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Out In The Open

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Title: Out In The Open
Length: about 3k
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Prompt: Harry/Draco - Post-Hogwarts - On the balcony at a Ministry party. Whether or not they're caught is up to you.
A/N: originally posted here at [ profile] hd_birthdaybash

This is what happens when you procrastinate by thinking you'll write like maybe 500 words of smut. Oh well.

Out In The Open

Harry was for the most part invited to every Ministry function, but he rarely came to them, so when there was a commotion in the entrance hall upon someone new arriving, Draco did not at first suspect who it might be.

He was having a good time. Granger was a good boss, theirs was a good department, and he had done good work. For once Draco was proud of himself, and prepared to celebrate.

He had even considered the possibility of making a date. Though he was not particularly interested anyone else of his acquaintance, Harry could not dictate they lie about they lie about the nature of their relationship and at the same time demand that he be monogamous. He planned the evening accordingly, intending not to think of Harry at all.

Draco was not as peculiarly concerned with his wardrobe as most people seemed to think he was, but he had even gone to the extra trouble of buying something new for the evening. After years of Hermione bending his ear, he had supposed it was time to at least try something Muggle. Even if Draco did feel a little more exposed, the attire was strangely freeing.

In short, Draco was enjoying himself, until he noticed Harry.

The commotion had moved from the entrance hall into the ballroom proper, but Draco had not yet bothered to discern who the honoured guest was. He had long grown used to not being the centre of attention at parties, and the friends and colleagues he cared for and whose respect he had earned had all stopped to talked to him. He had even made three new acquaintances, which was rather more than Draco was used to, as people did not often make the effort to speak more than a moment or two with former Death Eaters. One of them had been a fetching bloke, and Draco was trying to decide whether to ask him to dance.

He had just got up the courage, following Fetching Bloke to the large knot of people on one side of the room. Still, Draco did not suspect who stood in the centre of the group, for he and Granger worked with foreign dignitaries, some of whom were very important; the contract they had recently signed had been a large one, which was why they were celebrating, and why Draco felt so proud—and so he reached for Fetching Bloke’s arm, saw the figure at the centre of the group—and drew up sharply.

“Oh hello, Draco,” said Fetching Bloke.

“Hello,” said Draco, and walked away.

Fortuitously, the champagne bar was on the other side of the room, and Draco made his way there swiftly, all the way desperately not thinking of Harry standing in the midst of that fawning group of people. They had been arrayed around him like a pool around a fountain, all their eyes adoring, their hands fluttering, aching to be nearer to him. Harry just stood there, not caring very much. Then his eyes had locked with Draco’s.

Draco bolted the champagne. He was not thinking of the cold indifference of Harry’s eyes; he was not thinking of the way they became wet and pleading when Draco’s hands were on his body; he was not thinking of the way they became fierce and hungry, when Harry’s hands were on Draco. He was not thinking of the way he had seen him so wanton, spread under him and wanting wanting wanting, nor of the fact that those dozens of people, hundreds of people, thousands of people had all longed to see Harry that way, make Harry that way, take Harry that way, but only he ever got to. Only Draco ever got to, and they would never even know it.

“It’s Draco Malfoy,” said a surprised voice.

Draco looked over. It was . . . some Ravenclaw, Fetching Bloke, and Harry Potter, who had somehow managed to disentangle himself from all his fans.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Right.”

“How do you do?” said Draco.

Harry’s hand was in his pocket. He looked so casual and goddamn gorgeous, just like a war hero, just like a Witch Weekly cover, just like the Man of the Hour. “You come to these?” he asked, sounding bland.

Tomorrow night, Harry had said, the night before.

I can’t, Draco had panted in Harry’s ear.

Why not? Harry had had his hand on his cock and his lips on Draco’s throat.

Ministry party. Draco had reached between Harry’s thighs, and that had been the end of that conversation.

“I do.”

“You know each other?” Fetching Bloke asked, surprised.

“Vaguely.” Harry waved a hand. The other hand was still in his pocket.

The Ravenclaw spoke up. “He was in the war. The losing side.”

Fetching Bloke frowned at Draco, and there went that possibility. It was a pity, but Draco had just assumed he had known. It was always better if they knew, rather than finding out the moment they caught a glimpse of his arm.

Harry turned to Fetching Bloke. “Chums with Voldemort, you know. We all know each other here.”

Draco’s hand curled in a fist until the nails cut into the flesh of his palm, but somewhere deep within, he found steel. “Want to dance?” he asked Harry.

Harry just stared, that cool hard gaze, and the only difference was it looked like his fist was clenching in his pocket. “I don’t dance,” he said at last.

“Ah,” said Draco, lightly.

“You said you’d dance with me,” said the Ravenclaw.

For a moment, Harry didn’t even seem to notice he was there, just looking at Draco. At last he turned to the Ravenclaw. “That’s because you’re . . . you’re . . .”

“Roger,” said Roger.

“Right.” Slowly, Harry turned back to look at Draco. “What side of the war were you on, Roger?” he asked, without turning back.

Roger grinned. “The winning side.”

“Excuse me,” said Draco, because he really had planned on enjoying himself, and Harry Potter didn’t have to ruin everything, even if he was intent on doing so. He turned on his heel and went for the balcony, thinking that he needed a breath of fresh air or that he might throw up, whichever came first.

Outside the moon was a low crescent, the colour of champagne. Its light washed the darkening sky around it until the light by the horizon was almost foam green. The stars sparkled fresh in a backdrop coloured like a bruise. Draco put his hands on the cool stone of the balustrade, and tried to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry, shutting the glass door of the ballroom behind him. He did not sound sorry. He sounded the way the stone felt under Draco’s hands.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” Draco didn’t turn around.

“I came to see whether I could.”

“You can,” said Draco. “Isn’t that enough?”

“I can’t. Goddammit, I can’t.” Then Harry was pulling him roughly by the shoulder, dragging him into the kiss, and for a moment, all Draco could think was that they would see—everyone in the ballroom, they would see, and then Harry wouldn’t want him, and suddenly Draco didn’t care that Harry was ashamed of him, that Harry wanted to keep him like a dirty secret. He didn’t care that Harry would treat him like shit in public and there wouldn’t be a thing he could do about it, he didn’t care about any of it, he just cared about how he could lose him, and it wasn’t worth it; even this wasn’t worth it.

“They’ll see,” said Draco, forcing himself away.

“I don’t care,” said Harry. “I just don’t fucking care; I want you so much—you have no idea how much I fucking want you.”

“But,” said Draco, and Harry’s teeth were on him, on his neck, and he was dragging him over to the stone wall beside the doors. Harry’s hands were in his coat, and Draco heard little noises—who was—oh God, it was him, because Harry was molesting him on the balcony of the Ministry, where inside practically everyone they knew was speaking of the weather and eating tiny cake on sticks; oh God

“Jesus, Malfoy,” said Harry. “Why are you wearing this? Why did they let you wear this?”

“It’s dinner jacket,” said Draco, and then gasped.

“It’s obscene. You’re obscene. They shouldn’t let you—”


“Them.” Harry pressed his hips up on Draco’s thigh; Draco could feel his hard cock even through his robes. “Anybody. No one should look like you do. No one, they shouldn’t let you out of the house, it’s indecent, not without cock in your arse, my—”

Probably he stopped because he couldn’t get Draco’s trousers down. “They’re called braces,” Draco said helpfully.

“Christ.” It was nearly a groan. “Malfoy.”

“Harry,” Malfoy began, “you . . .” But need was writ in moonlight on Harry’s face, need and want and desperate desire, and it was impossible to believe that not ten minutes ago, Harry had practically ignored him, had been on the verge of scraping Draco like gunk off of his shoe, had withered him so completely. It was possible to believe that this was the same person, so warm and needing and full of lust, but it was, and Draco supposed it had always been, and so he kissed him, and Harry reached down for his cock.

Draco made a small sound, hips canting, and Harry said, “God, you’re so,” but again did not finish. “I want to suck you off,” he said instead.

Draco made another noise, tilting his hips some more.

“I want to swallow you down,” Harry went on. “I want your cock down my throat, and I want you to fuck it—Christ, I want to suck you all the way down, do you want it, Draco, tell me you want it.”

Draco took off his coat, then fumbled with the braces, at last taking out his wand and spelling them off his shoulders, then wrapping his arms back around Harry as Harry pulled down his trousers, and opened his pants.

“Tell me,” said Harry.

“I want it.”

Harry seemed so desperate, his kisses almost frantic, but his hand around Draco’s cock was steady and sure and warm. “Tell me you want me to suck you.”

“I want you to suck me.”

“Say it the way you usually do. Say it dirty; I want you to.”

Draco put his hands in Harry’s hair, and said gently into his ear, “Get on your knees, Harry.”

Harry promptly slid to his knees, there in his formal dress robes, on the balcony of the Ministry, in the full light of the moon.

“Take it in your mouth,” Draco whispered, his hands still softly playing with Harry’s hair, and Harry did.

Draco couldn’t say any of the usual things. It was because of where they were, and how they were; it was because of the stars shining down on them and the smell of spring fires floating in the air; it was the scent of jasmine. It was because when Harry had looked at him inside, so coolly and so indifferently, and treated him so poorly, Draco had felt his heart breaking, and before that moment, he had not been sure he had a heart left to break.

So instead of the usual, dirty things, he said, “Just like that, that’s right, you’re so good, keep doing it, keep taking it,” and “Harry, please, you’re so good, I need it,” and Harry just went on and on, his jaw working, his throat so open and wet and soft; he kept swallowing and swallowing, lips stretched wide until Draco came. “Harry,” he said. “Harry, please.”

Then when he was done, Harry was standing up and saying, “That was good. You were so good,” and he was kissing Draco until Draco was sure that was the only thing holding him up: Harry’s lips, and the hands at his hips, the taste of come thick in Harry’s mouth, and those words, “You’re so good.”

“Please,” Draco said again, when Harry came away, and didn’t know what he was asking for or why he was asking it.

“Sweetheart,” Harry said, and swept aside Draco’s hair, and kissed his brow.

Draco gripped Harry’s shoulders, as though for dear life. “Please.”

“I’m going to fuck you now.” Harry’s voice was very gentle.

Draco’s head thunked back on the stone wall; he had lost his coat, his bow tie was askew, and the braces dangled from his hips. He could only nod.

“God,” said Harry, as though he hadn’t just said so, “I’m going to fuck you.”

It was darker now, and which Draco could see Harry’s pale face, he could only just see the bright colour of those grass green eyes. “Yes,” said Draco.

“I’m going to fuck you right here,” said Harry. “Right now. On this balcony, and I don’t even care. They could all come and watch; I don’t care. I’m tall enough to cover you—they can’t see you. None of them can see you but me. None of them can fuck you but me. Do you hear that? I don’t want,” but again he didn’t finish, distracted by kissing Draco again.

Then Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the lube, and all of the sudden Draco remembered Harry standing there, his eyes so perfectly cold, looking like a thousand galleons. His hand had been in his pocket, clenching over and over again, and Draco said, “You had that.”

“I don’t care,” said Harry.

“You had that this whole time. You brought it.”

Harry was opening up the tube and squeezing out the contents. “I can make you feel so good.”

“You knew,” said Draco, and pulled down his trousers.

“I didn’t.” Then the trousers were gone, and Harry was reaching under Draco’s balls, between his legs, and there—there.

“You did.”

“I thought I could do it,” said Harry, because he had been so obviously determined to avoid this. His fingers worked inside of Draco, wet and insistent, but not rough. “I thought I could. I can’t.”

“I don’t want you to,” Draco whispered, and draped his arms again around Harry’s neck. Then Harry lifted him up, and entered him, and there he was fucking Draco against the wall of the Ministry, and Draco was looking up at the stars, and Harry felt wide and thick and right inside of him, and wanted him; he wanted him.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Harry whispered. “You feel—God, you feel—every time, fits me like a glove, and I can’t—I can’t—”

“That’s it,” said Draco. “Fuck me. Just like that, just fuck me.”

“God, the way you take it.” Harry arched, and Draco lifted higher and wrapped his legs around him, straddling him, holding him, and God, Harry was thick and large and very hard, and so slow this time, so very slow. “Do you know the way you take it, Draco? It’s like you were born for this, and when you’re so wet and sweet like this, you’re so tight, I just want to—forever—fuck you—Christ, I want to use you—”

“You can use me,” Draco said, and he was wild, it was the moon, he didn’t know what he was saying.

“I want to fuck you and I can’t stop thinking about—I want to fill you up with come—”

Then a voice said, “Did you hear that?” possibly because Draco had just cried out.

Then several things happened very quickly; a witch came and opened the glass door to the balcony, looking first to the left, and Harry cast a Disillusionment, and Harry, was he crazy, that wasn’t going to be strong enough, she looked right. Her gaze paused, and then slid right over them—Harry facing the wall with Draco between him and it, and Draco with bare legs wrapped needfully around Harry’s torso, in the middle of a Ministry function; they could hear the music and the laughter from inside, the drift of happy sounds.

To his horror, Draco realized he was getting hard again.

“What was it?” said another voice, and a wizard came on the balcony.

“Nothing, I suppose,” said the woman. “It’s a lovely night.”

“I knew you didn’t hear anything,” said the man, who smiled, and sat on the bench beneath the balustrade.

“I heard something,” the woman insisted.

Harry’s cock was still hard in Draco’s body, Draco’s legs still locked around Harry. Thinking possibly he was going to hyperventilate, Draco was glad when Harry murmured a low Muffling charm, before he suddenly began to wonder why, if Harry could cast a Disillusionment strong enough to make them completely invisible at this range, he wouldn’t just direct them to return to the party. It wouldn’t take an Imperius or anything very wrong, just a little nudging. Draco was harder than ever.

But the couple stayed, and the woman hissed, “There. Did you hear that?” and Harry began to move.

Draco whimpered. He immediately bit his tongue, but the man was laughing, and the woman was looking around curiously, for the charms hid them completely. Oh, God, and Harry was still moving, his long, hard cock pressing deeper, the burn sliding along Draco’s hole, the tip finding his prostate, and oh God, the witch and the wizard were still out here. He didn’t know them—Ministry secretaries, perhaps foreign flunkies, or just some of those people who never made his acquaintance because he was a—

“I wish they could see,” Harry said.

“No.” Draco’s voice was strangled.

The man and woman went on talking, noticing nothing strange. Draco couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

“Yes,” said Harry. “I want them to see the way you spread for me. You’re such a slut for me, aren’t you, Draco?”

Draco made a muffled sound.

“You’re a slut,” said Harry. “I want them to see the ways you’re mine. I want to fill you up with come, and I want them all to know—I want them to know you’re full of it, you’re so full, you’re dripping down your thighs.”

“Oh God, Harry.”

“I want you to make those noises you usually do. I want you to pretend they can hear you.”

Draco gulped. “I can’t.”

“You can. Look at them, Draco. They can hear you, they see me taking you, and they know you’re mine.”

The man and the woman went on talking, and then, to Draco’s horror, Fetching Bloke came out on the balcony and joined them.

“You’re mine,” said Harry. “You’re so wet and frantic and hard, and it’s because of me.”

Yes,” Draco gasped.

“I need you.” Harry thrust hard, and Draco could feel himself slammed up against the wall, and yet still the three people on the balcony talked and laughed as if Draco wasn’t getting his brains fucked out. “You can’t even understand the way I need you,” Harry said, and thrust again. “It’s not because of the past, Draco, it’s not.”


“Yeah.” Harry’s hand wrapped around Draco’s cock between them. “Do it. Do it so they can see,” he said, and then he kissed him, and he was so desperate, and slamming him again into the wall, and the people were just talking—they were just talking, and Fetching Bloke, Draco could swear, was looking right at him

“I know I haven’t been fair to you,” Harry said, “but it’s not because of what you think; I need you for my own—I need something—something—oh God, love—I need—”

“Harry!” Draco shouted, and he was coming. Those people were watching him and they could all hear, and he was coming and coming as Harry grunted inside of him.

“Yeah, Draco, oh God, do it, I need them to see—I want them to see—only I can have you—only I can have you like this—”

Harry was coming too, and he was loud in a way he was never loud in bed, but the Muffling Charm held, and the stars were silent, and the three people outdoors talked about lilies, and Crups.

“Oh, sweet,” Draco whispered, shuddering, coming down from so high he wasn’t sure he could stand, but again, there was Harry, holding him up.

He was shaking too, but he was kissing him everywhere, and the things he was saying—things like, “You were so good,” and “that was so good,” and “I’m proud of you, Draco; I’ve never been ashamed.”

“Oh God,” Draco whispered again.

Harry kissed him into the night—not even on the lips, little kisses against his neck, his bent collar, putting everything back into place. He tied his tie again and pressed down the folds of Draco’s shirt; he pulled the braces back up one by one and kissed Draco’s ears, his brow. By the time he was picking up the jacket, the little group had moved off the balcony, and Draco slumped in relief.

Harry tapped the jacket with his wand to get the wrinkles out. “You should put this back on,” he said.

“Did you mean it?”

“Put it on,” said Harry.

It was pointless, really—Draco knew he looked debauched, probably almost as debauched as Harry. He put it on. “Did you mean it?”

For a moment, Harry looked at him in moonlight. Then he held out his hand. “If you’ll have me,” said Harry, “I’d like to dance with you.”

Draco blinked. “Out here?”

Harry tilted his head at the ballroom. “In there,” he said.

They went into the ballroom smelling of sex and jasmine.