of it, instead turning on the spot, the pop of his Disapparition leaving the room eerily silent.
Draco sits still on his bed, his lips still tingling from Potter’s kiss, the butterflies Potter had woken up refusing to settle down.
“I’m not in love.”
Draco sits on Pansy’s kitchen island, his legs dangling over the edge. He can’t seem to keep them still. Pansy dignifies him with a weary look, before returning to filling her handbag with Merlin knows what.
“Keep telling yourself that, and maybe it’ll become true.”
She puts the bag down to look at him. “Draco, you’ve been jittery ever since Potter went on that Auror mission. And you’re chewing your nails. Send him an owl, or go to his place, just do something! Put me out of my misery.”
“He was the one who wanted to talk, he’s supposed to come to me,” Draco says, trying hard not to pout. “Also, there was a really big case and some sort of emergency, maybe they’ve sent him somewhere. If I seek him out now, after barely a week, I will look desperate.”
There’s a tap on the window, and Pansy goes to open it.
“Finally!” she says as the owl gives her a rolled-up Daily Prophet. “I was about to send a complaint that I hadn’t got my copy today.”
She gives the bird a treat, before dropping a few coins in the pouch attached to its leg, then unfurling the paper, her eyes widening in shock as she scans the front page over and over.
Draco furrows his brow. “What’s wrong?”
She rolls up the paper, putting it behind her back.
“Nothing!” she says too brightly, plastering on a big smile. “Are you ready for lunch now?”
He hops down onto the floor, taking a step towards her. “Give it to me.”
She shakes her head.
“Give me. Now.”
She backs away, the paper still behind her back.
“You do realise I can just go out and buy my own copy? What is it?”
Pansy hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking the paper out and giving it to him. He rolls his eyes at her antics as he unfurls and looks at it. The whole page is covered by a picture of Potter, looking surly and unwilling to be photographed, constantly glaring to the side of the frame.
The headline reads: When the wizard chooses the wand. Harry Potter comes out of the closet.
The rumours regarding the personal life of the most famous wizard of all time have been circulating since he broke up with his Hogwarts sweetheart Ginevra Weasley. Some have even suggested that his playboy lifestyle is really a cover up to hide the truth: Harry Potter is gay.
The Daily Prophet can now confirm that these rumours are true.
“That’s right,” says Mr. Potter himself in an exclusive interview with us, “I’m gay and I’m finally ready to admit it.”
When questioned why he has been hiding this for so long, Mr Potter responds that he wishes to keep his private life out of the papers.
“I don’t think it’s anyone’s business who I’m dating or am in love with,” he says.
We can, however, bring our dear readers this happy news: Harry Potter has a loving boyfriend.
“Yes, Nicholas is a close friend of mine and has been my confidant for some time now; he really has helped me come to terms with my sexuality and that’s it’s nothing to be ashamed of. And I guess somewhere along the line, our feelings for each other developed into something more,” says Potter, a becoming flush adorning his cheeks when his partner is mentioned.
It’s like a blow to the solar plexus. Draco can’t remember how to breathe. Distantly, he registers making a strangled sound and Pansy’s hand stroking his arm, but his vision is only black letters on parchment, the same words popping out in sharp contrast: “loving boyfriend”, “helped me come to terms with my sexuality”, “our feelings for each other developed into something more.”
“Draco. Draco, breathe.”
How could he have been foolish enough to let his guard down? To allow himself to believe he could ever be anything more than Harry Potter’s dirty little secret? And why? Because Potter once kissed him like he meant it, like he enjoyed it, like it was something he wanted to do, possibly more than that one time. He should’ve known better. Should’ve known former Death Eaters don’t get happy endings.
He’s never going to repeat that mistake again.
He draws in a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He can do this, this isn’t the end of the world, because he’s not in love, and that means he can’t get hurt by this.
“Right,” he says, putting down the paper and tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear, surprised that his vocal cords are cooperating at all. “Ready for lunch?”
“Are you sure you want—?” Pansy begins, but stops when he gives her his most withering glare.
“I don’t know about you, Pansy, but I for one won’t be disturbed by the Golden Boy coming out as gay. We still have to eat, don’t we?”
He doesn’t wait for her reply as he grabs his travelling cloak and heads to her Floo.
They step out onto Diagon alley, the light blinding after the dark of the Floo network. As always, the street is crowded with people and Draco instantly regrets how he, like a stubborn hippogriff, refused to abandon their plan to visit the newly opened restaurant. Pansy takes his arm; it looks like he’s leading the way, but in reality she is the one steering him through the mass of people as he is too preoccupied with focusing on how to put one foot in front of the other.
It doesn’t make sense that it hurts so much, he thinks, because he’s not in love, he’s not in love, he’s not in bloody love with the sodding prat who lived. They’ve been shagging for — what, a year now? — and it stings, is all. It hurts not even being considered. Especially after their last… no, he mustn’t think about that, that night was nothing special.
They round a corner and of course, of bloody course, they’re face to face with Potter and his apparent boyfriend, because why not? Potter stops dead in his tracks, his eyes going wide as he spots them. He’s so unfairly gorgeous, it’s like there’s a soft glow around him. Being in love and out in the open must be doing him good.
There is a moment where time seems to freeze, where every encounter Draco’s had with Potter over the last year plays out in his head, from that first encounter in the alley outside the pub to the kiss they shared the other day which almost made Draco believe that they could have something more than this unspoken agreement. A thousand thoughts fly through his mind, the most prevalent how much he wants to punch Potter right in that infuriatingly beautiful face, because wizard or not, Draco is beyond using magic. It’s not enough; he wants to spit, bite, sink his fist into that mouth opened in shock, to leave an imprint as big as Potter has left on his heart. But he can’t. He can’t, because that would mean admitting to Potter, and to himself, that this agreement meant more to him than it did to Potter. He can’t, because Potter has never promised him anything - has never so much as uttered any desire to be with Draco other than in the dark, hidden from the world. He can’t, because he is nothing, and Potter is everything.
Draco doesn’t wait to hear what he has to say. He lets go of Pansy’s arm and turns around, walking away in long strides before he’s fit to Disapparate. Pansy is at his heels, but she’s not as fast as him, and he tries to ignore her hands clawing after him, tries to block out the “Draco, wait!” shouted by Potter as he focuses on Destination, Determination, Deliberation, focuses on the safety of his home and then turns on the spot, leaving the bustling streets and spinning into darkness.
The flat is empty and cold, the silence a screaming contrast to the sunlit cobblestones he’s just left. For a moment, Draco just stands in the middle of his living room, wavering, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
He refuses to cry, because crying means that he cares. And he doesn’t care. Not about Potter, not about that whatever it was they had that is now over. It’s the sting of rejection, that’s all; that he didn’t get to choose for himself how it ended. That he wasn’t an option, because Draco Malfoy could never be an option for Harry Potter.
The first owl comes after about ten minutes. Draco reluctantly unties the scroll of parchment from the tiny leg stretched out in front of him, but when he sees Potter’s messy scrawl, he ties it back on and sends the owl on its way. The owls keep coming, but he ignores them all, immediately returning them after he’s fed the owls some treats for their trouble. One of them has the audacity to nip him in the finger for not accepting its letter before it takes off. Swearing and shutting the window with the other hand, he sucks on his swollen finger to stop the bleeding, only vaguely noticing the pain.
After the fifteenth owl, Draco decides he needs to leave to avoid ending up with Potter standing outside his door. He packs a few clothes and toiletries, then steps in front of the Floo, taking a pinch of powder. He really doesn’t fancy where he’s going, but he has no choice. This is the one place where Potter will stay away and leave him alone. Squaring his shoulders, he throws the Floo powder into the hearth, stepping into the green flames and shouting “Malfoy Manor.”
It takes two days before Pansy figures out where he is. He’s in his reading chair while she sits balanced on the edge of his bed, talking in hushed tones, as if someone has died.
“It must be really bad if you’re taking refuge here,” she says, carefully.
He shrugs. “It’s mostly out of convenience, the flat is dreadfully cold, and I have company here, as well as house elves. There’s food available whenever I want. I’m practically living the dream.”
“As if you’re eating anything,” she mutters under her breath.
“That’s none of your business,” he snaps.
Groaning, she throws her head back, then looks at him again. “Can you please stop this pretence that you’re not deeply hurt by this, Draco? Can’t you just be honest with me? I want to help you.”
“By doing what, exactly? Potter’s obviously made his choice and good for him. I’m happy for the both of them.”
She chews her lip, regarding him silently. He gets the distinct feeling that she’s planning where to strike next.
“Listen, Pansy, if you’re here just to nag at me about Potter, then please leave. I don’t need that right now.”
“Fine, I’ll go. But can you at least promise me you’ll eat something today?”
“Yes, yes, I promise,” he says, waving a hand dismissively as she stands up. “And don’t tell anyone I’m here. Especially not Granger. And not that bullshit ‘confirming her suspicions’ again, you do not tell anyone I’m here, understood?”
Pansy’s eyes are hard as steel and she’s clenching and unclenching her fists. Draco can see that she’s searching for a loophole. Finally, she sags, looking defeated.
“Fine. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
“Thank you. Now leave me to wallow in peace, please.”
She sighs, before giving him a kiss on the cheek and walking out, leaving him alone with his thoughts running wild.
A week later, Draco is at least out of his room and in the parlour, but still in his nightclothes, when Pansy comes to visit. Just as Pansy and Narcissa are finishing their tea, Pansy gasps.
“Oh, Narcissa, I just remembered: a friend of mine is doing an interview on the wireless, would it be terribly inconvenient if we listened to it?”
Her eyes are firmly on Narcissa, but all of Pansy’s posture is tuned into Draco, he notices.
“Why, of course, Pansy, just a moment,” Narcissa says, getting up and tapping the box with her wand. Pansy rises to join her, and there’s some static as Pansy searches for the right station, before a vaguely familiar voice filters through.
“Good evening listeners and welcome to Leave it with Lee, with me, Lee Jordan.”
Draco gives Pansy a disbelieving look, but she’s still standing by the wireless, pretending to see if she can get better reception.
“We’re going to get a bit more serious than usual for this show. Today’s guest requested to come on here himself, because he has something he wants to say. I hardly think he needs an introduction, so I’ll just start by saying: welcome to the show, Harry Potter.”
“Thank you, Lee, it’s a pleasure.”
The sound of Potter’s voice, after all this time, hits Draco like an arrow through the heart, which is ridiculous because it’s not the first time it’s gone days since he heard Potter’s voice.
“So, Harry, the other week you came out to the wizarding world, at the age of 28. How come it took you so long?”
“Well,” Potter says, clearing his throat, “I would say it was mostly because of my upbringing. Or perhaps lack of upbringing. I don’t like to talk about it too much, but let me say there was very little room for being different where I grew up. I think being magical around Muggles was different enough for me, I couldn’t deal with being gay as well.”
There’s a tiny pause and Draco knows that Potter is scratching his neck.
“Could I just say, Lee, that I wouldn’t say I came out, I was forced out.”
“Forced out? How so?”
“Well, you see, I have been pestered by reporters for years, asking me why I never could settle for one girl. Some of them even asked me flat out if I was gay, which I denied, then. But this time, they had a picture of me and someone else in… well, let’s just say it was a private situation. And they told me in no uncertain terms that they would publish this picture with or without my consent. So after some consideration, I decided it was better to give them an interview where I could at least give some part of my own version. And I could stop them from publishing the picture, because I didn’t want to drag that other person down with me.”
“That doesn’t sound like the best way, or reason, to tell the world who you are. How did it feel after the article was published?”
“Well, I have to admit it was mixed. I felt relief, like I was ten times lighter. I came out and the sky didn’t fall down on me. But it wasn’t done on my own terms, at a time where I felt it was right.”
“But, Harry, if I may ask you, you’re good friends with Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan, who have been together since, I think, we went to Hogwarts. Your ex Ginny had a few relationships with women before she finally understood what a catch yours truly is.”
Potter snorts, and Jordan chuckles in selfsatisfaction, before continuing, “You don’t disapprove of gay people, so how come you’ve been so hard on yourself regarding this?”
“I guess… I never thought that me being gay, or rather coming out as gay, was something that would make me happy. I’m under a lot of expectations, regarding who I’m meant to be, and I guess I was trying to please everybody else and forgot about what makes me happy.”
“And are you happy now, Harry?”
“I’m a little bit more happy now, but I think I could be happier, if I could clear some things up.”
“Of course! This is a safe space.”
“I would like to take the opportunity to say that Nicholas, who in the article is named as my boyfriend, isn’t. He’s a good friend and colleague, and he has helped me come to terms with my sexuality, but we’re not together, and he is in a long term relationship with his fiancé.”
“But in the article you confirm that the two of you are an item.”
“I know. I did it, with Nicholas’ consent I want to add, because I was panicking. The reporters, they thought the man in the picture they had was him, and to protect who it really was, I went with it, confirming it to them.”
Potter pauses, drawing a deep breath.
“The man in the picture, while an openly gay man, didn’t sign up for being thrown under the spotlight as my boyfriend. We haven’t even talked about what our relationship is, and I knew that he would be pestered beyond belief if I gave them his name. It’s been bad enough for Nicholas, but I know this man would have it hundreds of times worse. I didn’t want to put him through that. At least not without talking to him first. But…,” Potter sighs, letting out a short mirthless laugh, “ironically, by trying to protect him, I ended up hurting him because I think that to this day he still believes that Nicholas and I are together.”
“Can I just say, Harry, that the look on your face when you’re talking about him makes me think he’s really special.”
Draco can practically hear Potter blushing. “Yes. Yes, he is.”
“And if this man is listening, is there anything you would like to say to him?”
There’s silence that seems to stretch on forever in which Draco holds his breath, then Potter speaks again.
“There’s a lot of things I’d like to say to him, but I don’t think this is the right place. But… If he’s willing to forgive me, and if he wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.”
“Alright. Thank you, Harry, I hope you’ve said everything you wanted to say.”
“Thanks, Lee, I have. It was nice to be heard without having my words distorted, for once.”
The closing jingle plays, and then there’s silence. Draco keeps his gaze firmly on the floor, but he can feel Narcissa’s and Pansy’s eyes on him. Finally, Pansy clears her throat.
“So… are you going to talk to him?”
Draco looks up, incredulous.
Pansy rolls her eyes at him.
“Yes, you! Who else do you think he’s referring to, you dipshit?”
“But, he said I’d know where to find him. I don’t! I’ve only ever been to his house via Portkey or him Apparating me there.”
He glances at Narcissa, who promptly starts examining the curtains and pretending she can’t hear about his nighttime activities, then he turns his head to Pansy, who looks highly pleased with herself. She takes out an envelope from her handbag, handing it over to him. He takes it with fumbling fingers, opening it to find a piece of paper, a little box and an old chocolate frog card. He looks up at Pansy again, who rolls her eyes.
“It’s his address, a box with enough Floo powder for one trip - in case you were out - and a touch activating Portkey. So you can choose how you want to get to him. I think he would’ve sent a broom as well but maybe thought better of it. And then there’s always Apparition.”
Draco looks down at the envelope again, swallowing.
“I don’t… I’m not dressed,” he says stupidly, looking down at his silk pyjamas. He can’t show up at Potter’s wearing his nightclothes at this time of day, can he?
Pansy grins wolfishly.
“I don’t think he cares about what you’re wearing. If anything, those pyjama bottoms are easier to take off.”
Narcissa clears her throat, and both Draco and Pansy look at her, sitting on the couch with her arms folded and eyes shooting daggers at Pansy, who just shrugs unapologetically before turning to Draco again, putting her hand on top of his.
“I know you, Draco. You want this, but you need to go now, otherwise you will overthink things and then you will chicken out. I think you need a little more Gryffindor in you. I mean,” she adds with a not-so-subtle glance over at Narcissa, “more than what Potter has already put in you.”
“Now, really, Pansy!” Narcissa says, scowling.
Pansy giggles and puts her hands up to say that she will behave. Draco looks at her, silently asking her if this is the right thing to do.
“You’re already overthinking this, Draco, you need to go now,” she says, handing him the envelope.
He takes it, and after brief consideration chooses the Floo powder to avoid the risk of ending up in the street in his nightclothes. Before he has time to regret it, he stands up and marches up to the hearth, throwing the box’s contents into it. He gives Pansy a quick nod over his shoulder before stepping into the green flames and reading from the piece of parchment, “Number 12, Grimmauld Place.”
He steps out from under the mantelpiece into the room where Potter fucked him against the wall, all those months ago. There’s no one there. Draco swallows and tries not to panic. He doesn’t know what he expected; Potter wouldn’t know when, or even if, Draco would show up, but somehow he had assumed that Potter would be alerted when he arrived and come to meet him.
The room looks different in the daylight; it’s more spacious and less imposing. There’s a comfortable looking armchair by the fire - the one Potter was waiting for him in - and there’s a matching one opposite it. That one looks brand new as opposed to the other’s worn down appearance. Draco has a sudden vision of Potter spending a lot of lonely evenings sat in this chair, and it makes his heart clench.
Turning around, Draco sees Potter standing in the door frame, eyes wide, a messenger bag thrown over his shoulder. Draco is speechless. For a second, Potter looks so tired and worn out, with dark circles under his eyes. Then his face lights up and he strides over to Draco, cupping his face in his hands. “You came,” he says on an exhale, and Draco had no idea so many emotions could fit into those two syllables: longing, disbelief, remorse, but then, his thoughts come to a halt when Potter captures his lips with his own, and he’s freefalling.
It’s much more chaste than their last kiss but much more intimate. Draco can’t get close enough, deep enough, he wants to devour Potter, wants to kiss him like this forever until they’re both out of breath and panting, and then continue some more. Potter’s fingertips graze the nape of Draco’s neck, and he shivers involuntarily, which makes Potter laugh softly against his mouth, and yet, he doesn’t stop kissing Draco.
Eventually, Draco starts to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen and from being kissed like he’s Potter’s entire world, and he rests his forehead against Potter’s.
“I can’t believe you came,” Potter whispers, his thumbs rubbing back and forth just below Draco’s ears. “I was so scared I had fucked it up completely.”
Draco doesn’t know what to say, his mind is still numb after the emotional turmoil of the past week.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you. I know I’ve kept you at arm’s length, because I was afraid, Draco, I was terrified. Of what it meant that I could never stay away from you, that I always sought you out. I tried to tell myself that it was just out of curiosity, but…” He lets out a long sigh, and Draco knows, can feel it in his bones, because he’s been there himself, he knows the confusion and regret and desire to be true to himself.
“This is all so new to me, and honestly, I’m a bit scared, but I want to be with you,” Potter continues. “I’d like to try. If you’ll let me.”
Draco is still unable to answer, afraid that his voice will break. Tears begin to slide down his cheeks, wetting the hands still cupping his face.
“I… I really need you to say something, Draco.”
“I don’t know what to say, Harry,” Draco says finally, Harry’s given name unfamiliar in his mouth. “I’m afraid you’re going to pull out at the first homophobic slur thrown at you, because those are bound to come. I’m afraid people will be angry with me for stealing you, for having the gall to tarnish you. But mostly I’m afraid that—” he closes his eyes, summoning his courage. Take the leap Draco. “I’m afraid that if I get what I’ve wanted for so long, I’ll end up losing it, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to recover from that.”
“I guess I haven’t been that reliable, have I?” Harry says, his hands slowly sliding down Draco’s neck to his shoulders, his arms. “Maybe you were right before, maybe I am too broken, but—”
His own words coming out of Harry's mouth make Draco’s heart freeze.
“Please don’t repeat what I said a long time ago. I still hated you back then, I wanted to break you, but you’re not broken, Harry, no more than I am.”
Harry lets out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t know if that says anything about me, though,” he says, and Draco has to admit he’s right. “I guess… I guess we’re both a bit broken. But… do you think we can build something from this, if we’re willing to work on it?”
Draco nods, perhaps a little too quickly, perhaps he should think this over, but he knows he’ll never be able to leave Harry be, he needs to see where this could go. “Yeah. I do,” he whispers.
Harry throws his arms around him and hugs him tightly, his warm body against Draco’s so familiar and at the same time so new, because never in his wildest dreams did Draco think he would be held by Harry like this.
“Then tell me what you need, Draco,” Harry mumbles into the crook of his neck, his voice muffled against Draco’s skin.
Draco closes his eyes, thinking. “I need time,” he says eventually. “And I need to take it slow. And I don’t want the public to know, at least not now.”
Harry nods, his chin bumping Draco’s shoulder.
“Anything. Anything you want.”
Draco swallows, summoning the courage to say what he truly wants. It’s hard for him to show vulnerability, but Harry’s finally being honest with him, and himself, so maybe it’s time for Draco to be honest as well.
“Most of all,” he says, his voice sounding strangely rough. He clears his throat. “Most of all, I want you, Harry. I’ve wanted you for I don’t even know how long.”
Harry makes a sound like a dry sob and then he’s kissing Draco again, messily, desperately.
“You have me,” he whispers inbetween kisses. “You have me for as long as you want.”
Draco wakes up with a start, squinting at the daylight assaulting his eyes. There’s a puddle of drool on his pillow, and it takes a few moments before his brain kicks into gear, and he realises that this kind of brightness at this time of year can only mean it’s at least halfway to lunch. Panicking, he sits up, looking at the clock on the bedside table. 9.18am. Shit.
“Potter!” he yells, jumping out of bed and running into the bathroom, grabbing the clothes he took with him yesterday as he goes. His reflection in the mirror isn’t much of a comfort, there’s a red line across his entire face from the sheets, his eyes are puffy and his hair is a mess. “Potter!” he yells again, louder this time.
Putting on his socks on the way to the stairs, which forces him to hop on one foot, he contemplates the idiocy of spending the night at Harry’s.
He reaches the kitchen, where steaming pots and pans fill the room with the most delicious smells. Harry is standing by the stove, his pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips and his t-shirt so worn and thin, it’s almost see through. He’s humming along to the wireless, shaking his arse in time with the music and occasionally stirring or flipping things.
“Potter!” Draco wheezes.
Harry turns around, giving him a warm smile, which makes Draco breathless for entirely different reasons.
“Uh oh, I must have done something really bad to deserve being called ‘Potter’,” Harry says, his eyes shining with glee. “And here I was, thinking I was safe since I’m making you breakfast.”
“I have a meeting at 10 o’clock, I was supposed to get up at 7 to prepare!” Draco says while frantically trying to button his shirt.
Harry folds his arms, leaning against the kitchen counter, a spatula still in his hand.
“That’s right, you were. And whose responsibility is it to get your sorry arse up on time? After that disastrous time where you nearly hexed my nipples off, I thought we agreed that I was never to wake you up unless it was an emergency.”
Draco scowls. He is stressed out of his mind and he really needs to blame someone for this, and now Harry has to come with logic? The audacity!
Harry’s face softens and his arms fall to his sides.
“Come here, you dingbat,” he says, stepping closer, “your buttons are all messed up.”
Draco pulls at his shirt, trying to look for himself, but then Harry’s warm fingers are there, resting on top of his, the touch immediately soothing. Draco sighs, closing his eyes and concentrating on the thrum of Harry’s magic surrounding him and entwining with his own. He still hasn’t got used to it yet.
“Now,” Harry says, making Draco look at him. He’s scrunching his face up a bit in concentration, and Draco melts, “Repeat after me: ‘It’s not the end of the world, it’s only a job’.”
Draco huffs. “Says the man who hasn’t been working for a month.”
“Exactly. I quit because it was only a job. And it didn’t make me happy.” He gives Draco a stern look. “Now say it.”
Draco throws his head back and groans. “It’s not the end of the world, it’s only a job,” he says, trying to really mean the words.
“Good boy,” Harry says and grabs the tie resting around Draco’s neck, sliding it out a bit from under the collar and starting to knot it. “Anyway, I know you know this presentation by heart, and while I know you wanted a calm start to the day, I really think this is better, because now you won’t have time to dwell on every single detail beforehand and get nervous about them,” he continues, looping the end of the tie through the knot and pulling it tight. “And look at it from the bright side, if it all goes to shit, which I know it won’t, you can blame me for it.” He straightens the knot and looking at Draco with a pleased smile. “There. All done.”
Draco puts his hands to his tie, feeling the smooth fabric. “How did you learn how to tie a double windsor?”
“I guess I’ve watched you do it so many times, it stuck eventually,” Harry says, looking embarrassed.
Draco thinks back to all those mornings when Harry would lie in bed and just watch Draco get dressed, with a soft smile on his lips, like he couldn’t believe it was all real.
“Also…,” Harry adds, his voice trembling slightly. “I know this isn’t a good time for you because you’re going to work, but I… I got this invitation for the annual Ministry ball. I’ve been thinking… or I was wondering if… would you like to come as my plus one?”
Draco’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “You mean… as a date? An official date?”
Harry shrugs, eyes cast down.
Draco doesn’t know what to say. Part of him can’t wait to show the world just how much Harry means to him, but part of him is scared to come out of their safe bubble, scared of what he will have to endure for being in love with Harry. But at some point, Draco needs to let go of his insecurities.
As the seconds tick by, Harry starts fidgeting.
“I mean, if you’re not ready it’s fine, we can do this whole sneaking around thing a bit longer, it’s not that bad, I guess in some ways it’s a bit exciting, always Apparating or travelling to each other’s by Floo, and anyway, I wouldn’t want to force you—”
“I am,” Draco interrupts, deciding come what may, Harry is worth it, is worth the risk. “Ready, I mean. I am ready. I want to go. With you. I want to go as your date.”
Harry’s shoulders drop and he lets out a sigh, the corners of his mouth ticking up.
Draco nods, stepping closer and brushing his lips to Harry’s temple. “Yeah.”
Harry tilts his head up, sliding one hand into Draco’s hair and bringing their mouths together in a soft kiss. Draco’s stomach flips, he still has a hard time believing that he gets to do this, that he gets to kiss Harry like this. He pulls Harry closer, deepening the kiss and delighting in the the way Harry leans into him, like Draco really is the only thing that can ground him.
“I have to admit, I do have ulterior motives for bringing you,” Harry mumbles, sneaking his hands under the hem of Draco’s shirt.
“Mmm. I thought you could support me when everyone tries to convince me to come back, you can make sure I don’t agree to return to the force.”
He says it casually, but Draco can hear the tone of worry underneath it. He knows how hard it was for Harry to admit to himself, as well as to the rest of the Wizarding world, that he was only being an Auror out of a sense of obligation.
“I promise,” Draco whispers. “If anyone tries to pressure you, I’ll hex them into next week.”
Harry lets out a soft laugh, bringing one hand up to Draco’s hair, and Draco doesn’t chastise him for messing it up.
“I love you, too.”