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Harry Potter likes shiny objects.

He always has, really. Whether it’s the dull sheen of a solid gold cauldron for sale in Diagon, or the snappy sparkle of the Snitch during a game of Quidditch, or the tinsel-shine gold-silver of the Galleons and Sickles in his Gringotts vault, slap a little gilt on something and Harry Potter’s head is turned.

His friends know this about him, so he really doesn’t understand why they acted like it was such a surprise when he took up with Draco Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy, who’d lied and paid and bullied his way back to the top of the social strata after the War, playing up his wand’s importance and his role in Harry’s escape from the Manor until if you ask a random wix on the street you have about a fifty-fifty chance of hearing how he’d actually been a vital member of the Order of the Phoenix from the start.

Draco Malfoy, who flits around the Continent for months at a time, who tried high-fashion modelling for a lark, and who leaves a string of broken-hearted lovers in his wake everywhere he goes.

Draco Malfoy, who, Harry noticed (once he was in a position to, and less worried about the literal end of the world), hadn’t actually gotten any taller after their sixth year, and who seems to maintain his waifish Seeker’s build through a steady regimen of cigarettes and athletic love affairs with very big men.

Draco Malfoy, who’s grown his hair down to his waist in a smooth, shiny gold waterfall, that colour unique enough even in the Wizarding world that he draws everyone’s eyes, not just Harry’s, when he’s out and about.

Draco Malfoy, who sneers and snarls and spits vitriol at everyone in sight, but melts into Harry when they’re together in public, plastering himself to Harry’s side and blinking smitten doe-eyes up at him whenever Harry opens the door for him, or pulls out his chair, or presents him with whatever new trinket he’d noticed Draco had his eye on (bought with their shared accounts, of course—Draco’s as rich as Harry is, and as much as he likes being spoiled, they’re equal financial contributors).

Harry has to admit that it’s gratifying, to have that level of devotion from a man who views the majority of the world as beneath him.

Not literally, of course—Draco is no taller than Ginny, and is significantly shorter than Ron and Harry.

To everyone’s surprise, including his own, Harry had shot up significantly after the war—something about his body no longer being under intense levels of stress, plus the stunting factor of the Horcrux being removed—whatever it was, he’s now taller than his dad had ever been, and broad too, thanks to his fairly rigorous Auror fitness routine.

Every time he passes a milestone his parents never were able to reach, Harry feels a little pang in his gut.

Draco loves his muscles, though; he’s obvious about it, running his hands over Harry’s biceps when they’re out to dinner, slinking a foot up to knead Harry’s thighs when they’re sitting across from each other at dinner (even when there’s not a tablecloth blocking them from view, to the appalled delight of the Prophet photographer who caught those pictures), and demanding to be carried at the slightest hint of exhaustion, then gleefully groping Harry’s trapezius muscles as he snuggles into his arms.

Ron understands it the best out of all his friends, Harry thinks—it took a while, but one night, during one of Draco and Hermione’s regular screaming rows, while Harry and Ron sit off to the side and observe with their pints, Harry caught Ron looking from Draco, to Hermione, then back, and raising an eyebrow, and when Harry tilted his head questioningly, Ron had sighed, shrugged one shoulder, and clinked his glass with Harry’s. “I suppose someone has to love the bossy ones,” he’d opined, before settling back into the couch and going back to watching as Hermione paced in an enraged circle around Draco, who was leaning smugly against a chair with his arms cross, hissing insults at her. (Harry’s convinced that, despite how much they claim to still hate each other, they both find these little encounters refreshing—otherwise why would they each keep instigating so much?)

Bossy. Yes, that’s another word that many use to describe Draco, but if Harry’s in earshot, it’s usually followed with an indulgent, “but not when he’s with you, dear; oh, it’s just so sweet how he is around you, you two really balance each other so well.”

Harry smiles whenever this happens, because if only they knew.

“Really, Potter,” Draco complains, sliding down onto Harry’s cock. Harry strains to reach for him, but his arms are spread akimbo and tied with silks to the headboard, and he isn’t getting very far. “You know I only keep you around for a few reasons, and one of them is to get me into good parties. You know full well that I can’t appear at that New Years fundraiser without you, it would cause a terrible scandal, and yet you go and make other plans? Really, what were you thinking?” He rides Harry at a torturously slow pace, and Harry’s sweating and his legs are trembling, eyes frantically torn between Draco’s pink, bobbing cock and that thin, nasty mouth.

Draco notices his attention and his lips twist, and he takes himself in hand, pulling slow, luxurious strokes over himself. “Something you want, Potter? Well, unfortunately, there was something I wanted as well, that I’m not going to get, so I’m afraid you can’t get yours either. Ahhhh, fuck, that feels good,” he moans, angling himself back a bit, putting himself on display and shifting the direction of Harry’s cock; it must be rubbing over his prostate now, and Harry is practically panting to put his hands on that slim waist, to tangle his fingers in that silky gold hair and tug it free from the high ponytail Draco’s put it in, but he can’t—get—free. Blast Draco and his vicious little knotting spells.

“I suppose I keep you around for this, too,” Draco pants. He’s got a sheen of sweat over him now, setting him to glowing in the low Lumos bobbing near the top of the ceiling—he looks burnished, gilded. Harry thinks he’s drooling. “Fuck, Potter, your cock feels so good. You’ve ruined me for anyone else, you know—after having this—” and here Draco reaches back and squeezes Harry’s balls, causing a sharp cry, “—what else could possibly satisfy me? And you think I deserve the best, don’t you, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry gasps, thrusting up as best he can with his limited leverage. “Yes, princess, you deserve—you can have—god, Draco, what do you want, I’ll give you anything, you know that, all you have to do is ask and it’s yours…”

Draco leans forward then, cupping Harry’s face in his hands and kissing him sweetly. “I know,” he coos, speeding up a bit. God, he’s so tight, and Harry will never understand it, they fuck almost every day, and Draco basically refuses to top except for special occasions, and every time it’s like Harry’s cock is being squeezed in a vise. “I know that, baby. I know you say that, but then…” his hands tighten and his long, manicured nails dig into Harry’s jaw. “But then you don’t let me have the things I want. I wanted to go to that party.” He sits back and lifts himself off Harry’s cock entirely. Harry howls and fights the restraints even more, but suddenly Draco is straddling his chest, staring down at him with burning silver eyes. “You’re going to have to make this up to me. Open your mouth.”

Harry obediently opens his mouth as far as it will go, and his eyes water as Draco feeds him his cock, going too fast, triggering his gag reflex until Harry can get himself under control. Draco leans forward and braces himself against the headboard, and Harry can just see that his eyes have slipped closed as he fucks Harry’s face for a while, short, rocking thrusts that set Harry’s whole body on fire as his eyes stream. “Fuck, that’s good,” Draco grunts, then pulls back, stroking himself and watching as Harry chokes and coughs air back into his lungs. “Not good enough, though.”

Suddenly, Harry’s hands are free, and as he sits up and rubs his wrists, Draco crawls up next to him at the head of the bed. He bends down and kisses Harry again, long and hard, then whispers something and the silks spring out to bind his wrists to the headboard, so he’s knelt and half-bent over. Draco slants a glance at Harry and arches his back, which pushes his arse out even further. “Well?” he asks, voice impatient.

Harry scrambles to get behind him, running his hands all over Draco’s skin, squeezing his hips tight, massaging his arse, parting his cheeks to stare reverently at Draco’s hole. He bends down and kisses it, eliciting a gasp from Draco, reveling in the sounds he draws as he pushes his tongue inside.

“Harry,” Draco moans, wobbling a bit as he struggles to balance on just his knees. “Harry, put your cock in me, and fuck me into the headboard.”

“God, yes,” Harry groans, straightening up, taking himself in hand, and pushing into Draco in one long stroke, the way Draco likes. He snakes his arms around Draco’s torso and holds him up, one hand splayed over his chest, the other creeping down to grab his cock. Now it’s Harry who’s slightly off-balance, who only has his knees for support as his center of gravity shifts just a little too far forward, but this is what Draco likes, this is what Draco wants, and so Harry calls on his hours of physical training and thrusts, feeling the burn in his hips.

“Is that the best you can do, Potter,” Draco gasps out, whining and twisting his hips as Harry strokes his cock in time with his thrusts. His heart isn’t in it, Harry can tell—he must be doing well. He speeds up as best he can, adjusting his angle until Draco yelps, and he knows he’s hitting his prostate again.

“I guess—Merlinfuck, oh god Harry—I guess this is the best I could expect from—yes, yes, yes—from the bloody Golden Boy, a half-arsed fuck—nnnnnnnnnHarry—you can’t even—oh god, oh god, Harry, fuck!” Draco sobs and comes all over Harry’s fist. He thrashes in Harry’s arms, and that’s enough to tip him over, too, pushing hard into Draco one last time and coming with a loud moan.

“Shit,” Draco hisses, freeing himself from the restraints and falling forward onto the pillows. “Clean us up,” he orders, and Harry casts two cleaning spells, followed immediately by a warming spell for Draco, who chills easily.

They breathe together for a moment, then Draco turns and crawls on top of Harry, digging his pointy chin into Harry’s sternum. His eyes are bright and he’s got a small smile on his face, and this, this, this is the real reason Harry will never, ever leave him.

“Hi,” Harry says, lifting his head to drop a kiss on Draco’s sharp nose. “That was nice. What did I do to deserve all of that?” He’s playing dumb, he knows, but he’s dying to tell Draco the surprise, and getting him all worked up will make it so much better.

Sure enough, Draco sputters and pushes himself up so he’s sitting on Harry’s stomach. “What did you—Potter! Clearly that lesson didn’t sink in, no matter how nice it was. I wanted to go to the New Years party, and you’re telling me we can’t! Why?” His pout is absolutely lethal, and Harry’s caved to it many times in the past.

Not this time, though. He lets the smile he’s been hiding take over his face and cocks his head. “What, did I not tell you? Well, I guess it’s not too late to change plans if you really want to go to that party, although it will probably cost a lot of money…” He sees Draco perk up at that, and fights to keep the smile from turning into a smirk—he’s got him. “It’s just, you were talking about that restaurant in Spain you’ve wanted to go to for so long, and how it’s only open in the summertime and how inconvenient that is with our travel plans, so I made a few calls…”

Draco’s jaw drops. “Harry fucking Potter, do not. Do not tease me—are you telling me that you’ve gotten Sublimotion to open for us for New Years Eve?”

Harry affects a mournful expression that he knows Draco will see right through. It doesn’t matter, it’s all part of the game. “Yes, that’s the one. And you know it only seats twelve, so I invited Ron and Hermione, and Pansy and Theo, and Blaise, and Ginny and Neville and Luna, and Charlie and his boyfriend said they could come too—but I guess if you really want to go to this gala instead, I can tell everyone that they’ll have to cancel their plans…”

Draco stares at him. Harry grins triumphantly—he’s finally done it, he’s finally rendered Draco Malfoy speechless.

It doesn’t last for long, of course.

“Well,” Draco drawls, slipping off and cuddling close to Harry’s side, running his hand with almost indecent appreciation over Harry’s abs, “I suppose this is an acceptable set of plans, then. You know we’ll have to go shopping, though—neither of us own anything remotely appropriate for Sublimotion, and frankly, you’re due for a few new suits anyway—that new routine you’re using for your upper body has your shoulders nearly bursting out of everything you own. Not that I’m complaining, of course, but it wouldn’t do to have your suit split while out to a fancy dinner like that. I’ll call Gieves & Hawkes tomorrow, set us an appointment. I think something purple for you, this time, along with whatever you’ll need for work.”

Harry gathers Draco to his chest, squeezing him until he laughingly protests and calls him a brute. “Whatever you want, princess,” he says fondly, slipping a hand into Draco’s hair and running his fingers through the silky gold strands, mesmerized by how they shine in the light. “Whatever you want.”