Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Table of Contents:

Gagging [E, 2k] Draco/Harry

Voyeurism [E, 3k] Draco/Harry/Theodore Nott

Sensory Deprivation [E, 2k] Draco/Harry

Breeding Kink [E, 6.7k] Draco/Harry

Collaring [E, 8.4k] Draco/Harry/Neville

Coming Untouched [E, 3.5k] Draco/Harry

Masturbation [E, 1.5k] Draco/Harry

Impact Play [E, 2.4k] Draco/Harry

Age Difference [E, 4.6k] Draco/Harry

Prostate Play [E, 540] Draco/Harry

Feminization [E, 2.2k] Draco/Harry 

Bites/Bruises [E, 5.6k] Draco/Harry

Lingerie [E, 2k] Draco/Harry

Sex Tape [E, 3.8k] Draco/Harry

Edging/Orgasm Denial [E, 1k] Draco/Harry

Bareback/Creampie [E, 4.8k] Draco/Harry

Tentacles [E, 3.3k] Draco/Harry

Face-Sitting [E, 300] Draco/Harry

Sex Work [E, 9.6k] Draco/Harry

Sex Toys [M, 2k] Draco/Harry 

Rimming [E, 4.3k] Draco/Harry/Theodore Nott

Tattoos [M, 4k] Draco/Harry

A/B/O [E, 6.7k] Draco/Harry

Hands [M, 150] Draco/Harry

Choking [M, 1.3k] Draco/Harry

Watersports [E, 1k] Draco/Harry

Double Penetration [E, 4k] Draco/Harry/Pansy

Wild Card [E, 3.3k] Gilderoy Lockhart/A Centaur named Lars

Works in bold are my favourites :)

It took five months, yeah? Five months since starting eighth year, five months since McGonagall welcomed Harry and what remained of his class back to Hogwarts. Honestly, in his current state, he was amazed it took that long at all, but five months seemed such a short amount of time to go from utterly loathing someone to stuffed in a loo stall at the back of the Three Broomsticks, hands under their shirt, wondering how many ales he’d drunk to end up in this situation at all.

But it wasn’t really that many at all, was it? Not enough to dull Harry’s senses which currently felt so sensitive that he could perhaps hear smells like the dingy old wood of the door at his back singing him a sweet song. Or how he would swear he could taste the feeling of the pale, soft skin beneath his hands. That was to say nothing of the things he could actually taste. 

Draco Malfoy’s tongue in his mouth, for one. 

And god, it was bloody good, that. It was all posh and red wine and hot breath, and the way it worked inside his mouth as though intent to taste him from the inside was enough to send all Harry’s thoughts right out the bloody window. Not only all that, but he was tall, you know? Tall enough that he could easily fit his thigh between Harry’s legs and press up against him in that place where Harry very much wanted to be pressed, making him gasp between Malfoy’s lips for more. 

And when Harry slid his hands from the tight muscles of Malfoy’s abdomen to the waistband of his black trousers, the bastard's lips curled up in this knowing smile. A smirk, really. It was almost, foreboding , but not in a bad way, because how could anything be bad when Harry was snogging Draco Malfoy in the back of the Three Broomsticks with at least half a dozen blokes like just outside the stall hearing every whine and moan he was completely unable to hide? 

Undoing the flies of Malfoy’s trousers, Harry groaned at the soft trail of snowy blonde hair that led into the waist of his pants. The undeniable need to touch what lay just beneath that thin layer of black fabric egged him on like cheers from the Quidditch pitch stands. Harry drew the trousers and pants down over Malfoy’s hips that curved so much more than he thought for someone so lanky. God fucking hell, his cock was so bloody perfect . Flushed, and long, and curved just a little with this swollen, dripping tip that Harry just wanted to-

I mean he just had to really-

There was nothing else to be done-

Harry shoved Malfoy off of him just enough to kneel down in front of him. He just loved the shocked expression on Malfoy’s face as he realised what Harry was doing, but as he just explained there was simply nothing else to be done. It was even better watching Malfoy bite down on his closed fist when Harry took his ruddy brilliant cock into his mouth. Almost as good, in fact, as the cock itself tasted. 

Harry sipped the sweet wet from its tip, slowly at first, rolling his tongue along the slit and letting each choked back moan and whine that attempted to beat its way out of Malfoy’s mouth crash over him in radiating waves of pleasure. Who knew such a broody git could make such wonderful sounds? And all that when he was trying so very hard to make no sounds at all! It was made even yet more, he didn’t know, adorable, really, that he was so bloody bad at being quiet, too. 

A long-fingered hand snaked its way amongst Harry’s messy black tresses, tethering amongst his locks as though alternating between clinging for dear life and soft encouragement. A second hand joined the first, pressing against the back of Harry’s head with a bit more than encouragement now. Harry’s blood surged up into his skull at the feeling of Draco ruddy Malfoy, fucking into his face in a very public pub stall in Hogsmeade. His fingers drove into Draco’s hips that he mentioned, but will repeat, were just slightly curved in this absolutely devastating hot way, tugging the man into him, taking a bit more of his generous length. 

To think it had begun as nothing, literally nothing. They hated each other, could barely make eye contact in the halls, honestly it was pure loathing. Then, like out of nowhere, Harry catches Malfoy eyeing him in class, but he only caught him because Harry was already eyeing Malfoy. So they’re eyeing each other at this point, and then one of them says something like ‘want to grab a drink sometime?’ and they do . It’s a whole thing actually. Malfoy, Parkinson, Zabini, Hermione, Ron and Neville all routinely get drinks at the pub because they can . They even call it ‘Thirsty Thursday’ because none of them (besides Hermione) have important classes on Friday, and they all have a late curfew, because they’d been through a ruddy war . And this just happens . It starts as nothing and then it’s this.

Harry coughed and it jarred him back to the present where Malfoy’s stunning cock is pressed into his throat so hard, he can feel it driving up into his soft palate and the velvety tissue he knows for a fact feels like ruddy heaven on the head of your prick. And he knew Malfoy knew this, too, because the man is almost purring . It really did wonders to make up for the ache in his jaw and the difficulty swallowing his saliva so he didn’t drown on Malfoy’s cock, which honest to god, did not seem like the worst way to go especially knowing how bloody flawless it is. 

Beneath his fingers, Harry felt how Malfoy’s muscles are twitching and tensing the more of his fat cock he takes into his throat. God, he’s loving this, of course he is. Harry is tonsil-deep on Malfoy’s ruddy splendid prick, and though it has become a bit dodgy trying to manage breathing, and swallowing, and working his tongue over the thick vein running along the shaft, it’s too ruddy good to stop. If you could hear these sounds, it’s mad, seriously pornographic. And all while Malfoy is trying so hard to be quiet, too. Ruddy precious, actually. 

Harry felt Malfoy’s hands balling to fists in his hair as he pulled Harry forward onto his cock, and it’s now Harry’s turn to be less-than-quiet as he moans around Draco’s girthy prick. It's so deep he could feel it up against the back of his throat and his body is now certain he is going to die like this. He chokes again and Malfoy has the audacity to hum a long, low keen between his closed lips still pinked from their snogging, a smirk ticking up the corners. Harry almost pulled off the cocky prat, but then he said,

“ So good, ” in this tight almost hissing whisper that went straight to Harry’s brutally hard dick still trapped in his jeans like a brilliantly-cast spell. Harry’s body was doing its level best to reject the invasion, the muscles in his throat working and twisting to eject Malfoy’s glorious cock from him, and each time Harry coughed or choked or even gagged, Malfoy just got this sleepy-eyed smirk on his face, and it’s so fucking sexy. It’s so sexy, in fact, that Harry wondered if he’s going to come like this. Just here, with Malfoy’s fantastic prick down his throat. “ Fuck, Harry,” Draco added in that whisper he just mentioned and hearing his name like that is like winning the Quidditch Cup all over again. Harry’s cock twitched in his jeans as though demanding to be set free, but he can’t bring himself to meet that demand because that would mean taking his hands off Malfoy’s fucking hips that do that curvy thing. 

Harry took Malfoy to his base, his nose nuzzling against those soft snowy hairs, tears in his eyes. Each choking hack had Malfoy sipping in small gasps of air and running his fingers through Harry's hair like he was petting a good dog. And it’s all just too fucking hot . Malfoy was unravelling to threads in Harry’s hands (well, his mouth) and he is stuffed so full of his thick cock that he might just asphyxiate, and it’s so fucking hot. Harry made a small sound around Malfoy but it’s cut short by another gagging cough that sent a shudder straight through Malfoy’s entire body. 

“I’m close,” Malfoy grunted, barely audibly. “You’re going to take it,” he explained, and Harry wanted to. In fact, he can think of little else. He wanted to fucking bathe in Malfoy’s come, feel it slide down his throat, he wanted to be bloody full of it. Harry slid one hand from Malfoy’s hips and brought it in front of his chin to cup the man’s swollen bollocks. The skin there was so soft like a ripe bloody peach and the only consolation for not being able to put his mouth on it was the fact that he’s too preoccupied with Malfoy’s whole cock in his throat. But the real win came in the form of Malfoy’s complete loss of control over his volume. His breath hitched and then he let out a wonderful long moaning key like a bloody song, crying out one high-pitched note. The hot, liquid release of his orgasm flooded the back of Harry’s throat as he worked to choke it down. 

“‘S good, Harry,” Malfoy breathes between gritted teeth. “ Merlin , so good.” Harry had to really relax his throat to manage swallowing that much around a cock that big , but eventually Malfoy’s bucking hips slowed to a shuddering calm. He slid free, leaning back heavily against the wall of the stall, softening pink cock hanging from his split trousers flies. God, he was a fucking sight like that. Forearm over his face as he’s panting, breathlessly, a post-climax aura about him. Harry moved to stand in front of him, slowly, feeling ill-at-ease on his legs, his cock almost painfully hard in his jeans. When Malfoy moved his arm, he coughed a breathy chuckle, rolling his eyes. 

“You’ve got…” he began, pointing a finger to the corner of his lips. “Just there.” But Harry could barely understand English let alone sort out charades, and he felt his features twist into an expression of confusion. “Here, let me,” Malfoy whispered before drawing Harry’s face towards him. And then they were snogging again and Harry felt Malfoy’s tongue flick out of the corner of his mouth. Harry sputtered, understanding then what Malfoy meant. Fuck . Harry was on the absolute razor’s edge, so it’s no surprise at all, really, when Malfoy shoved his hand unceremoniously into the waistband of Harry’s jeans he became a shuddering, spilling mess in his grasp. 

Harry felt Malfoy’s fist tight around his hard tip as he came into his palm, and he rolled his hips into the wet friction, moaning against Malfoy’s, frankly delicious, mouth. It cannot be overstated how delightful Malfoy was to kiss, smirking lips all pink and chapped and insatiable. Malfoy tipped Harry’s head back, sliding his tongue into his ravaged mouth and swallowing all of his moans and whines and cries as he rutted into his fist. It was almost too much to bear, then, that Malfoy kept snogging him well after Harry’s orgasm had calmed and ebbed, his slicked hand just gently massaging Harry’s liquid end into his softening prick.  

Eventually, Malfoy drew his hand free of Harry’s jeans making sure to slide it up his stomach, coating the curled dark hairs there in come with an almost triumphant smirk. It took several cleaning Charms, along with Malfoy aiding in adjusting Harry’s glasses (which he was not too proud to admit sent a heated flush to his cheeks), and Harry tucking back a lock of silky blonde hair (which he was too proud to deny brought a sweet rosy pink to Malfoy’s cheeks) to make the two even remotely presentable. Eventually, the mischief had been managed, and Harry pushed the stall door open with his back only to nearly slam into Ron standing crossed-armed with one red brow raised, judgmentally. 

“Really, mate?” he asked. “Really?” Harry fumbled for words, but Malfoy merely shouldered past him and muttered,

“Jealous, Weasley?”

Chapter Text

Was that a…cough? Harry squinted as though that helped him hear better, but the dressing room of One Ravenrook Court (referred to as ‘The Rook’ by frequent patrons), a high end, wizard-owned, menswear shop in upper Soho seemed almost too quiet. Harry had thought himself to be alone. He was trying on a couple options in the hopes of finding a suit that was stylish but not too formal. Set to receive the Order of Merlin, Third Class for his efforts with the DMLE in tracking a cell of rogue Gryphon poachers down in Marrakech, he realised he didn’t own an appropriate ruddy suit. It was a distinguished honour, but Harry absolutely abhorred how stuffy and uptight the standard tuxedo appeared, and he had never really been one for traditional wizarding robes.

He’d been torn between a sort of deep sapphire silk wool three-piece that was actually faintly woven with green details he felt would look nice with his eyes, or a more understated warm dark grey two-piece with a garnet waistcoat he felt would be a subtle nod to his Auror robes when he distinctly heard what sounded like…a cough. Not a cough, at all, really, it was deeper in the throat, lower. More like…

A gag? 

Maybe against his better judgement, though Harry often felt he didn’t have better judgement at all just a series of lucky poor judgments and some on-the-spot decision-making skills, he leaned his ear against the wall listening to the adjoining dressing room. A few seconds of silence later, Harry felt he must have imagined something. Perhaps the shop owner was moving racks around or there was a pesky ghost in the walls. He shrugged the white dress shirt off along with his concern regarding what that strange sound was, running an absent hand over the curled dark hairs of his chest. 

Just as he hung the shirt, however, Harry heard the ruddy sound again and this time he swore he heard someone shh sharply afterwards. He froze, in nothing more than his white pants and black dress socks held up by black leather garters, he reached for his wand. If someone was in danger, it was his obligation, his duty even, to intervene. Harry waited several seconds longer, just to make sure he was not mad. 

There. It wasn’t like before, not the sort of choking almost hacking sound, but this time just a tap. Not at tap, it was heavier than that, more like a thunk perhaps. Someone was definitely back here. Someone who was not supposed to be back here because the shop owner and head tailor, Mortimer Andronicus (the third), had specifically told Harry that he was the only one in his shop that day. Harry felt the rush of adrenaline feed his focused senses, his heart pounded with the sense of imminent confrontation. Using the tip of his wand, he brushed the curtain of his dressing stall aside, looking around the space and finding he did not readily see anyone. 

Wand out, and pulse racing, he listened, hoping for a hint of who or what that sound belonged to. He sniffed the air, silently, patrons here often wore rather pungent colognes and perfumes and it was possible, had someone entered, there would be a new smell that clashed with the posh almost austere fresh cotton scent of the storefront. Nothing. 

But then not nothing. Harry whirled around because just as he had turned his attention to sniffing for perfumes or colognes or perhaps the sulphurous smell of demons in the floorboards, he heard a sort of hum. It was so quiet Harry found himself contemplating if you could whisper and hum at the same time or if that was just sighing. Maybe it was a sigh? But before he got his answer to that he heard a very obvious, very telling ‘ ah’ . Just one quick wanton syllable. 

Harry dropped his wand, but he raised a dark brow. This was not the sound of a person in danger, but the telltale sound of rowdy youths who had located a place where they could fool around without risk of their parents or guardians finding them. Well, Harry was no parent but he was a guardian of sorts. A guardian of order and law, though even as he thought that it sounded rather ridiculous. Either way, he was not going to let some teenagers snog in the back of an unsuspecting shop owner’s business.

He moved quietly, wand up towards the stall from which he had heard the sound, taking a breath and preparing for the absolutely horrified looks on their faces. Hopefully it would scare the hooligans out of mucking about in the back of stores for good. All at once, he thrust the curtain open, pointing his wand at the little prats. 

Only, they weren’t teenagers at all. And they were doing a fair bit more than snogging. Harry crossed his arms along with one ankle over the other, leaning in the door frame, a smirk tugging at his lips that he could not for the life of him banish. 

“I dunno, mate, looks like he’s a little snug, might need the next size up,” Harry mused, as a tear-stained Theodore Nott attempted (and this was a really key word in this situation) to quietly and elegantly go down on a notably well-endowed Draco Malfoy (hence the cough, which turned out to really be a gag, nailed it). Oh, they did look good like that, too. Malfoy flushed, head tipped back against the wall (hence the thunk. He really was bang on, here, wasn’t he?), strands of argent blonde in his face, and thin lips parted, huffing short breaths he had certainly intended to be stealthy. Not that Harry was looking. Well, he was looking, but he was looking with his Auror eyes, not his looking eyes. The heather grey three-piece suit and deep ocean blue tie he wore was meticulously tailored and Harry was certain he’d not only purchased it from ol’ Morty, but that this likely wasn’t his first romp with Teddy in the dressing stalls. 

That was to say nothing of poor Teddy. His long golden locks looked as though they had perhaps been tied back at one point, but now they hung loose and spilled over his slim shoulders. The lad was at least three stone lighter than Malfoy, who seemed rather fit, not that Harry would know or care. Teddy Nott had always been such a small thing, and it seemed he’d just stopped growing entirely at age fourteen. He was kneeling in front of Malfoy, face blotchy and red, jaw straining and aching around Malfoy’s thick prick wearing a black waistcoat, white dress shirt and black trousers making him look like a waiter or butler, both of which were near hilarious given his current situation. If he was a waiter, Harry would have whatever Malfoy ordered and if he was a butler, he certainly took his work seriously. Malfoy’s silvery eyes slid to the corners peering down at Harry. 

“I like a tight fit,” he breathed, his voice hoarse and low. Harry cleared his throat feeling suddenly rather warm. Malfoy had one hand twisted in Teddy’s golden curls, holding the small man fast on his cock as he simpered out small sounds of strain. Even upright on his knees Teddy was just slight, and Malfoy had to lean back against the wall to make up for his noticeable height. Harry had seen the man in passing here and there, Wizarding London was a small place after all and they did both work for the Ministry (as basically everyone in the Wizarding World did, it seemed), but this was the first time in nearly a decade that they’d had words. “Am I under arrest, Auror Potter?” Malfoy asked through a clenched jaw, a smug smirk ticking up one corner of his lips. Harry clandestinely glanced behind him to see the dressing stalls were still empty, and turned back with a shrug. 

“I suppose it depends on how good the show is,” Harry remarked. Not that he was enjoying this. Okay, well maybe, he was only human. Actually, fuck it. Harry would be a ruddy liar if he said seeing Malfoy and Nott like this wasn’t ludicrously hot. No one in their right skull would be able to walk in on this and think ‘nope, not for me, really’, no one. Two absolute blonde bombshells, one tonsils deep on the other’s, frankly stunning, cock (at least, what he could see of it). 

“Seems like it’s good enough,” Malfoy huffed, his gaze shifting from Harry’s eyes to…lower than Harry’s eyes. And yeah, lock him up, because Harry was hard as fucking granite and dressed in so little there was no way to hide that fact. Teddy choked a quiet whine around Malfoy’s fat cock, and it was only then he noticed Teddy stroking himself just under the waistband of his black waiter or perhaps butler trousers. God, he was so fucking sexy like that. Fucking precious. Choking on Malfoy’s huge prick, crying, the sweet lad, and getting himself off in the middle of it all.

“Hard to tell, really,” Harry retorted, coyly, as Malfoy jerked a bit, grunting a soft moan of pleasure at whatever it was Teddy did with those rosy and swollen pink lips on Malfoy’s (did Harry mention this at all yet?) right lovely dick. 

“Perhaps - ah- ,” Malfoy coughed a small exclamation and Teddy shifted his hand in his trousers, hips working into his fist. “You should look closer, Auror Potter.” Harry felt his already hard cock drip a small wet spot at the front of his pants. He felt like he was boiling watching these two. The way Malfoy’s girthy length was so deep in Teddy’s mouth that the muscles of his slender throat had to work over it to keep him (mostly) from drowning on it. And Malfoy, fuck, his dress shirt was drawn up out of his heather grey trousers and Harry glimpsed the tight fair skin of his belly and felt the immediate urge to run his tongue over him. The man was a marvel, a bloody blonde masterpiece. 

And there was no one there. 

So really, what was the harm in a little fun? 

Harry stepped inside the dressing stall, sliding the heavy linen curtain shut behind him. His cock was so swollen, it came as an immediate relief when he pulled it up over the waistband of his pants. Teddy let out a high-pitched cry around Draco’s veined length, and brought the hand not currently buried in his pants up to touch Harry’s dribbling head, fingering the slit and then running it just under his foreskin sending Harry shuddering at the sudden spark of arousal that jolted through him. Breathing a hoarse moan, Harry tentatively slid a hand up under Malfoy’s shirt, exposing more of that lickable abdomen and running his broad tanned hand over the man’s pale navel. 

Malfoy keened silently, his teeth clenching at first then his jaw slackened as he huffed out a panting breath. Harry’s eyes went wide as Malfoy snatched out a hand behind Harry’s neck lurching him forward into a rough, urgent kiss. God, he tasted so fucking posh. All Earl Grey with a touch of perhaps peppermint and his cologne was a dapper woodsy musk and it was all just so fitting, really. Harry whimpered, and Malfoy seemed to lap up each sound he made as though starving for Harry’s pleasure. He kissed him impolitely, holding his neck in a strong grip that Harry had no intention of fighting. Malfoy’s tongue ran along his bottom lip and Harry stroked himself, quivering at the idea of him running that demanding tongue along the base of his cock or over his tight hole. 

Eventually, Teddy’s touch became as demanding as Malfoy’s snogging, and Harry shifted his hand to cup his bollocks, allowing Teddy to work his needy fingers over Harry’s length. The man seemed rather practised at balancing two simultaneous partners, but Harry’s assessment of Teddy’s skills was interrupted when Malfoy nipped at his bottom lip, parting his lips and cuing Harry to do the same. He did so readily, hungrily, letting Malfoy plunge that deviant tongue of his into Harry’s begging mouth, wet from salivating over the man. Malfoy invaded him. Every nerve in Harry’s body felt as though it poked through his skin, exposed and overstimulated by Teddy’s hands and Malfoy’s fucking filthy, perfect mouth. 

Teddy serviced Harry’s cock as though his very life depended on it, and Harry quietly moaned against Malfoy’s mouth. He felt the soft vibrato of Malfoy’s thin, low chuckle in response which sent a scorching heat straight through him. His hand worked yet higher over Malfoys ribs, rucking up his waistcoat so Harry could run his fingers over one hard nipple, delighting in the light grunt over his tongue he received for his efforts. Teddy’s thumb found the wet head of Harry’s prick once more and pressed into his slit, sending him groaning lightly between Malfoy’s lips. Harry reached out the hand he’d been using to knead his swollen balls, tethering his fingers in Teddy’s golden tresses. Malfoy’s hand twisted among Teddy’s curls to touch Harry’s fingers and there was something so fucking salacious about them essentially holding hands tangled in Teddy’s princely mane. 

Teddy let out a soft cry as they pulled his hair and jerked his head, and for one brief moment Harry hoped the bloke was alright. It was brief, though, because he realised that Teddy was choking back the whining, simpering moans of his orgasm as he shuddered beneath Harry and Malfoy. Harry tasted Malfoy’s gratification in the way his mouth ticked up in the corners while Teddy came still choking on his cock. Teddy drew his hand from his trousers and Harry could smell the heady, indulgent scent of his release making the entire stall reek of sex and boy. Malfoy untangled himself from Teddy’s hair, reaching for his come-slicked hand. He broke off their kiss, and Harry was about to complain, but then he watched Malfoy bring Teddy’s wet digits to his lips, and suck the man’s fingers, eyes rolling shut as though Teddy’s come were sweet honey. 

Harry burned watching Malfoy’s tongue flick into the space between Teddy’s long, slender fingers and laving over his slicked palm. He felt he would be little more than a pile of ruddy ash by the time Malfoy was through. It was pornographic. It was so fucking indulgeant and Harry could not possibly get enough of the sight. His dick felt ludicrously hard and each of Teddy’s practised strokes brought him closer and closer to his eventual end. The pressure behind his balls was like a balloon near bursting, and the muscles in his abdomen tensed and twitched with each wracking wave of heated pleasure the two men sent through him. 

In one swift motion, Malfoy tossed Teddy’s hand away and reached out to snatch Harry’s chin between his thumb and fingers, roughly resuming their earlier snogging only this time his mouth bore the salty, savoury, erotic taste of sex. Harry moaned into him, feeling as though he were being pulled apart, as though his cells were shooting off in a trillion different directions, spreading him so thinly he dissolved to nothing. He felt he was melting in Malfoy’s grasp. Upended and spilled like an uncorked bottle of wine. 

Harry let out a small sound and it felt that Malfoy had sipped it directly out of him as though he was slowly sucking out Harry’s living soul. Harry’s thumb flicked over Malfoy’s nipple again, and the man jerked beneath him, huffing a craggy grunt that filled Harry’s mouth with the taste of his nearing orgasm. He wanted to taste Malfoy fall apart, he wanted to feel the way his body quaked as he came completely undone. 

“Come for me, Malfoy,” Harry said, barely audibly, breathing the words over Malfoy’s tongue. “You hot blonde slag.” 

“That what you want, Potter?” Draco whispered back so quietly Harry didn’t even think Teddy could hear it.

“Yes,” Harry hissed into his lips. “Drench the lad.” The vibrato of Malfoy’s sinful chuckle tickled Harry’s lips just before he gasped against Harry’s mouth, shuddering with his release. Harry’s eyes went wide as Malfoy pulled free of Teddy’s lips, spurting a white stream of hot come on the lad’s face. His cock was truly as glorious as Harry had guessed, thick and long and pulsing with each wet tremor of release. God, it was too fucking much. Harry moaned into Malfoy’s small hitching breaths as Teddy stroked him to his climax. The muscles in his stomach and all up his sides tensed and relaxed with his white hot end. Harry squeezed his bollocks in one hand, indulging in the liquid white that spilled into Teddy’s pretty golden hair and milking himself empty. 

Once he and Malfoy had spent themselves thoroughly, they sagged against the wall of the dressing stall, panting, eyes lidded with the post-orgasm daze that feels like being wrapped tightly in a warm blanket. If Harry thought Malfoy was gorgeous before, he felt he was bloody art now. Flushed, brow dampened by a glistening sheen of sweat, his posh clothes askew and heaving breath smelling of Teddy’s sex. Fuck, Harry could get hard again just looking at the man. Malfoy let his head loll to the side, smokey grey eyes sliding to Harry. 

“If you need to cuff me,” he explained, his tone arrogant even among each heavy panting breath. “I’ll understand.” Harry huffed a sarcastic laugh at the man’s audacity.

“Come by my office sometime,” Harry breathed. “I’ll throw the book at you and everything.” After several minutes of post-depravity-indulced bliss, Harry and Malfoy cast several cleaning charms on themselves and poor Teddy who could barely manage to close his lips, his jaw ached so much. There was a sort of awkward moment where Harry didn’t really know what to do.

“Might take you up on that offer, Potter,” Malfoy said, just as Harry turned to leave. “With the book.” Harry blushed. He breathed another thin chuckle, sliding the curtain open and finding the dressing area was still mercifully empty. He stepped back into his stall, having yet to decide what bloody suit he was going to wear, and stared at the two hangers feeling very much as though, in his current mental state, he barely knew what a suit ruddy was anymore. 

“I’d go with the blue one,” Malfoy said, peering at the two choices from just outside his stall. “The subtle green will really bring out your eyes.” Harry turned and Malfoy gave him an arrogant wink before turning on his heel and waving over his shoulder, Teddy by his side. “Ta then,” he called as he went, and Harry found himself hoping he would not go another nine years without seeing Malfoy again.

Chapter Text

“ In the lake?” Harry asked, feeling panic grab hold of his heart and squeeze it until his pulse was near fever pitch. 

“Well, yes, that’s where you find them,” Neville responded, sheepishly, darting his eyes away. 

“In the lake ?” Harry asked again, and Neville winced a bit at the way his voice ticked up at the end grinding up against a yell. 

“Well, yes, that’s where you-”

“Find them, yes, I get it,” Harry cut him off and Neville’s face contorted in a chagrined scowl. There was a long sort of strained silence as Harry tried to will his brain to process the fact that Professor Draco Malfoy had taken it upon himself to re-up the stores of Snakeweed for his third year Potions students. Overachieving son of a-

“I suppose it hasn’t been that long…” Neville said, attempting to backtrack his earlier concern. He’d nearly toppled Harry’s bookshelf as he stumbled into his office saying something along the lines of ‘ I think I killed Professor Malfoy’.  

“You said it’s been over an hour!” Harry argued, because if Neville actually did kill Professor Draco Malfoy, that meant he also murdered Harry’s boyfriend, and that just wouldn’t do at all now would it? 

“Give or take, yes,” Neville said in that sheepish tone again. 

“Well how long does he have?” Harry demanded, flailing wildly. 

“I don’t know! Last time he was down there for almost two!”

“Two hours, Neville, what are you giving him?” They were both yelling, but no one else was around the lake on that sleepy Sunday morning so it hardly mattered. 

“I’ve been growing my own Gillyweed and it's quite good, actually I-”

“ Neville !” Harry barked, interrupting what would have surely been a long-winded explanation of how much better his Gillyweed is because of the direction of sunlight or perhaps the barometric pressure. 

“Yes! Sorry, here, sorry, sorry,” he stammered, handing Harry a handful of the familiar green slime that brought him haltingly back to fourth year. “Also here, this will make it easy to find him,” Neville handed Harry a small orb, no bigger than a Snitch, with a pearly white sheen. “I used to use it to find Mermaids for their scales, but Professor Malfoy has proved far easier to lose and far harder to track down lately.” Harry swallowed the handful of slick leaves, widening his eyes at Neville’s statement as if to say ‘ apparently!’ , before the wrenching awful rearranging of his insides sent him gritting his teeth. He brought his hands to his throat as the gills split the skin there and eventually each breath of air seemed to do more harm than good. 

Harry dove into the lake, sucking in a deep breath of water and untangling himself from his robes until he was just in his pants. The orb did prove useful, as Harry swam it glowed brighter with proximity to Draco and it only took maybe twenty minutes of swimming around to find him. Harry was so ready to be mad, he was so ready to get him to the surface and punch him in the face for worrying the ever-loving shite out of him, but honestly, this was better. 

Treading water in front of Draco’s restrained form, he crossed his arms matter-of-factly. Draco floated, completely naked, his arms tethered behind his back, eyes blindfolded, and legs splayed wide, tied down with what appeared to be some sort of plant. Actually, it wasn’t just any angry plant. It was the exact angry plant Draco had come searching for. Alone. Stupidly.

*****

Draco shifted in the velvety grasp of his Charmed Snakeweed waiting what felt a bloody century for Harry to arrive. He’d blindfolded himself, which currently felt like it might have been a bridge too far given how long Harry was taking, but he really wanted to set the scene. Unfortunately, that also made it so he could not see when Harry arrived and would need to rely on hearing him.   

“Look at you.” The words were muffled by the stream of bubbles that disturbed the water between them, but the Gillyweed aided in speaking underwater. Draco attempted to stifle a pleased smirk, but it was quite a trial when, even under water, he could hear the delight in Harry’s tone. 

“Save me, Harry Potter,” he intoned, sarcastically, lamenting not being able to see Harry just then. “Help,” he added, for dramatic effect though his tone was equally dry despite the setting. 

“You’re a right git, you know that?” Harry informed. “Piece of ruddy work, you are.” 

“You know I love Valentine’s Day,” Draco mused, and he was so flush with satisfaction in his efforts to lure Harry here that there was just no helping the grin splitting his lips. 

“ I think I killed Professor Malfoy ,” Harry said. “That’s what he said.”

“I can’t be held responsible for his embellishment,” Draco retorted. “Though I am impressed by his commitment.”

“I won’t hold you responsible for Neville’s flawless performance, but I will hold you responsible for the years you took off my life,” Harry argued, because they were both stubborn bastards who loved to argue. Draco went to retort, not wanting Harry to get the last word, but he suddenly felt the smooth pad of Harry’s thumb trace over his lips. He smiled, feeling a thrum of anticipation brush over him like silk in the summer breeze. “Can you see at all?” Draco shook his head feeling how the gentle tug of the current around him swished his hair around his head. Harry’s finger danced over Draco’s nose and he jumped slightly at the sudden touch. He traced a path over Draco’s lips, his jawline, over the shell of his ear and then down to the gossamer frilled tissue over his Gillyweed-induced gills. 

Draco keened a stream of bubbles, tipping his head to the side to give Harry more surface area to explore. The sensation was mad, it was electric. The silken membranes seemed to be made of a million million sensitive nerve endings and even his delicate touch had Draco’s thighs tensing, his cock hardening in response. He huffed a harried breath, alarmed by how intense the sensation had been and all he could hear was Harry’s knowing hum of satisfaction in response as his fingers flitted over his tender slits. Shuddering under Harry’s touch, Draco pulled against the restraints, instinctively wanting to run his hands over Harry’s body, into his wild hair, along his fat cock. 

“What a thoughtful gift,” Harry mused, as Draco whined, feeling the stimulation growing from a flickering flame to a raging inferno as his cock twitched and ached between his legs. “If you think that’s mad,” he explained, running his fingers over Draco’s collar bone, leaving him panting and crying after the electrocution that was touching his gills. “You’re gonna really love this.” Draco heard the blood surge in his ears like a torrent. He could not see where Harry was looking or feel where his hands would go next and his mounting anticipation matched his rapidly quickening pulse beat for beat. 

There was a short beat before his darkened vision went white as Harry pinched Draco’s nipples between his slick fingers. It was an onslaught, a sensory earthquake that split him open and crushed him together again in a tectonic overwhelm. Harry’s fingers drew swirling unpredictable lines in the snowy soft hairs on Draco’s abdomen before sliding over his ribs and dragging along the gills that spanned his sides. Gasping, and grateful for those gills when he did, Draco arched back and trembled with each rhythmic caress of his aquatic gashes, pumping pleasure through his nerves as his hammering heart forced heated blood through his veins.

Draco sipped the water in front of him in a constrained gasp, and was wholly overwhelmed when Harry’s lips crashed against him, tasting his undoing, and delighting as he dissolved. Harry chuckled a deviled laugh against Draco, kissing his breath away so he could not even cry out. Silenced and blindfolded and bound, Draco’s reality was tethered exclusively to Harry’s whims. Harry broke off from the kiss, and there was a fleeting moment where Draco did not feel him at all save for the slight disturbance in the water around him. With no sensory input he felt he could be floating among the stars, he could be anywhere. It was a strange convergence of blissful calm and frightening isolation. 

“I am going to make you come like this,” Harry explained, from somewhere, and Draco instinctively turned his head, his mind drawn to the solitary stimulus his voice provided. There was an almost extracorporeal calm that washed over him, as though he were outside of himself. However, a breath later, suddenly, Draco appeared to feel everything all at once as though his body were being flooded with stimuli. Harry’s tongue ran along the narrow slits of Draco’s throat, laving among the satin gills as Draco was unspooled, and the silvery threads of his composure ripped from their bobbin. Harry unmade him. What was mountain was now dust. What was temple was now ruins and Draco cried out, massive streams of bubbles tumbling from his lips as the water captured his screams and sent them towards the light.

His orgasm ripped through his body like fissures split the earth and Draco felt in that moment if he could see or move it would simply be too much. That his mind would churn all that information, all that authority, to a useless paste that clogged what few thoughts he managed. All through it, Harry dragged his fingers along Draco’s sides and whispered ‘so good, Draco’ and ‘that’s it’. He shuddered and thrashed against the restraints instinctively searching for solid ground on which to stand, for balance. As his body’s quaking faded to aftershocks, he eventually calmed to a haze like his mind had been filled with pillowy cotton like a candy floss fog. Harry traced hypnotic patterns along his nose, over his cheeks and along his jaw, grounding him in this fractured present. 

“Just breathe,” Harry spoke, softly. “I’m right here.” He kept one hand on Draco at all times as he swam around to untie Draco’s wrists. Even when they were free, they floated limply behind him as his cloud mind waded through the thicket to send impulses to his forgotten limbs. Harry shifted to hold one of Draco’s hands as he untied each of his legs. Draco sank towards the lake bottom, and Harry held him for a long moment before he dared address the blindfold. Draco felt comforted by the rise and fall of Harry’s chest against his body, slowly but surely the world as he knew it returned to him. Harry brushed away his blindfold, and Draco winced at first, grateful for the muted colours of the dim lake bottom. 

“Hang on, I’ve got you,” Harry explained, wrapping Draco’s arms around his neck and swimming back the way he came. It was lucky that his robes had settled in the brush where he’d first entered the water. Harry wrapped them around Draco’s naked body, and dragged him to the surface. The effects of the Gillyweed were uncomfortable, but in being such a Herbology genius, Neville had long since grown a fungus that immediately negated it when consumed that mercifully tasted like bubblegum. 

“Hope it went well, boys,” Neville said, as they choked on air waiting for their lungs to reform in their chests. Harry cradled Draco to his chest that rattled with his croaking laugh.

“Don’t think you’re in the clear for this,” Harry warned. “I’ll remember this, Longbottom.” Neville laughed, nervously, and Draco wondered what it would look like when Harry made good on that threat.

Chapter Text

It was weird the first time Harry caught Draco Malfoy in the Eighth Year Common Room smelling the Quidditch under shirt he’d managed to lose there. 

“Are you smelling my shirt?” Harry asked, stalling on the spot despite already being late for class. 

“Are you stupid, Potter?” Was the only response he got. Harry rolled his eyes and went on with his life barely even noticing the warm pink flush on Draco’s fair cheeks. 

It was even weirder the second time by quite a margin because Harry was, indeed, still wearing the offending article of clothing. Malfoy attempted to cover the gesture by shoving past him in the corridor on their way to Advanced Potions (which Harry was barely passing, it was so bloody boring), and he may have even gotten away with it had he not grabbed a fistful of Harry’s jumper and buried his nose against it. 

“Are you ruddy mad, mate?” Harry snapped, jumping back a clean metre and nearly stumbling over in the process. This time, the pink across the bridge of Malfoy’s nose was undeniable and his pupils were dilated so wide Harry could barely make out the smokey grey around the edges. 

“I’m not your ‘mate’, Potter,” Draco coughed, and trudged forward, leaving Harry in a state of stunned silence. Talking with Ron and Hermione did little to calm the situation, especially since he did so during Potions and all Hermione had to offer were harried shh s and will you please be quiet s. Ron, on the other hand, thought Harry was the mental one. 

“You’re telling me that Malfoy, as in Draco Malfoy, as in hated you since day one, tried to get you killed multiple times, ‘My Father Will Be Hearing About This’ Malfoy has not once, but twice , smelled your clothes?” It was so ruddy loud. Ron was absolutely rubbish at quiet, but thankfully amongst the clacking and clinking of Potions supplies, it didn’t seem as though anyone in the class had heard him. Harry found himself struggling to avoid catching Malfoy’s gaze. It felt every time he looked up his eyes tethered to Malfoy’s steely glare, upper lip curled in a permanent snarl, blonde fringe falling uncharacteristically into his face. 

“Yes, but could you not ruddy scream it, mate?” Harry hissed, just before Hermione shh ’d them both again. 

“Have you ever considered that you’ve finally gone mental?” Ron offered, helpfully, and Harry tipped his head back with a sigh of annoyance because Ron just wasn’t listening . Harry ran a hand through his hair, a sort of nervous tick, and then stretched his arms over his head, exhausted from arguing with Ron and this bloody boring Potions lesson on brewing Antidote to Uncommon Poisons as though it wasn’t tucked in a small vial in nearly all standard magical first aid kits. 

When he opened his eyes, arms still overhead, he caught Malfoy bloody staring at him again. Fed up, he mouthed a razor sharp ‘ what ’ at the git, wondering if the flush on his face was from a fever that had him going mental. Malfoy just scoffed, shrugging and turning towards his clique: Parkinson, Zabini and Nott. 

After class had ended, Harry gathered up his belongings, absently, as Ron and Hermione argued the semantics of ‘doing Potions’ versus ‘making Potions’ (Hermione was adamant that it was the former as Potions was an art while potions were the actual product and Ron should have known what she meant via her context, direct quote). Harry realised only after leaving the classroom that he’d forgotten the book for his next class (Advanced Transfiguration, a class he was doing rather well in, actually). He went back for it, letting the two go on ahead. 

In the stairs leading up from the dungeons, however, the mysterious Malfoy situation only seemed to escalate. Harry felt a hard collision against him that sent his glasses askew, and when he adjusted them Malfoy had him pinned up against the stone wall of the spiral staircase, a look of utter ire contorting his already stern features. He’d always been bigger, Malfoy, that is. He’d always been like that, but Harry was suddenly realising that not only was the man taller, he was ruddy fit and despite Harry’s best efforts to get the bastard off of him, he was pinned fast. 

“Stop fucking with me, Potter,” Malfoy seethed through gritted teeth. Harry mouthed several attempts at ‘what’ before one finally held.

“What are you on about, you’re the one being ruddy weird ,” Harry argued. Zabini, Nott and Parkinson were all standing behind Malfoy as though keeping an eye out for Professors who might not take kindly to roughing up Harry in the dungeons.

“Why do you bloody smell like that, then? What is it?” Draco hissed, intently, pupils dilating to black pits that were so glassy and wide Harry could see his own rumpled reflection in them. He shook his head, beyond confused, beginning to feel maybe he really was the mental one after all and that he, maybe, owed Ron an apology.

“Like what?” he asked, stupidly, but he truly had no idea what Malfoy was on about and he was slowly losing the feeling in the arm where Malfoy’s elbow drove into his shoulder. And then he ruddy did it again. Malfoy leaned forward, a fistfull of Harry’s Falmouth Falcons jumper in his hand and sniffed . Audibly. Openly. And Harry felt as though he were in a fugue state like perhaps there was something off in that antidote and now he was in some sort of surreal daze. Malfoy just stared at him, like he was bloody daft, but then Parkinson crossed her arms and turned away slightly and the other two did the same as though he didn’t know, as though giving Malfoy privacy or something. Malfoy leaned in so close Harry could smell the man’s bergamot and patchouli aftershave which he must buy in bulk because he had the smoothest face Harry had ever seen, while Harry would have a five-o-clock shadow by noon. 

“Like sex,” Malfoy whispered, and Harry choked, awkwardly, as the blood rushed into his face, heating his cheeks to searing. “I can smell you across the fucking room. Across the Quidditch pitch, and I don’t understand why .” Harry hoped Malfoy was just a bloody brilliant actor because it would have been far better than the alternative that he was being serious. Insides twisting like tangled snakes, Harry shrugged under Malfoy’s restraint feeling very much separated from reality as though he’d been peeled off of it like an old plaster. 

“I don’t…I have no idea what you’re on about,” Harry stammered, and Parkinson scoffed dramatically behind Draco, still facing the opposite wall. 

“Don’t you have any decency?” she snipped, her dark brown bob shifting as she spat out each hard consonant. “Or do Muggleborns not teach that?” 

“Pansy,” Zabini hissed. “Come off that tosh, it’s tired and passé.” Both Zabini and Malfoy were ludicrously overdressed for class as usual. Both wore pleated black trousers with black silk waistcoats and black ties. While Zabini tied it all together with a black dress shirt, Malfoy’s shirt was blood red, but don’t worry, Harry hadn’t at all noticed how well it complimented his fair skin’s cool undertones or the smokey chilled grey of his eyes. 

“Honestly,” Harry added, meeting Malfoy’s narrowed stare. “I swear.” It genuinely seemed, from Malfoy’s shallow breaths and scowling expression that Harry’s lack of an explanation was altogether worse for Malfoy than if he’d truly been fucking with him. Giving Harry another shove against the wall for posterity, Malfoy stomped up the stairs, his entourage in tow, leaving Harry feeling utterly unhinged. 

It did not get any better, either. If anything, it just continued to get weirder and worse. Malfoy cornered Harry in the loo, questioning him on his soap or perhaps his shampoo or his laundry detergent. Harry actually started to feel a bit bad for the bloke. Whatever it was on Harry he was smelling had him completely off his axis and tipping towards madness. It all culminated, several days later, in an uncomfortable conversation with Parkinson of all birds out on the front courtyard by the fountain. 

“Potter, please, just tell me what the fuck you are doing and why you are doing it. I’m worried about Draco. He can’t sleep, barely eats…” she trailed off, a light blush pinking her cheeks just a moment before it faded. “I am now begging you to tell me or to just bloody stop or both, honestly.” After a long, strained silence, where Harry felt the thin wisps of his sanity flitting off on the breeze like startled sparrows as she spoke, Parkinson heaved a massive sigh. “Or,” she began, her reticence to continue, plain in her uncomfortable expression. “Meet him outside the Room of Requirement tonight after dark.” 

Now, if you are sat there thinking well, of course he’s going to go. He’s Harry Potter and he’s never really been one to handle his insatiable curiosity well especially where Draco ruddy Malfoy is concerned then you are one hundred percent right. Harry stood outside the door he knew all too well, kicking the toe of his red and white trainers into the tile floor and wondering how on earth it was that he’d ended up in this mess. When Malfoy turned the corner, Harry’s heart skipped a small, uncharacteristic beat, and Malfoy’s eyes widened as though right shocked Harry had shown up (which was quite fair, really, because Harry was beginning to feel the same bloody way). 

“Merlin, you’re actually here,” Malfoy said, a look of complete bewilderment drawing a crease on his forehead and parting his lips just slightly in a way that Harry wished was not as hot as it was. Oh, and don’t act all surprised either. Harry was only human and Malfoy looked like bloody Malfoy and it was completely fair to both recognise how stupid attractive a person was while also loathing them to his very core. Likewise, if you’re sat there thinking Harry had been straight this whole time then let it be known now that you are completely off your mark. Didn’t take many locker room happenstances or snogs in the loo stalls at the Broomsticks for Harry to learn his particular pendulum swung way the other way. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied, attempting a sort of indignation as though someone had forced him to be here which very much was not the case at all. “So what is it, then?” Malfoy was, again, ludicrously overdressed for just being in the Hogwarts corridors at half ten at night, wearing tailored black trousers that hardly obscured the heft of his bulky thighs beneath, likely straining the inseam they were so ruddy tight. He paired his ridiculously fitted slacks with a deep violet, more aubergine actually, dress shirt and what appeared to be the same black tie from the incident on the spiral staircase (not that Harry took note of the man’s wardrobe because that would be insane). Harry actually felt a bit self-conscious then because he had worn an old pair of ill-fitting tatty jeans and a mangy grey jumper he’d had for ages.

“Just go inside, will you, I’m not talking about this out here,” he snapped, gesturing with one hand to the door while his other remained in his pocket. Harry’s heart thudded a beat wondering if he’d made a colossal mistake in coming here. Was it all a prank? Was Harry about to get bloodied up by his band of overdressed prats? Malfoy seemed to read the hesitation on Harry’s face as he rolled his eyes, and strode down the hall, shoving Harry out of the way lightly so he could open the door himself. 

The room was smaller than Harry was used to, having mostly used it for DA meetings. Sort of just…room-sized, and dimly lit with no real indication one way or the other what it thought its purpose was that night. The only smell evident was Malfoy’s aftershave again. Musky and masculine. The door latched behind Harry and he jumped, evidently on edge. Malfoy seemingly glided forward, his black shoes clacking slightly on the tiled floor as he pocketed both hands. Harry snuck just a quick glance at the man’s tight arse in those trousers. As though uncomfortable in his own skin, however, Malfoy pulled his hand free of his pocket once more, bringing it up to cover his mouth as he looked back over his broad shoulders. 

“I can smell it, now,” he explained. “This sweet, thick scent like…” he trailed off. “And I am literally going to go insane.” 

“Well, what is it?” Harry asked with a shrug, suddenly not sure what to do with his hands. The hands he would not at all mind sliding over the aforementioned tight arse in the aforementioned trousers. Or perhaps peeling the aforementioned trousers entirely off the aforementioned arse and good lord, what on earth was going on in his head, right then? Malfoy coughed into his hand, his face flushing once more, such a brilliant pinky red that he almost glowed. 

“ Merlin ,” Draco swore as though straining to hang on to what little composure he had left. “Can you control yourself long enough for me to fucking tell you why I told Pansy to ask you here?” he hissed, or tried to. His voice was suddenly thick and gruff, so it came out as more of a growl that seemed to shoot straight through Harry like a red-hot poker, sending a heat through his body that collected between his thighs in, what had to be, history’s most ill-timed and out of place erection. He swallowed, feeling as though his words were caught in the lump of confused arousal in his throat. 

“What did I even do?” Harry said, wondering how his bewildered silence could be construed as losing control.

“Just shut up and take like four steps back,” Malfoy ordered, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping his back to Harry. Harry did as he said because nothing at all made sense anymore. Malfoy sighed, his sculpted shoulders slumping down with what seemed to be something akin to relief at the added distance between the two. There was a long beat where they felt frozen in time and Harry wondered if he’d just be locked in this absolutely mad stalemate with Draco fucking Malfoy forever. But then the man asked, “Do you know what Veelas are?” and Harry’s mouth fell ruddy open. What was this? Care of Magical Creatures? He shook his head feeling the faint silky threads of his tattered sanity whisked away with that one insane question. 

“No,” he said, more reflexively than consciously. “Well, yes, but…why does it matter?” Malfoy’s previously relaxed shoulders tightened in obvious annoyance. 

“Merlin, you’re infuriating,” he snarled. “Do you know what they bloody are or not?”

“I guess, sort of,” Harry replied, trying to make his brain, still focused on Malfoy’s broad shoulders, think back to reading about Veelas. “Aren’t they just really beautiful women with white hair?” 

“That’s honestly so much closer than I thought you’d get, so it’ll suffice,” Malfoy retorted, and Harry actually felt…turned on? Like even that near praise had had an effect on him, and Harry knew for a fact he’d just bloody lost it. Malfoy coughed into his palm again, cursing under his breath. “Well my grandmother was one, on my dad’s side, alright?” He was suddenly talking very quickly as though it were imperative that he get this explanation out now . “And it wasn’t supposed to be this,” he paused. “Intense, I suppose, for me, but I am unravelling to my very bloody core, Harry, and I must ask you a delicate favour.” Harry’s mind went entirely blank at Malfoy’s use of his given name, and it took several shallow breaths for him to remember what the fuck they were just talking about. He cleared his throat, again finding it had grown thick with saliva and an entirely inappropriate level of arousal. 

“Y-yeah,” he choked, his half hard cock trapped uncomfortably under his clothes. “Go for it, mate,” he said, then immediately hated himself for sounding like a ruddy idiot. His heart hammered in anticipation, like somehow he knew what the ‘delicate favour’ was, but he was too embarrassed to think it, and too scared to admit how much he wanted it. 

“Harry, if I don’t fuck you, imminently , I fear I might honestly die like this,” Malfoy explained, bluntly, and Harry felt he’d been run over by the Hogwarts Express. He’d known it, and he’d wanted it, and there was something entirely overwhelming about knowing and wanting and then suddenly having . The way Malfoy said ‘ imminently ’ was playing on repeat in Harry’s mind, blurring out everything else to a white hum. 

“Yeah, alright,” he said, though his voice was little more than a weak whisper that sounded roughly a million miles away at that moment. Malfoy whirled, as though in utter disbelief that Harry would agree after all that, and Harry just shrugged feeling very much the same way. 

“You’re serious,” Malfoy stated, as though he knew. 

“Yeah,” Harry choked out the syllable that barely slid past the thick saliva coating his throat. “Sure,” he added in an attempt to sound less…desperate? But with all the blood in his body pooled between his thighs, his mind felt like little more than a useless sack of putty in his skull. Malfoy tipped his head back, sighing as though shrugging off the weight of the entire planet in one great ‘oh’.

“Thank fucking Merlin,” he breathed, a split second before closing the gap between them in no more than three long-legged strides, slamming into Harry and pinning him back against the closed door of the Room. His lips crashed against Harry’s, and the heat of his breath on Harry’s skin was scalding. Unlike the favour, Malfoy was not delicate with Harry. A head taller, and several stone broader, Malfoy had all the size advantages on his side as his fists balled in the soft fabric of Harry’s jumper, holding him in the kiss and using his body to press Harry against the door. Harry’s heart leaped up and he felt he could feel it thudding uncomfortably behind his ruddy tonsils as Malfoy slid his tongue between his panting lips, tasting his anxious anticipation. “You taste so fucking good, Harry,” Malfoy growled into his mouth, and Harry shivered at the gruff baritone of his voice, only able to offer a weak whimper in reply. 

Malfoy unceremoniously brought a hand to cup Harry’s, now actually rather apt, erection, the ball of his palm kneading against the bulge in Harry’s trousers. He was so indelicate with Harry, his kiss was desperate and frenetic and his touch was rough and demanding and all of it meshed together in this absolutely bonkers eroticism that Harry could never in his most depraved wet dreams (that, yes, involved Malfoy at times, so sue him) could have predicted. Blood surged in Harry’s ears as his trembling hands found the shiny black leather of Malfoy’s belt on their journey back over his hips to eventually squeeze his tight perfect backside. Malfoy mewled a needy sound that Harry sipped in a tight gasp among their frenzied snogging. 

“Turn around,” Malfoy grunted, nipping at Harry’s jawline and sending a quick spark of pleasure down his spine. Harry did as he said. In fact, Harry would probably do pretty much anything Malfoy asked him to at that moment. He turned to face the wall and immediately Malfoy pressed him up against it, his arms above his head. Harry felt Malfoy’s hands slide under his jumper, warm and big and working the fabric of his clothing up until it was over his head and tossed to the side. He pushed Harry’s face against the cool wood of the door, leaning over him and burying his face in Harry’s dark hair. His breath on the back of Harry’s head sent a cascading wave of static energy over the surface of his skin and Harry shifted beneath him, small sounds of wanton desire escaping his lips. 

“ Fuck , I could drown in this scent,” Malfoy growled into the base of Harry’s skull. Malfoy's nose pressed behind his ear as he nuzzled against Harry’s jugular. “You’re like a bloody drug, Harry, I cannot stop myself.” Every use of Harry’s name caught him by surprise anew and made the muscles in his already tight thighs tense and his cock throb in his jeans. Malfoy’s arms were wrapped around Harry, snaking all over his bare chest, down his sides, over the curled hairs above his navel. The tone of his touch matched that of his words. Starving. Desperate. 

“What does it smell like?” Harry asked, and Malfoy tangled his long slender fingers in Harry’s thick locks, balling a fist in his hair, and wrenching his head back a bit so that he could whisper in his ear. 

“ Mine ,” he breathed, and Harry moaned a sharp note as a small wet spot bloomed in his pants. “You smell like ‘ fuck me, Draco ’ and ‘ stuff me fucking full of your hot seed ’. You reek of ‘ breed me, Draco ’ and I can’t fucking stand it. I can’t fucking say no to it.” Christ . Harry thought. Hearing Malfoy’s filthy white hot whispers sent Harry whining and trembling beneath him in urgent need. It was as though Malfoy could smell his deepest thoughts, as though his secrets sat like the thin sheen of sweat on the surface of his skin. Reaching around Harry’s slim waist, Malfoy split the flies of his jeans, shoving them down past his arse. His hand found Harry’s bollocks, palming the soft skin with abandon as Harry cried out, whining beneath him at the forceful caress. Malfoy hummed a satisfied drone as he stroked Harry behind him, and Harry felt the deep vibrato of it in his chest against his back.

He yelped as Malfoy bit down into his shoulder, the sweet sting of the wound mingling with his hand on his cock in an intoxicating miasma of sensations. Malfoy hummed an amused sound, then pulled Harry from the wall a moment later. When he turned, the room had produced a rather apt bed at its centre. While Harry was entirely certain this had not been the original intent for this place when it had first been built by the four founders, he was grateful as fuck for their brilliant ingeniuty now. Malfoy shoved him towards it, and Harry stumbled as his jeans were still tangled around his thighs. 

“Take off your clothes,” Malfoy demanded, his deft fingers untying the absurdly ornate knot of his tie. Harry kicked off his trainers, but his mind hitched watching the practised dexterity with which Malfoy unbuttoned his shirt in a similar vein to the way he’d unbuttoned Harry’s entire fucking being. Unbuttoned his control and calm and his sanity. Split him at his seams. The tie and shirt fell to the floor in a fluttering pile of expensive fabric and Malfoy was bare from the waist up, a gleaming ruddy god. Harry could barely believe how gorgeous he was, his fair skin showed off every last curve and line of the glorious topography of his muscular physique. “Don’t stop,” Malfoy breathed, his broad chest covered in a thin layer of snowy blonde hairs, rising and falling with his ragged breath. Harry had to shake his head to get his thoughts to rattle loose, pulling down his jeans and pants the rest of the way and sliding them free of his legs to add to their growing pile of discarded things. 

Malfoy licked his lips looking at Harry’s naked body, his pupils dilated so wide in the dim of the room that he appeared almost inhuman. He pulled the leather belt free of his trousers and split the flies there so fast Harry felt he moved faster than his mind could manage in such a dazed state. But then, hooking his thumbs in his waistband, Malfoy slid his pants and trousers over his delicious hips and past his gorgeously hard cock so slowly, Harry felt the saliva well in his mouth just wanting the man to be naked already. Jesus, he was a vision like that. The flush in his cheeks bloomed across his fair chest as he stood over Harry, stroking his fat pinked prick with a look of utter voraciousness on his beautiful face. 

“God, you’re hot,” Harry said, before he could snap his mouth shut, and Malfoy heaved a thin chuckle that Harry felt warm a small space in his soul. “No, really,” he added. “You’re fucking stunning. It’s mad, actually.” Malfoy licked his lips again before surging forward and Harry scrambled back on the bed as he crawled above him, shoving his face up against Harry’s bare chest. Malfoy seemed to seek out the parts of Harry that smelled the most like…well, Harry. He buried his face in his chest hair, then drew up one of his arms to nose at his armpit, breathing in a long inhale then huffing a windy exhale making Harry squirm.

“That tickles,” he admitted, so naturally Malfoy did it again and again and again (the insatiable prat), enjoying the way he could make Harry gasp and writhe under him. “Alright, alright, that’s enough, Malfoy.” Harry laughed, shuffling back a bit to cross his arms protectively over his chest. Malfoy sneered a bit at that, an expression of dislike suddenly pinching his features. 

“Draco,” he stated. “There are a hundred Malfoys, but I’m Draco.” His stare as he spoke was so captivating, Harry felt lost in the hazy fog of it. Harry nodded in understanding. It only seemed fair since he had taken to calling him ‘Harry’. 

“Alright, yeah,” Harry agreed. “Draco, then.” Draco swallowed heavily as though tasting the way Harry spoke his name. He leaned in so close to Harry’s face that their noses were nearly touching before kissing him alarmingly gently. Harry leaned back against the pillows tasting Draco’s passion for the first time and finding his body responded to it as though by carnal instinct alone. He twisted his tanned fingers in Draco’s argent hair that felt as soft as spun silk. This kiss was so unlike the first one. It was slow and sweet and it felt as though Draco put an amazing amount of effort into proving to Harry he could do this, too, that it didn’t need to be all rough fucking and biting. 

“What’s this for?” Harry whispered between tender kisses. 

“It felt like what you wanted,” Draco replied, his voice a rugged rasp. Harry blushed a bit, and Draco moved to kiss his cheek. “I want to give you what you want so badly,” he admitted, a pained almost pleading expression tying his brows in the centre. “I want you to feel happy and safe so when I pump you full of my hot come-” but Draco cut off his, frankly, insanely hot monologue and Harry felt as though he’d been dragged through a desert only to be just out of arm’s reach of an oasis. 

“What?” he huffed. “You might as well tell me.” 

“I feel insane,” Draco admitted, letting his head hang between his shoulders with a sigh. “My mind is racing with thoughts of filling you up with my seed and getting you pregnant with my offspring.” Harry nearly choked on the breath that hitched at the back of his throat. 

“Jesus,” he said, for lack of anything else to say to that. “I hate to break it to you, though,” he chuckled a bit and Draco lifted his head, one dark blonde brow raised incredulously. 

“I’m horny, I’m not an idiot, Harry,” Draco explained, dryly. “I told you, I can’t explain it, it’s just what I’m feeling.” Harry sat up and kissed the creased spot between Draco’s brows, gently. 

“Then fuck me full of babies,” he said, cavalierly. “Go on, then.” It was Draco’s turn to blush, and he did so brilliantly. His long thin nose turned a lovely shade of pink that spread across his cheeks and even up to his forehead. “Really give it your all, Draco, I do not want your weak sperm faffing about inside me, alright?” Draco’s lips parted as an actual smile, a beaming brilliant smile, split his face. It was a lovely sight, in truth, and Harry felt a swell of pride at having been the one to put it there. 

“Merlin, that bloody mouth of yours, does it ever stop talking ,” Draco groaned, covering the aforementioned mouth with his own briefly before grabbing Harry’s shoulder and hip and shoving him over onto his stomach. While the position was a bit of a disappointment because he could no longer see the true masterpiece that was Draco’s body, it did have some advantages that Harry immediately noted when Draco drew his arse up in the air and buried his face between his arsecheeks. Harry’s knees drove into the bed as he cried out under Draco’s service. His tongue laved over Harry’s balls, his taint,and swirled over his entrance as though his body were the only sustenance Draco craved. Harry felt himself burning from the inside, the sensation of Draco’s tongue on his most sensitive part was like hot velvet coaxing forth his climax. 

Harry bit down into the pillowy comforter when Draco brought a hand up to work over the length of his hard cock. His touch sent long stroking waves of heat into his body as though a boiling ocean were crashing over his shores. 

“I want you to come, Harry,” Draco spoke literally against his arsehole, his hot breath sending a sheen of goosebumps across the tanned skin of Harry’s back. 

“Yeah, that’s quite evident,” Harry grunted through clenched teeth. 

“I want to taste you when you do it,” Draco explained, and Harry felt a moment of confusion given their current position which was immediately elucidated when Draco drove his hot wet tongue into Harry’s tight hole sending him keening and crying against the bed. His fingers stroked and massaged the swollen, dripping head of Harry’s cock and each rhythmic pass had him nearly weeping, tears welling in the corners of his eyes. Draco ravaged him wholly. Overran him in his entirety until Harry was a screaming, whining mess beneath him. 

“ Fuck , Draco,” Harry gasped, his fists tangling in the sheets as he felt he was breaking apart. That Draco was unmaking him, dispersing him like stardust across the universe after a supernova. Draco moaned into him and the bulky muscles in Harry’s arse tensed and relaxed in response. Christ, those fucking sounds he made were a seductive song. “ Ah , I’m so close.” The building pleasure that bundled in a tight fist of pressure just below Draco’s demanding tongue flooded Harry’s mind. It consumed him like fire consumed the air around it, making it so he could think of nothing else. 

“Come for me, Harry,” Draco purred, before plunging his tongue back inside Harry, invading him once again and toppling his palace to ruins. Harry whined high-pitched needy sounds as his orgasm washed over him, and his cock pumped a hot stream of release into Draco’s expectant fist. His tongue drove in and out of him, making Harry feel he came so much and for so long, as though Draco were milking him dry. When his convulsive shuddering quieted to a soft tremble, Harry buried his face in the sheets, breathing heavily and feeling his head fogged with warm satisfaction. He heard a wet sound behind him, and then Draco hummed a soft ‘ mmm’ that made Harry cry into the sheets when he realised what it was. 

“Merlin, you taste as good as you smell, Harry,” Draco sighed, voice thick as though salivating. Harry’s spent cock twitched, sending a jolt of overstimulation through him at how fucking hot it was that Draco was lapping Harry’s come from his fingers like spilled honey for tea. “I’m going to fuck you full of this,” he said, his voice airy as though full of wonder. “I am,” he assured. “You’re going to just be so fucking full of my seed, so fucking full, Harry.” Harry felt like he needed Draco’s cock just then. Like he was so brutally empty without it. He mewled into the sheets, pressing his knees into the bed and arching his back. Draco fingered his spit-moistened hole making Harry shiver lightly. “Look at you,” he purred. “Such a needy thing. So ready to be mounted and mated.” 

When Harry cried out again, Draco slid two of his come-slicked fingers into Harry’s tight entrance. He jolted beneath Draco at the sudden penetration, but his body seemed pliant and lax after coming so hard and stretched to accommodate the digits far quicker than Harry thought he would. Draco traced sweet kisses across Harry’s low back and over his arsecheeks, his heated breath tickling Harry’s sensitive skin and causing him to quiver beneath him. Harry felt himself hardening again, his body responding to Draco’s hand fucking in and out of him. He was still so stimulated from his recent orgasm and the blood pooling in his cock felt like it was full of electric static. 

“You like that?” Draco mused, and Harry felt his gaze on him as clearly as he felt his hand inside of him. “I’ll get you hard, and fuck you dry as much as you want, Harry.” Jesus Christ . Harry tried not to dwell overlong on the harp string thrum of regret he felt having waited so long to do this. Draco was so fucking good, so profoundly tuned into to Harry’s body and so wildly perceptive to his response to any and all stimuli he provided it. He’d never had anyone like him and Harry entirely doubted he ever would again. Draco pulled his fingers out, leaving Harry brutally empty as a few small sounds slinked from his throat, muffled against the sheets.

“ Shh, ” Draco consoled. “Don’t pout. I’m not going anywhere.” Harry grunted a strained sound as Draco pressed the dribbling swollen tip of his thick cock against Harry’s readied entrance. “I’m right here,” he added, easing just a few tiny millimetres in as Harry cried out at the sheer size of him. “That’s good, Harry,” Draco praised, and Harry felt himself relax under his tender extolling, his low purring whisper seemed to slide beneath Harry’s skin and stroke him from the inside. “So good.” It felt ruddy mad that every small exaltation sent Harry’s thighs tensing and his prick twitching. He wanted to be good for Draco. He wanted to be as good for Draco as Draco was for him. “Bloody brilliant, you are.” 

The process of easing into Harry was slow and steady as Draco’s girthy length was far bigger than anything he’d taken up until now. But Draco made the process infinitely pleasurable with his endless caressing of Harry’s ego and the feeling of his hands brushing over Harry’s thighs, his arse, his back and his sides. Eventually, Draco was seated inside Harry to his base, and Harry felt so fucking stuffed full of the man that every shallow pant, every beat of his heart, seemed to take up too much space in his already overfilled body. Draco’s fingers ghosted over Harry’s hips and tugged at his arse as he let out a satisfied note through closed lips at the way his cock looked buried in Harry’s body. 

“Christ, Draco, you feel amazing,” Harry sighed into the sheets, his cock bobbed, swollen and hard again between his thighs, and Draco keened behind him, apparently as affected by Harry’s praise as Harry was by his. Harry smirked into the bed at that, loving that his words could have such an effect on such a man. “I want to feel you drench my insides, Draco,” Harry breathed, shuddering as Draco’s prick throbbed within him. 

“Merlin, what you do to me, Harry,” Draco sighed, gruffly. “It will not be difficult to meet your demands, that much I can assure you.” Harry felt the slight pressure of Draco moving behind him, stroking Harry with his fat cock, and rocking his hips into Harry’s in a quiet but growing crescendo. A thin mist of sweat beaded across Harry’s back as his body worked to tense and relax and move in rhythm with Draco’s steady andante. “Your body feels like it was made for my cock, alone.” Harry twisted, rubbing his face into the sheets, feeling very much the same, and delighting in the lock and key satisfaction he got with each lengthening thrust of Draco behind him. “It was, I think. Made by the bloody gods, just for me, you were. My mate .” 

That word seemed to carve out a piece of Harry’s soul and nestle into the crevice it had created for itself, fitting amongst his identity as perfectly as Draco’s cock fit into his body. It resonated there like a harmonic pitch, and Harry let his mind play it over and over in his head like a sweet lullaby. He moaned, pressing his chin to the bed so Draco could hear the sound he’d strummed from Harry as though playing his body like Apollo’s golden lyre. Draco’s tempo had ticked faster, andante , moderato , until he was fucking into Harry in an earnest allegro that sent him crying out into the Room. The sound of Draco’s balls against Harry’s was an erotic metronome, and each panting grunt or moan through clenched teeth from Draco was a perfect melody. 

“You’re going to make me - ah - come again like this,” Harry said, and Draco huffed a pleased breathless chuckle in reply. 

“I told you I would,” he mused. “That I’d fuck you empty every time you got hard for me.” 

“Every time?” Harry found himself asking before he could bite his stupid needy tongue and swallow back those words. Despite their talk, there was no way someone like Draco would want anything more than this one-night stand with Harry. Not after everything, not-

“Every time, Harry,” Draco replied. “Every single time. As long as you want. As long as you’ll have me.” Harry felt his heart stall a long beat in his chest and he wondered who had Vanished the air from the room. “Every time you think of this at night. Every time you dream of me. I will find you and I will fuck you empty.” Harry was at his limit. Emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually, he was so fucking full, so fucking flush with Draco Malfoy he did not know what to do with himself. “ Ah , Harry, I’m close.” Harry whined a sharp note.

“Fuck me, Draco,” he panted, his voice absolutely wrecked. “Stuff me fucking full of your hot seed,” he continued, and Draco moaned, hearing his words repeated back to him. “Breed me, Draco,” Harry finished, squeezing his fists in the sheets, preparing for Draco’s hot, wet release. Draco cried out behind him. It felt as though Draco’s orgasm ripped through him, his body shuddering through wracking spasms, and then proceeded into Harry, exploding as a throaty wail from Harry’s lips. Each of the two untwined and braided into the other. Harry felt Draco spill inside of him, felt the deluge of his warm seed flood through him while his own cock pumped out a small stream onto the sheets.

When they had rode out the extent of their ends together, Draco slid free of Harry, leaving him feeling almost lonely after being so gorged with his dick. Harry felt the spill of Draco’s extensive release drip out over the underside of his balls and along the inside of his thighs listening contentedly as Draco hummed another satisfied note behind him. Harry buried his blushing face in the sheets knowing the man was indulging in the view and the filthy way his come spilled out of him. 

“So lovely,” Draco sighed. Harry felt his heart swell. “Mine,” he added, and Harry whined, feeling his heart so warmed it might ignite in his chest.

“Yours,” Harry replied, and Draco leaned over him, taking his chin in one hand and gently tilting Harry’s head to the side to press his mouth to Harry’s in a kiss so tender it was scarcely more than brushing their lips together. “Every time.”

Chapter Text

“You said you wanted to do this,” Harry reminded, feeling suddenly unsure of himself. “I’m not forcing you.” Neville cringed a bit, one side of his face pinching somewhat as though quite torn. He tugged a bit at the delicate silver chain around his neck, looking down at the lock pendant with that classic Neville Longbottom pouty look of concern. His tea-with-milk thick blonde brows tethering together in the middle of his face and full lips even yet fuller because of the aforementioned pout as his honey eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s. 

“I know, I just…” he trailed off, eyes darting to Draco, then back to Harry. Harry smiled warmly, running a tender hand through Neville’s coiffed hair. The man was a ruddy adonis, you know. Harry was uncertain what had happened, but sometime after they all graduated Neville had become an entire man with big, broad shoulders and pectorals and that delicious v at his lower abdomen. Not to mention he was like half a head taller than Harry and could literally pick him up . 

Their relationship since school had been one of friendship and acceptance and healing, and it had all been to the good, really. Even when Harry started dating Draco, Neville had been a good, supportive friend, and an even better third when he so chose. It had come as an utter shock the day he’d asked to be…more. Not just for Harry, but for Harry and Draco. 

Poly relationships have to be, at their very core, the most complicated things in the entire known universe, but Harry will sum up briefly for you. He got together with Draco while the three were all at the same Uni (King’s Cross, Neville for Psychology, Draco for Philosophy, Harry for Criminal Justice and yes their conversations can go on for years). All the while, Harry and Neville had been mates, they shared a flat, and at times, shared a bed, and Draco knew all that, so it was all on the level, of course. Then Harry and Draco’s relationship sort of blossomed and evolved. They moved in together, and while Neville got his own flat, he stayed with them. They all grew together like tangling vines all intermingling and growing towards the light. 

Now, here’s the complexity. While Neville trusts Harry with his life, and Harry likewise, and Harry also trusts Draco and Draco likewise, Neville and Draco have always sort of funnelled their trust through Harry. Neville trusts Draco to ground Harry if he has a panic attack and Draco trusts Neville to hold Harry tightly against his chest when he’s had a ruddy awful day, and both of them trust Harry to do the same for them, but they do not yet seek each other to fulfil those needs. It’s small right now, tender and precious like a seedling just sprouting from the earth. It’s small. It’s Neville who knows how to make Draco’s tea just right, and Draco that buys the shampoo Neville uses right now. 

But with great trust comes great play, as they say, and things were seemingly far more solidified in this manner. Harry, being a self-centred git, enjoyed being the centre of attention, of course. Draco and Neville have always been more the ‘D’ in ‘BDSM’ and Harry decidedly the ‘S’, so they just sort of share him, simultaneously, symbiotically, even. And on it has gone, for two years, just like that. So imagine Harry’s surprise when Neville asks to be collared. And again, he did not ask Harry , he asked Harry and Draco. 

Neville sighed, stroking the glinting metal between his fingers, chewing the inside of his stubbly cheek. The three were standing in a sort of isosceles triangle in Neville’s flat’s living room. Harry had spent quite a bit of time picking out that particular necklace with Draco. It felt important, and he wanted to give it the respect and time it deserved, so after two weeks of not-quite-rights and nearly-but-nos, Harry finally found it. It was delicate like Neville, but respectable like Neville, and the pendant was a bit big, like Neville. 

And, in truth, it was Draco who had first spotted it. Coming home from work (at the Uni, that’s all people with doctorates in Philosophy do, they teach other people how to get doctorates in Philosophy in a never ending cycle), it caught his eye in a Soho shoppe window. Harry went with him the next day after work (at the Ministry, Harry worked for the DMLE, Division of Containment, writing Prison Reform Policies and drinking way too much coffee while he did it) to see it, and it was just perfect. Cut to today, they all meet at Neville’s flat after work (at St. Mungo’s. Neville works with patients with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yes, he’s a fucking angel, Harry has always known this). 

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” Draco explained, his hands in his charcoal grey trouser pockets, something he only did when he was somewhat uncomfortable. Harry had mended several pairs of Draco’s slack where the pocket seams had been worn through by the rubbing of the delicate fabric between his anxious fingers. Harry loved these parts of Draco in their entirety. His heart resonated with these very human pieces and it had been this very habit that had drawn his eye to Draco, standing outside of his advisor’s office, biting the thumb of one hand and rolling the fabric of his pocket lining in the other. And pacing. Draco paced a lot . In fact, it was surprising that he was not doing so now. “Or we can find something different,” he offered, and Harry’s heart hung on how much this mattered to him. Of course it meant the world to Harry, but he’d never anticipated it would mean so much to Draco as well. 

“No!” Neville argued, urgently, wrapping a protective fist around the pendant in front of his sternum, the bulky muscles in his bicep testing the limits of the white t-shirt he wore. “No, I love it,” he explained, and there was an audible sigh of relief from both Harry and Draco at that. “It’s honestly one of the most amazing things I’ve ever received.” Harry was on bated breath waiting for Neville to collect his thoughts and transform them via his mental alchemy into a flawless description of his feelings. 

That had been what drew Harry to Neville in Eighth Year at Hogwarts. Harry was surrounded by love and praise and yet he’d felt utterly and entirely alone. Unfathomably lost in a life he, for all intents and purposes, had not planned to live nor knew what to even do with. Harry had expected to die that day at Hogwarts. He’d made a sort of peace with it being the end to it all if it meant the end to Voldemort as well, and then it wasn’t and he’d struggled with, how had Neville put it, grieving his own survival. But Neville had been patient. He’d sat with Harry in silence when he needed quiet, but could not stand to be alone. He made, honestly, the best bacon butties with soft bacon when Harry was sad, and he was infinitely tolerant of Harry's near nightly night terrors during Uni.

And what it had done was it had made Harry a better mate in the long run, because Neville had handed him the tools and shown him how to use them so that Harry could be patient and kind and comforting when Neville needed it. Harry was a better person because of his relationship with Neville. He was better because Neville had trusted him with his friendship and later, the irreplaceable gift of his love. So when Neville asked this favour, Harry had not given it a second thought. If Neville had asked for Harry to carve out his own heart, he’d have done it because, frankly speaking, every second he’d lived past that day at Hogwarts was by the grace and patience of Neville Longbottom. 

Harry played absently with the hem of his deep blue cardigan feeling as though his hands would unravel if he did not put them to use as he waited. He picked a piece of lint off the DMLE crest on his chest, then adjusted his burgundy tie, then un-adjusted it because in adjusting it he’d made it far too tight, then pulled at the cuffs of his white button up. But, Christ, he could do all of these strange nervous things and both men standing by his sides were infinitely patient with him through all of it. He had the space to be Harry with these two. To simply be a human. 

“I feel like I’ve asked too much,” Neville finally admitted. “I do not want to take advantage of your trust, both of you, or your desire to please me, and I worry that I have.” 

“You can’t take advantage of something given to you willingly,” Draco countered. It was a very Draco response. Entirely logical and impossible to counter. Harry brought his hands up to Neville’s face, his fingers brushing the coarse stubble over his cheeks. Not a breath later, Neville’s strong arms were around Harry’s slender shoulders squeezing nearly but not all of the air from his lungs in an grateful embrace. When he sighed, Harry felt it breeze in his hair. Neville always smelled of the particular shampoo that reminded Harry of the delicate but determined bond slowly lacing between Draco and him. It was clean and sweet, and Harry let his nose press into the space between Neville’s collarbones just breathing him in like that.    

“It’s so easy to feel adrift at times in this, yeah?” Neville spoke, his chin brushing lightly against Harry’s head. “I just want to feel grounded, I suppose. As though you won’t just one day vanish from my life.” Harry was just ruddy rubbish with words compared to Draco and Neville so he elected to press tender kisses of reassurance against Neville’s Adam’s Apple and down his throat.

“I don’t,” Draco began, a bit unsteady, and Harry felt his warm hand at his low back. There was something so profoundly wondrous about being a sort of conduit of comfort for these two. That they sought his eyes in crowded rooms or his touch when their minds grew loud and restless. That Harry could be a light in the dark. “I don’t think that is honestly possible.” Harry felt Neville’s heart skip a panicked beat against his cheek. “I mean, truly, I feel that would be like suddenly waking up and finding your liver inexplicably had vanished. Or your leg or half your entire body.” 

“I didn’t say it was entirely logical, Draco,” Neville mumbled, and Harry could hear the hurt in his tone as clearly as he could feel it in the way Neville’s arms tightened around his shoulders, seeking comfort in a nearness that Harry was all too eager to provide. “I’m just telling you what I feel.”

“I know, I-” Draco cleared his throat, a nervous habit. “I didn’t mean it to sound so cold.” Draco’s hand tugged the knit fabric of Harry’s cardigan as he rolled the plush weave between anxious fingers. “It was genuine. I feel as though we…” he trailed off, pausing to take a long, even breath (something Neville had taught them both to do when their heart rates ticked too quickly). “I feel as though I ,” he amended, and Harry felt a bright glint of pride. Draco often tried to bury his feelings under Harry’s, diminishing himself so as not to be a bother. Each ‘we’ or ‘us’ was generally coded for ‘Harry, but I don’t want to argue about it’. “Cannot fathom a life of which you are not an intrinsic part.” 

“I can see you’re trying,” Neville said, using his warm tone of gentle respect. “And I never wanted this to make up for anything you are failing to provide, Draco,” Neville explained, cutting deep into the core of Draco’s insecurity as though cutting away the rot to let the good tissue heal. “I want it for exactly the opposite, really, because it means a lot for me to be grounded in this, in us, in you and Harry. Maybe, even, especially you. I want to belong to you.” The air in the room seemed to thicken, enriched and heated by Neville’s proclamation. Harry’s heart beat as though skipping to a jog, and he could hear Neville’s do the same. 

“And so you will,” Draco replied, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent a shiver of anticipation down Harry’s spine. “Darling, go wait for us in the bedroom,” Draco said, and both Harry and Neville knew that this was no request. Their play was like a cage, and once locked, only the safe word could free them from it. It was Draco’s world, now. Draco’s law. Perhaps this was the one world where Harry not only dutifully followed the rules, he deeply respected them. Sliding from Neville’s grasp, Harry made his way around the corner, leaving his partners in the living room. The bedroom in Neville’s flat was up a set of stairs and then down a narrow corridor which kept it entirely obscured from any and all lines of sight while standing on the bottom level.

Harry tried not to let his mind contemplate over much about what they were discussing. He’d find out soon enough. In this world, Draco and Neville were fully integrated into one another, and they dominated Harry in an effortless give and take that generally had him completely undone by the end. Harry’s shoes scuffed along the old wood, and he dragged his hand along the white hallway wall decorated with Neville’s Psychology degree, his Board of Body & Mind Healers certifications, and a small but beautiful photo of his parents, lovingly prizing his mum’s round belly as their hands intertwined.

The door at the end was ajar, and the bed unmade so Harry set to making it. His heart always wanted to go above and beyond for his partners. He wanted them to be proud of him. Perhaps, more honestly, he wanted them to praise him. Harry pulled a fresh set of sheets from Neville’s linen closet. They were blue, a colour Harry quite liked, and made of soft cotton which was important when he was the one generally having his face pressed into them. He made the bed, changed the pillow cases, fluffed the pillows and put Neville’s stray clothing either back in his wardrobe or into the laundry basket. 

The room was easy to tidy, it was not large, just a cosy London flat bedroom with windows that let in the soft light of the overcast day as it melted towards evening. There was a tan chair in one corner, a sizable wardrobe along the adjacent wall, the bed of course, and his oak bureau opposite the wardrobe. Harry sat on the edge of the bed, and waited. It was uncommon, but not unheard of for Draco and Neville to simply let Harry wait longer than necessary just to let all of the frenetic anticipation build in his system. They’d trained him expertly. Rather, he’d allowed himself to be expertly trained. 

A several long minutes later, Harry heard the steady clomp of footsteps as Draco and Neville made their way up the stairs and down the narrow corridor. It made his heart swell to hear them casually conversing, though it made his head spin when he realised what they were discussing. 

“But then can it even be considered unethical at all? Must we define ‘unethical’?” Draco argued, using the Professor voice that made Harry’s skin tingle. 

“Don’t corner me, Draco, ‘unethical’ is, by design, an ambiguous term because defining it requires one to then define what the statute of ethics related to the context is in the first place.” Neville bent forward to kiss the crown of Harry’s head, a small reward for cleaning the room or waiting well that made a warm blush pink his cheeks. “So you tell me, what is your statute of ethics?” Draco laughed a haughty lark. He was never more confident and sure of himself than when he was discussing how vast and meaningless and chaotic the universe truly was. 

“That’s trite equivocation and you know it, Neville. If I define my ethics to say ‘as long as it benefits the greater good’ or even ‘as long as it benefits more lives than it harms’ it can be deemed ethical, then I’ve created a self-fulfilling prophecy, yes?” Neville chuckled low in his chest.

“Well, yes, and also outlined a draconian society which is rather ironic, actually. But, to your point, that’s why this is still an on-going debate in Healing Magic,” Neville explained. “Harry, will you take off your clothes, love?” Harry nodded his head, readily, unbuttoning the large blue buttons of his cardigan while they carried on. 

“But if it is still an on-going debate, then how can you say one way or another that anything at all is or is not ethical in Healing Magic with utter certainty?” Draco worked his deft fingers into the intricate knot of his garnet tie, and Harry was briefly distracted by his enchantment of Draco’s lithe hands. His fixation was only broken when Draco used one of those lithe hands to snap his fingers sharply, drawing Harry from his preoccupation. “Don’t dawdle, darling,” he reprimanded, gently. Harry let his cardigan slip from his shoulders, folded it and placed it on the tan chair in the corner. While Neville was not so strict, Draco demanded a sense of decorum and respect for one’s belongings. 

“How can anyone say anything with utter certainty, Draco?” Neville countered, pulling up the hem of his white t-shirt and revealing the absolute majesty that was the body beneath. His chest, ribs and abdomen were covered in soft nutty brown hairs and just beneath that sparse pelt was his Michelangelo-chiselled-bloody-marble musculature. Harry wanted to touch him so badly , and it took all of his god-given restraint (which was, admittedly, so little) to make his excitedly trembling hands undo the buttons of his ruddy shirt. 

“Now, who’s cornered whom?” Draco purred, and Harry bit the inside of his cheek. They knew, of the three, he was the most impatient. If this were Harry’s law, Harry would have already been naked and fucked and onto round two by this point. It was no secret how much Neville and Draco delighted in drawing things out just to toy with him, sometimes just to hear him beg. Harry folded his shirt and rolled his deep emerald tie before splitting the flies of his trousers. Draco was so rapt in his philosophical debate, he had not moved past his tie, while Neville was just stepping out of his tan slacks. His legs were stippled with the same nutty brown curled hairs that curved around the bulk of his thighs and down the front of his sculpted calves.

“Actually, you cornered yourself on that one,” Neville corrected, and Harry could almost feel the small vein in Draco’s forehead bulging at that. “But to answer your question with the constraints of current Wizarding society, there are set ethical guidelines-”

“ Guidelines ?” Draco snapped, interrupting Neville. “You’d stake your bloody career on a mere suggestion ?” 

“It’s interesting that you feel people require such rigorous doctrine to know the difference between right and wrong. Telling, even,” Neville added in his neutral Mind Healing tone that drove Draco absolutely mad. If Harry felt that little vein before he could almost hear the blood pumping through it, now. 

“Yes, well,” Draco said, filling the conversational gap he knew was his to occupy, but obviously set off his centre by Neville’s gentle assessment of his personal philosophy. “Telling, indeed.” Harry folded his trousers, moving the shirt and cardigan to place on the bottom of the stack, then hooked two thumbs in his pants to finish the job. Both Draco and Neville’s eyes slid from each other to him as he did, and Harry felt a sort of accomplishment that he could draw them from their ludicrously out of place discussion with the promise of seeing his bare body. Harry slipped the garment over his slender hips, his half-hard prick hanging loose between his dark-haired, slim thighs. “That’s very good, darling, have a seat and we’ll be with you, shortly,” Draco said, earnestly, infusing Harry with a burst of triumph that he’d mastered this process and needed no critique. 

“Yeah, love, good job,” Neville agreed, brightly, as Harry’s heart sang a sweet note. He crawled atop the bed, delighted to be able to watch the effortless way Draco slid each pearl button of his grey waistcoat from its embroidered hole, moving with the intrinsic grace of water along a stream. Neville pulled off his grey pants, freeing the heft of his cock and bollocks, both of which were big and thick and delicious like the man to which they belonged. 

“Merlin, you are a vision like that,” Draco huffed, his shirt split open but still mercilessly clinging to his shoulders. He swept forward twisting his hands to draw Neville towards him in an impassioned kiss that was so hot, but so frustratingly ill-timed. Draco was thinner, but he was taller but just a hair so his pointed chin tipped down just slightly as he buried his tongue in Neville’s waiting mouth. Harry wanted to be between them so fucking badly that his desire coalesced in a small bundle of heated frustration that slithered up his throat and puffed out of him as a very small whine. Draco’s iron gaze slid to the corners, peering at Harry, and making Harry’s heart jump a strange beat in his chest. He turned, but Neville caught one slim fair wrist in his hand and pressed the other into Draco’s low back to draw the man back into him.

“You know he’s impatient,” Neville grinned into Draco’s scowl. “Don’t reward that with your attention. Let him pout.” Harry rolled his eyes in frustration, immediately grateful that neither saw his moment of pratty annoyance. He sat back on his hands, watching with bitter jealousy as Neville split the flies of Draco’s grey trousers, cuing him to step out of them, then set to caressing the mouth-watering bulge between his long, slender thighs coated in the softest platinum blonde hair. Harry felt the tightening of his thighs as his cock swelled to hard and aching between his legs watching his lovers lace their tongues into each other. Draco worked his hand over Neville’s thick, uncut prick, swirling a nimble digit around the lip of his foreskin and drawing forth a heart-stopping gruff moan. Harry had to clack his teeth together to fight back the accompanying whine that collected at the back of his throat like a dry cough just wanting out . He hadn’t even realised the completely absent-minded way his hand had slithered like a snake in the garden to his hard cock, touching his dripping tip with his index finger. 

“I swear to Merlin in his gleaming white tower, Harry Potter, if you do not remove that blasted hand from your prick I will lock you outside of this room and let you pout in the hall,” Draco’s voice was a razor thin, low drone sharpened to a needle with a threat and Harry felt it prick the back of his neck with alarm as he put both hands up, palms out in immediate surrender, knowing all too well that Draco would not hesitate to make good on his warning. His voice and the demand that weighed his pitch to baritone only made the base of Harry’s balls burn with unrequited want. 

“So hard on him sometimes,” Neville sighed, smiling gleefully between Draco’s thin lips, and threading his strong fingers among the silvery blonde tresses that hung to the nape of Draco’s flushed neck. 

“I have to be. You spoil him rotten,” Draco replied, urging Neville back up against the with a heavy thud and obscuring Draco’s hand on his fat cock from Harry’s view. Neville chuckled a sweet, craggy laugh, squeezing Draco’s tight little arse in his bulky hands and making Harry feel like his very soul was clawing at his ribs threatening to burst free of his chest. 

“I can’t help it,” Neville admitted, then let out a bassy grunt of pleasure as Draco stroked him in long, slow caresses. Harry jumped a bit at the sound, completely wired and pent up and bloody dying to touch either of them. Preferably both of them. “Have you seen his sweet face?” Draco hummed a delicious note in response that Harry felt vibrate at the base of his neglected dick. 

“Yes, I have,” he answered. “It is almost unfair what those eyes can do.” Draco stepped back from Neville a moment later, offering him a hand to pull him off the wall before gesturing to the bed with a polite tip of his chin. 

“Oh, no I couldn’t,” Neville protested. “Please, you first.” 

“I insist. Today is a special day,” he explained, bringing a hand behind Neville’s neck and drawing him forward to press their foreheads together. Neville nodded against Draco, turning to Harry with a warm grin. He leaned forward, filling Harry’s nose with that sweet, clean shampoo smell and the Earl Grey tea on his lips from snogging Draco, and brought his plump lips to Harry’s in a kiss that felt like breathing after drowning and eating after starving. Harry could hear Draco opening the drawer, the one on the bottom left of the bureau, as his stomach fluttered excitedly. Neville kissed him tenderly, breathing out long, slow exhales against Harry’s lips and then inhaling with his whole chest as though intent to suck Harry’s living soul from his body. 

“Do you have a preference, chéri ?” Draco asked, and Harry huffed a clandestine breath at his pet name for Neville. It was so fucking sweet and French and perfect. Neville slid his tongue over Harry’s, and his body burned beneath the larger man. He hands found purchase sliding over the taut ridges of Neville’s torso, tracing his topography as a blind man traces Braille. Reading him with his hands, memorising him as Neville’s gentle, easy flicks of his tongue over Harry’s unmade him. When he pulled away, Harry felt dazed, as though Neville had thickened his thoughts to glue that clogged his mind.

“Maybe the red?” Neville supposed, finally answering Draco’s question. 

“Are you just saying that because it’s his favourite?” Draco mused. 

“Even if I was, are you going to do anything about it?” Neville shot back, a playful smirk cresting his features. Draco hummed that playful chuckle again, sending a bolt of expectant entropy through Harry that rattled his very cells. 

“ Mon épice , you are this evening,” Draco purred, and then there was a metal on metal clinking from the drawer. “I will give you whatever you want, chéri , I just want to make sure it is you who wants it.” Neville strode to stand behind Draco knelt down by the drawer, and traced his hand along Draco’s spine. 

“So generous,” he whispered in the space between them, and Draco stood handing him the red leather cuffs with a smirk.

“Don’t you forget it, chéri ,” he replied. Neville turned back, placing the restraints on the bed and reaching for Harry’s arm to pull him into his lap. It wasn’t that Harry wasn’t fit, he was, but Neville and Draco were both just bigger , which, in Harry’s mind, was great because it resulted in moments like these where Neville was able to just hook and arm around his thigh and pull him up onto him. Harry acquiesced with an obvious fervour that showed in his haste to straddle the man, to feel Neville’s thighs against his own and the girthy heft of his cock under Harry’s. The sensation was immediately explosive, and Harry felt his soul rush through his body, settling where their skin touched as though magnetically attracted to his body. He held his hands up between them, expectantly, and Neville took one of his hands and kissed it knowing how harried and impatient he was to get started. He smiled a tight-lipped grin at Harry’s apparent distress. 

“I know, we’ve made you wait forever,” he consoled, wrapping the strip of shiny red leather with one big silver ring at its middle around one of Harry’s tanned wrists. He buckled it, the tongue of the metal sliding readily into the hole worn almost too loose from overuse, then cinched it down by sliding the end into the loop of the keeper. While Neville twisted the cuff around so that the silver ring was on the inside of Harry’s wrist, Draco sat next to them, still wearing his pants which made Harry want to rip the ruddy things off of him, handing Neville the next cuff and draping the thigh cuffs over his lap, patiently.

While Neville strapped the other cuff to Harry’s wrist, Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s styled black hair (he went to an actual stylist, but Draco trimmed the back and kept it neat in between appointments), tucking one stray lock back into its proper place with a blissful expression drawing the lids of his smokey eyes heavy and his lips just slightly parted. He was art like this. Carefree. A summer’s day. Harry wanted to be good for him and draw out the time he was able to spend as such. He wanted to fight back the demons that constantly threatened to wrench Draco’s peace from him and replace it with their calamity.    

"Hello, darling," Draco breathed, passing Neville the first of the thigh cuffs absently as he smiled sweetly and traced a manicured finger over his cheek, his nose, up along the married skin of his scar in loving, hypnotic patterns. Neville shifted Harry's legs around, manipulating him like a puppeteer's marionette to get the leather up around the widest part of his leg and belt it snug but not bitingly tight. They never aimed to harm Harry. Never hurt him. Never even once and Harry truly did not think either of them ever could. 

"Hi, Draco," Harry replied, his cheeks flushing just from the soft joy that sparked in Harry saying Draco's name. The delight of it had not waned in the four years they'd been together, always the same divine catharsis, always the world coming into perfect alignment just for the brief second it took for the most important word Harry had ever spoken to leave his lips and fly free like birds on the wind. Draco. He repeated to himself, indulging in this silent prayer. My Draco. 

"Are you well, my prize?" Draco asked, running his featherlight caress down Harry's arm to take his hand in his and press a kiss to the back of it. Harry felt his ribs swell to accommodate the beaming intensity of his love for this man as though his human body was simply not big enough to house it all. Draco used his free hand to pass the second thigh cuff to Neville, holding it just a second longer than Neville expected to draw his attention, so Draco could gaze into the man's eyes as if to say 'I see you as you are, chéri '. Neville's cheeks pinked at the genuine fondness with which Draco prized him, and Harry completely understood the way Draco could make him feel valuable with only the gleaming wonder in his steely gaze. 

"Yes," Harry answered. "Better now, though." Draco kissed his hand once more with a satisfied sigh. 

"That's what matters," he stated, as Neville slid the excess leather of the last cuff into its keeper and patted Harry gently on the outside of his thigh to signal he was done. “Be good, darling,” he added, then pointed to the centre of the bed. Harry did as he silently bade, crawling to the spot where Draco had indicated, and kneeling upright with his wrists patiently and obediently resting on his low back. The rings on the leather made soft clinking sounds each time his wrist had brushed past his thigh or against each other. Draco pushed himself upright, leaning forward and pressing a palm against his knee, he stood and offered an elegant upright palm to help Neville do the same. 

Draco made sure Neville was comfortable after he climbed onto his bed and reclined against his collection of mismatched, but complementary pillows, legs relaxed but spread wide. Harry felt the breath in his chest grow sparse as his mind prioritised running his gaze over every perfect inch of Neville’s flawless body seated in front of him over breathing. The instinct to reach out, and run the smooth of his palms along the soft brown hairs of Neville’s thighs and feel the way his body relaxed beneath his caress was a screaming demand in Harry’s mind, but he knew better. He could feel Draco’s observant gaze resting upon him like a silky veil of scrutiny, and as much as Harry wanted to touch Neville, he wanted to obey Draco’s spoken and unspoken commands even yet more. 

Harry felt the pressure of Draco kneeling next to him just a breath before the electric pulse of his lips against Harry’s thigh sparked his nerves. He shuddered under Draco’s kiss, barely feeling at all the practised linking of the red belt of leather, not even twenty centimetres in length, to Harry’s wrist and then his same side thigh. Each soft clack of metal on metal sent small vibrations of anticipation zipping through Harry’s nerves, leaping end to end as flat stones skip across the surface of calm water. Draco shifted around to Harry’s other side so swiftly he seemed little more than a breath among the breeze, and repeated the process of binding Harry’s wrist to his upper thigh.   

“Alright, sweet pet,” Draco purred. Harry sat back on his heels, slowly, the comforting pressure of Draco’s steadying hand on his spine, and the reassuring sight of Neville’s outstretched arms. Everything became much more precarious once his hands were restrained, and Harry was forced to rely entirely on Draco and Neville to keep him safe. He could not, in truth, imagine anyone he trusted more for the job than them. Both had proved time after time to be far better suited for the role than even Harry himself most days. 

“Come here, love,” Neville said, catching Harry’s shoulders when he leaned forward, being his arms while Draco’s hand hooked around his other side just in case. They both treated him like someone so profoundly precious, someone irreplaceable, and infinitely valuable. Harry had always been a sort of important thing, he’d always been a necessary thing and a useful thing, but with these two it wasn’t what he could do that they prized, it was who he was. It was not ‘Harry matters because he is the Chosen One’. Here, it was simply ‘Harry matters’. “I’ve got you,” Neville assured, situating Harry’s upper body to rest between his legs, his head tipped to the side to lay against the inside of one thick thigh. 

Neville’s hard cock was flushed and draped over his sculpted stomach centimetres from Harry’s face, dripping just a bit and striated with one fat vein that thrummed with his pulse. Harry wanted it in his mouth. He felt he’d waited a ruddy century for it, but he knew better than to jump the command. If he looked up just a bit he could see the glint of the silvery chain around Neville’s neck catching the waning daylight. Collar . His mind tucked the word safely away in the place where Harry kept all of his favourite phrases like Neville and mine . 

Harry felt Draco shift to kneel behind him, moaning a throaty note the moment his agile fingers stroked between his thighs and along the length of his aching prick. Neville slid his fingers through Harry’s hair, patting him gently and running his thumb over the shallow ridge of his scar as he huffed and whined under Draco’s careful ministrations. The supple velvet of Draco’s soft hands against Harry’s sensitive skin sent a scintillating heat over the surface of Harry’s body. He could feel the blood thunder to his face, and urge his pulse quicker and quicker. His knees drove into the bed, and he arched his back to expose more of the tender flesh to Draco’s hypnotic hands. 

“I can barely remember the last time you were such a good boy, Harry,” Draco mused in a husky whisper, and Harry trembled when he felt Draco’s breath behind his balls. “So well-behaved for mon chéri .” He laved his tongue between Harry’s arsecheeks, and the warm wet sensation had Harry crying out and the metal of the restraints clacking as he pulled against them instinctively. “Go ahead, then, darling.” Neville cupped Harry’s chin, tilting his head back slightly as Harry’s mouth fell open, expectantly, and guided the flush head of his ready cock between Harry’s lips. Harry moaned around the salty sweet skin, running his tongue around every small ridge and surface, and feeling a small scorching pride with every quiet huff and small sound he sent from Neville’s lips.

Neville’s fingers tangled in Harry’s hair, pulling the strands in a strong grip as he eased his length deeper into Harry’s mouth with a satisfied sigh. Opening to this familiar incredible invasion, Harry’s thighs and throat relaxed. He was a bit upset that Draco hadn’t let him see his beautiful cock earlier, but Harry consoled himself with Neville's truly stunning dick pressed into his soft palate. Running his tongue up against the veined underside of it, Harry savoured it, delighting in this rare delicacy. 

“So good, Harry,” Neville whispered. He was always quiet like this, introspective in a way, and it had taken Harry a fair amount of time to learn the language of Neville’s body, to know that his soft, hitching breath, and the nearly microscopic quiver of the muscles in his thighs were his displays of pleasure. That this was the way he enjoyed Harry. But as with music, once you can read it, you can begin to play it and once you can play it you can compose a work all on your own. In this manner, Harry composed the symphony that was Neville. He let the pillowy spot at the back of his throat cradle the head of Neville’s cock while his tongue worked around the shaft in long, slow passes. The way Harry knew Neville liked it best. 

A shuffling on the bed beside Harry heralded Draco as he sat next to Neville’s leg, and once again Harry could feel the pressure of his gaze on his skin. Manicured nails brushed Harry’s cheeks and his swollen lips around Neville’s cock, and Harry choked a soft cry at Draco’s nearness and the warmth it ignited in him. In his presence, Harry felt safe and watched over, a feeling, even after all this time, that Harry would never be able to take for granted. A feeling that always seemed just on the verge of being snatched away. Draco hummed a sweet note, and Harry could hear the muffled sighs and quiet whines of Neville’s pleasure under Draco’s kiss. 

And when Neville’s tender whimpers and hushed moans grew ragged and harried, and his hips worked into Harry’s mouth with increased eagerness, Draco kissed him through his orgasm as though breathing it in, as though he was made whole by it. Neville’s hot climax spilled down Harry’s throat as he cried around Neville’s cock, his own twitching, throbbing and dribbling, between his thighs. Harry panted against Neville’s thigh once his slowly softening length slid from Harry’s mouth, his head was dotted with a sheen of sweat and his eyes were a bit bleary. Draco’s hand reached over Harry’s face to clear his hair from his brow and ran the back of one long finger under each eye, before coming to rest over his cheek. His palm was cool and felt nice against Harry’s fevered skin.

“Can you sit up for me, darling?” Draco asked, his thumb gently stroking Harry’s flushed face as he nodded into Draco’s touch. Harry sat up on his heels, and Neville reached his arms out for him once more only this time he drew Harry forward to his chest. Draco helped in the process of having Harry turn around to recline back against Neville’s broad torso, seated between his big thighs with Neville’s chin resting amongst Harry’s hair. Harry’s heart stumbled in his chest as he saw Draco, a masterpiece, an honest to god work of art, finally naked over him. He pulled against the restraints reflexively, entirely forgetting they were there until they were stopping him from reaching out and touching Draco’s miraculous body, the long slender lines of his torso, the small bony protrusions of his bottom ribs or his hip bones. Harry let out a soft simper and Neville kissed his head with a thin, bassy chuckle.

“I know, love, he’s very pretty, isn’t he?” Neville whispered into Harry’s hair and then wrapped his bulky biceps around Harry’s arms in a sweet embrace as Draco kneeled on the bed in front of Harry’s legs. He had several fluffy pillows in his hands and took care to stack them beneath Harry’s tailbone to elevate his hips for a better angle, all the while Harry felt his cock throb in knowing awareness of what was to come. When he was satisfied, Draco leaned forward over Harry, absently flicking his head back to let his long blonde fringe slide from his face in a display of pure mundanity that Harry found utterly and completely beguiling. He ran his tongue over the curled dark hairs of Harry’s tanned chest, nipping gentle at one nipple that made Harry yelp a sharp note and Draco chuckle a low, throaty one in reply. 

Two of Draco’s lithe fingers hooked in Harry’s mouth, pulling his bottom jaw down a bit. Harry moaned around them, and the way they somehow tasted of Draco. He laved his tongue over and under them, coating the two digits in his heated saliva and urging the seconds before they were inside of him to tick faster. Draco kissed the space where Harry’s thigh met his hip, skirting his unbearably hard cock before sitting up and pressing one knee wide with the palm of his hand. He held the two spit-slicked digits up in the air as though giving an oath, his lidded argent gaze glazing Harry with a love and admiration that only made him need those fingers inside of him now even more. 

“Draco,” Harry huffed, his voice a husky mess from crying around Neville’s cock. Draco tilted his head to the side, a subtle smirk ticking up one corner of his thin lips and one dark blonde brow in feigned inquiry. “Please.” Harry felt Neville’s hands run over his ribs and belly, feeling the small tremors in his abdomen as each small trill of pleasure zapped his insides like static on a dry winter’s day. Draco’s smirk deepened, his silver eyes nearly glowing with glee. “ Please ,” Harry whined, his wrist jerking against the restraints. 

“How can you listen to that and not just give him whatever he wants?” Neville sighed above Harry’s head in a pitying tone. “It’s just so sad, you’re making me want to beg you for him.” Draco’s eyes flicked up above Harry’s head presumably to meet Neville’s. 

“It may be sad to you, chéri , but it is sweet music to me,” Draco explained, and Harry grunted an annoyed sigh, drawing the man’s stare back down to him. “I live for it,” he said in a tone as silvery as his eyes. “I dream about it every night, and I wake up aching for it every morning. I sometimes wonder if perhaps the most evil thing I have ever done is keeping such a thing to myself.” Harry cried out, one long, loud note that emanated from deep within his core being. Draco’s voice was hands on his body. It was fire in his belly and it ignited his senses in an indescribable ecstasy. “Ah, my favourite aria,” Draco mused. “I could listen to it a thousand thousand times and never tire of its perfection.” 

“ Draco ,” Harry moaned, his legs trembling. He danced on the sabre’s blade, fighting back how badly his body hunted his release, how wholly his mind begged him to concede to it. 

“Could there be a more beautiful sound?” Draco asked, his tone whimsical as though full of wonder as he indulged in every hitching breath, every quivering muscle, and every sharp cry Harry made begging for his end. 

“Please, Draco, please .” The metal clasps clinked loudly as Harry writhed and wrenched at them. Neville’s caress could scarcely calm his tattered nerves as his body demanded Draco’s mercy, pleaded Harry to get it as Harry pleaded Draco to grant it. 

“How could there be?” Draco considered. “I cannot believe such a thing should exist.” Harry felt tears prick his eyes, and he panted shallow breaths between gritted teeth. 

“Come on now, Draco,” Neville implored. “What did Epicurus say about straining the body?” Draco’s eyes darted above Harry’s head again, his mouth falling open in something between insult and approval. 

“You wield my own sword against me, chéri ?” He asked, but his smile belied his delight that his partner would reference an ancient Greek philosopher while they fucked. 

“I’ll wield any sword I can get my hands on for Harry,” Neville remarked, and Harry mewled, feeling as though there was no more room in his body for how fucking hot it was when they argued over him. 

“ Touché , then,” Draco smiled a tender close-lipped grin of utter rapture before sliding his gaze back down to Harry. “You’ve chosen a worthy champion, princess,” he mused, leaning down to kiss Harry’s stomach once more, his eyes squinting with glee as Harry jerked beneath his tender touch. Harry panted heavily, drowning out the slick sound of Draco preparing his fingers once more before touching them to Harry’s needy opening. 

“ Pleasepleaseplease ,” Harry gasped, arching into Draco’s touch as though he were asphyxiating and it was the air. Draco indulged him at last, sliding the lubricated fingers inside of him, stretching him open and ready with a slow undulating rhythm as Harry nearly screamed, tears sliding back over his cheeks. Draco curled his fingers upwards, pressing into Harry’s insides and unravelling Harry to his very last threads of restraint. He felt his skeleton nearly leap from his ragged body when Draco kissed the underside of his aching prick.

“Come for me, darling,” Draco sighed, running his tongue along Harry’s cock. “I want to see how much you love this. How your body knows it is mine , precious love.” Harry could barely hear him over the wracking cries that thundered from his lips as he finally came, hot white spilling from his cock and drenching his chest, several dots spotting his chin. Draco’s fingers thrusted into him as he quaked with each pumping stream of scorching come that pooled in his navel. Even while Harry still felt the frenetic energy of his climax, Draco slid his cock inside of him, stretching him as he wailed, fucking him as he cried out. 

Neville smeared the white honey over Harry’s chest as Draco thrust into him, running it up over his oversensitive nipples and sending him jerking and whining in his arms. It took very little time at all for Draco to catch the wavelength of his own release, fucking into Harry in earnest. Pale, aquiline face flushed and panting shallow breaths, Draco was absolutely gorgeous as he neared his end. His breath stalled in his throat several times before it all burst out in a glorious cry of rapturous delight as he spilled inside Harry, filling him flush with his hot come. Harry pulled against the restraints again, wanting so badly to reach up and touch the tuft of blonde above Draco’s cock or twist his fingers in all that perfect snowy blonde hair. Draco sighed a windy exhale of blissful relief, sliding free of Harry as his sultry liquid leaked out over Harry’s arse. 

“So lovely, you are,” Draco sighed. “Dripping with me, filled with chéri , and glazed in yourself.” He shook his head slightly. “Just a marvel, you are.” Harry’s body was lax and limp after his explosive climax, and Draco pulled the pillows from beneath his hips letting his legs splay out in front of him. Neville moved back slightly, letting Harry’s head rest against his stomach and running his big hands over Harry’s flushed and panting cheeks. Draco sat down beside him and Neville pushed Harry’s shoulders upright, so Draco could tip a small glass of water gently into his mouth. He could feel it carve a path of cool relief all the way to his stomach. 

“That’s good, Harry,” Draco praised, patting his head lightly while Neville rubbed his shoulders with featherlight caresses. “Are you well, darling?” Harry nodded, feeling his voice return as the water healed his dry and cracked throat. 

“Yes,” he replied in a weak whisper. “Perfectly.” Draco cupped his cheek, prizing him with that look, the one that filled him with the sense of being so innumerably valuable. Of being loved. Harry faded in and out of consciousness a few times, his body pliant with an exhausted satisfaction. He heard the bath water running in the bathroom, smelled the morning glory scent of Draco’s Cleaning Charms tickling his skin, and then felt Neville’s strong arms beneath him, scooping him into a cradled grasp. Neville stepped softly as he carried Harry to the bath Draco had drawn, scented with calming chamomile and lavender oils. His head lolled against Neville’s chest, the silvery chain brushing his cheek. Harry brought a sleepy hand to touch it, and Neville looked down at his motion, then flicked his sunlight gaze up to meet Harry’s. 

“Thank you,” Neville said, succinctly, and Harry nodded, a bright smile pulling his features. 

“Of course,” he sighed, nuzzling against Neville’s throat. “I’d do anything for you.”

Chapter Text

“I warned you,” he hissed a thin pulse of air that could barely be considered words before darting a harried glance over his shoulder. That familiar Hawthorn wood wand clenched in a fist so tight, the man’s white knuckles nearly glowed in the moonlit dim. Harry put his hands up in mock surrender. 

“And I didn’t listen,” Harry whispered back, attempting to quell the grin tugging the corners of his lips. Dust motes floated in the scarce light through the one window in the Manor’s neglected attic that smelled of old wood and Dark Rituals. Voldemort was gone, but those who remained did not go quietly into the night without him. They did not whither to dust in the attic. And they had not loosened their hold over Draco Malfoy. 

They’d come to blows a thousand times. Whole volumes could be filled with the stories of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Entire libraries. Drawn to each other like polar opposite magnets, no distance seemed vast enough, no circumstance too dangerous. Always like this. With Malfoy’s wand pointed at Harry’s face and not a trace of intention behind it. 

“They will kill you if they find you,” Draco whispered so quietly he was scarcely doing more than mouthing the words. Like a practised scene, it played out time and time again. Always the same way. Always here. Always to the same end. Harry did not need to wonder if he was insane for keeping up this endless cycle. He knew very well that he was far beyond hope. 

“Do it for them, then,” Harry shot back, so sharply that Malfoy flinched. Harry often begrudged the universe this. That someone so delicate and beautiful had been dragged into the greasy, filthy underbelly of the Wizarding World while someone like Harry was touted as a hero. Harry stepped closer, letting the cosmic joke that were his Auror robes slide from his shoulders into a blood red pool on the floor. This time when he held his arms out, his palms were up. Inviting. Challenging a man who could no more harm a bunny rabbit to murder him. 

“Why do you do this every time?” Malfoy’s dark blonde brows drew together in the centre etching a thick crease on his forehead. Pleading. 

“Part of me hopes you’ll do it one day,” Harry answered truthfully, stepping closer with each passing moment as though time itself drew the two together. “But, if I’m honest, Draco,” Malfoy flinched again, and it was remarkable how easily Harry could find his frayed ends and pluck them, unravelling the man to nothing. Peeling him exposed. “I know you simply do not have it in you.” Harry sneered as he grabbed hold of Malfoy’s outstretched hand and pulled the tip of his wand to drive into his chest. 

Malfoy’s snowy hair had grown long, draping over his shoulders and past his collarbone, in the near decade since Voldemort’s reign, and yet he still looked nothing like Lucius. His gentle features lacked that icy apathy, and his magic lacked Lucius’s unmatched cruelty. Having been roused from sleep he wore only a black silken robe, open in the front exposing the white bands of Harry’s permanent brands across his chest, and matching trousers that were at least a few centimetres too long and bunched over his bare feet. Harry saw him for what he was. Scared. Out of his depths, out of his element which had never and would never be the Dark Arts. Argent eyes wide, Harry felt the vacant nothing resonate in the core of the wand between his pectorals as he stared down at the trembling man. How tender that he could not even manifest hate after everything Harry had put him through. After the thousand nights he’d spent in this very room, coating the space in the smell of his malpractice. How soft. 

“I will,” Malfoy insisted through gritted teeth. “I have to.” But Harry only sighed, drawing the jet black of Malfoy’s wand down with his chest seeing the way his lips almost quivered as he spoke and his silvery eyes searched for any place that wasn’t Harry’s knowing stare to latch onto. Harry stood half a head taller and several stone broader than the slight form of Draco Malfoy. While Harry executed covert field missions for the Ministry, the corrupted cesspit that it was, Malfoy’s posh life and proclivity for gentle affairs such as painting and playing the cello rendered him slim and fragile. Their lives had moulded them into predator and prey. 

Harry let his own magic resonate through the unicorn hair core of Malfoy’s wand, filling it to near splitting with his influence until Malfoy’s hand was forced open, two red gashes on his palm from where it had cut him. Harry caught the useless twig before it hit the floor, pocketing it in his black slacks, and shaking his head lightly as Malfoy’s eyes became instinctively glassy from the pain. His body, at all possible crossroads, rejected the night. In his lithe fingers lived only music and art and gentility, and in his precious and pure heart there was only warm light. The irony of it all was enough to drive one mad. Choking back a whimper of pain, Malfoy clutched his marred hand to his chest as a thin trickle of blood dripped down over his wrist. 

“I brought you something,” Harry mused, snatching Malfoy’s wrist and bringing his bloodied hand to his face before running his tongue along the shallow wounds. Malfoy diminished beneath him, his chest shuddered, weeping silently. “I made it, actually,” Harry explained. “Just for you.” From his pocket, he retrieved a silver ring, just a plain glinting band with no noteworthy characteristics at all. When Harry placed the small circle in Malfoy’s injured palm, it glowed a soft silvery light, tasting its new holder, and learning him from the inside. Harry was quite proud of this little creation. He hoped it worked.

Harry tugged Malfoy’s waifish wrist, wrenching the man towards him and crashing against Malfoy’s parted lips. A Cheshire grin crested Harry’s features at the way Malfoy opened into him, how his body seemed to reorganise itself to fit to Harry’s every single time. Have you ever heard the expression: no rose is without thorns? It was almost absurd how many thorns could split Draco Malfoy’s fair, delicate skin, shredding him amongst their briars, and yet he’d still seek out Harry’s rose. How truly cursed the lamb that had fallen in love with the wolf. 

Malfoy’s soft lips opened for Harry. He sighed a pleading note that tasted as sweet as fresh honey on Harry’s tongue as he rolled it over Malfoy’s, and slid it along his teeth. The coarse stubble of Harry’s chin grated Malfoy’s baby smooth face as Harry tangled one fist into Malfoy’s silky tresses. Pressed together he could feel how Malfoy’s body responded to this, how it yearned for him, demanding him like lungs demand air. Such was his damned and fated chapter in the grand anthology of time. 

“Put it on, then,” Harry growled against Malfoy, biting his pouty bottom lip, and breathing in his hitching sigh in response. Using those deft and nimble fingers, Malfoy slid the band onto his middle finger with one hand. “A perfect fit.” Twice shy, perhaps from being bitten far more than once, Malfoy’s eyes went wide with a sort of readied dread that pressed his breath to shallow huffs that pulsed against Harry’s chest. One hand still tight around the ringed-finger’s wrist, and one knotted in Malfoy’s fae-like hair, Harry cued Malfoy to the notched and warped floorboards until his knees silently met the grey wood. Kneeling before him on one knee, Harry moved one of his hands to palm the firm bulge beneath the thin fabric of Malfoy’s black silk trousers, thumbing the ridges of his hard prick and grinning a wicked sneer at each breathless silent moan that slackened Malfoy’s sharp jaw. 

Harry tapped Malfoy’s left wrist, followed by the right, then snapped his fingers in front of Malfoy’s face. The man jolted at the sound as his arms were pulled by Harry’s feral magic behind his back and tethered together. It had been many moons since Harry played with magic using sticks as though he were a child on the playground. He could not even remember the feeling of diminishing himself to fit within the megre confines of a wand, but the idea alone seemed a prison. Hooking two fingers in the waistband of Malfoy’s loose trousers, Harry pulled them down enough to expose the hard curve of his cock, flushed and swollen at the tip, wanting, against evolution, that which it should fear most. 

When Harry let go of him, Malfoy sat back on his heels looking up at Harry with pinked puffy lips parted just slightly as his eyes like storm clouds begged for Harry’s touch. He brushed back the dark hair that fell into his face, shaking his head at the lovely sight. This is what Malfoy received in return for his undying, seemingly unkillable, love for Harry. A tragic tale of woe the likes of which Statius or Euripides or even Sophocles could barely even fathom. Such misery that even Oedipus would cry out at its cruelty, ‘ah, the unkindness of it all!’.

Harry kept his eyes trained on Malfoy’s face as though hunting around inside his mind, rooting deep within his soul and carding through his pages as though he were an open book. He curled his hand through the stale air and felt for the ring’s sweet hum. It was a thin vibration among the constant push and pull of the world’s ambient magical energy, and Harry reached out, catching hold of it like a silvery thread when he’d finally felt it. Malfoy jerked slightly, whimpering a soft whisper as Harry clenched the bond tightly. He leaned forward to press his lips against Malfoy’s knitted brow, crumpled with pleading. 

“Now, I can reach through the ether and pluck your strings like you are my mythical golden lyre, Draco,” Harry spoke against his head, so quietly that he had to rely on their nearness and the vibrato of his voice to carry his words to Malfoy’s ears. “Even from hell itself I can stroke your fine, gossamer chords to concerto.” Malfoy tipped his head back, hot breath huffing against Harry’s face as his lips searched for Harry’s, desperation pinching his sweet features. Harry did not oblige him this plea, not immediately. Instead, Harry focused on the feeling of the ring’s bond in his grasp and tugged it, ever so gently, as though stitching the air with the needle that was Malfoy’s captive soul.

When Draco gasped, Harry indulged his earlier wish, swallowing the man’s cries in a hungry kiss, and smothering his pleasure under Harry’s demand. The tether from Harry’s hand to the ring grew tangible and strong the more Malfoy melted into him. It learned and remembered, carving a doorway into Malfoy’s core being through which Harry could access his very essence. And when the connection felt suffused with energy and engorged with Malfoy’s conscious and subconscious desires, Harry broke free of their kiss.

With his free hand, Harry brushed his tanned fingers over Malfoy’s pink lips, sifting through the bond and rifling through the pieces that came together to make Draco Malfoy like little more than mail for the bin. There it is . He thought just before snapping his fingers in front of Malfoy’s face once more, and watching him jump in response as he had before. Malfoy’s lips moved, and his chest worked slightly, but from his mouth came only airy silence. Harry smiled down at the man when Malfoy’s eyes went wide, attempting in vain to speak though he no longer possessed a voice. 

“I’ll give it back when I’m done,” Harry promised, twisting one finger several times in a long strand of blonde that fell in front of Malfoy’s startled face. It took far less time to find the harmonic resonance of Malfoy’s pleasure than it had his voice as it occupied so much of his mind at the moment, consuming his thoughts in their entirety. Harry tugged, just a bit, just another stitch along the seam. Malfoy arched back, mouth wide and chest tensing with his silent cry as several beads of pearly white swelled from his cock against the downy white hairs that coated his thin stomach. 

Standing, Harry kept the featherlight tension on the bond, indulging hedonistically in the sight of Malfoy crying silent tears as he shuddered and wrenched uselessly against the invisible restraints at his wrists. Sometimes, as was the case now, Malfoy’s complete devotion to Harry was so palpable that he could almost taste it, and it infected his mind with a cruel facsimile of what it might be to love someone. After Harry had died, after he’d paid his debt for being born, he returned wrong . His thoughts raced and tumbled over each other with a metal on metal grinding like so much shrapnel. He felt his body dying around him, everyday inching itself, crawling with split nails and strained claws towards the end it had so expected to remain permanent. 

Spent, and useless beyond his served purpose, Harry watched the insidious bowels of the Wizarding world churn, digesting any hope for the future like the scraps of meat they once called Death Eaters. There would always be evil as long as there was man. It was a fool’s errand to believe there could be good amongst humanity. But Harry had always been a fucking fool, and the first time he’d managed to break the extensive warding on Malfoy Manor, slinking through the shadows to find Draco Malfoy painting the lands that stretched beyond his dwelling, Harry felt the wretched pangs of false existence like a white hot agony. 

His mind thought only of Malfoy as it screeched and toiled away to madness. Only Malfoy, as he sat in his office at the DMLE surrounded by the slime and refuse that was Wizarding London’s supposed lawmen. Only fucking Malfoy, as he lay awake at night, having not slept longer than minutes at a time in almost a bloody decade. His decayed heart ached as living ones do, but instead of love, all it could conjure was a sick and all-consuming obsession. An addiction. 

Harry let the panting rise and fall of Malfoy’s silent breath be a grounding metronome, tethering him to this night as tightly as Malfoy’s human soul was tethered to Harry’s malignant magic. Instead of tugging, Harry wrenched the bond, snapping it like a taut rubber band and smirking as a stream of white pumped from Malfoy’s cock to glaze his chest in proof of Harry’s authority over him. This was all that humans were, just this. A compilation of broken pieces that, on their own, were little more than fleeting impulses mimicking something worth a damn. A mosaic of rubbish like a kitchen drawer with no purpose. 

He could feel Malfoy’s orgasm in a soft melody through the bond like a nearly forgotten tune in the back of one’s mind. Just a few errant notes that strummed against the chain. Malfoy met Harry’s glare while tremors of his climax still pulsed through him, fading to a thin tremble. He spoke or perhaps simply mouthed one word up to Harry. One syllable that felt as though it tugged back through the bond on Harry’s splintered mind. 

More . 

Harry jerked the leash around Malfoy’s essence again, his fractured psyche unable to linger over long on how little he’d felt as Malfoy spilled out in front of him. Blonde slid back over his shoulders as Malfoy tipped his head back, arching again in the telltale rapturous insanity that was orgasm. Harry had hoped he would feel it, too. Hoped that he’d be able to remember what it was like to want anything other than the icy black void of nothing, but he felt only the stale air of the Manor’s attic like a million-fingered hand around his throat. A bead of saliva bubbled in the corner of Malfoy’s mouth very much like the tears that welled in his eyes. His porcelain skin was reddened and blotchy with the blood that pooled just beneath the surface as though attempting to escape this torture. His steely eyes rolled and he seemed to teeter at the threshold of collapse before they came back to focus and bored into Harry. 

Again. 

Harry spat a silent curse at Malfoy’s insistence. He had not come here to harm him, he’d come here to try and steal something he no longer possessed. He came here to consume Malfoy’s undying love like the drug it was and hope that his addled mind would mistake it for the real thing even if just for a minute. A second. Just so he could remember what it felt to place living above all else, and to fear death with every fibre of his being. It had been so ungodly long. So long since he’d given himself over to the Ministry, carrying out all manner of sick execution, all for the greater good . So long since he’d touched Malfoy and felt his heart thrum like plucked harp strings for the man. This was pointless. He’d failed again.      

Again . 

Malfoy repeated, his thin lips curled in a snarl, and his body tensed with challenge. Do it. He added, and Harry’s eyes slid from Malfoy’s discerning glare to the floor. He shook his head, eyes darting back to Malfoy who thrashed against the binds spouting all manner of colourful language silently at Harry. Coward was in there. Pathetic made several appearances as well. Harry unlaced his hand from the bind, letting it fall back amongst the din of magical energy like rain on the river. He knelt back down in front of the soiled, shaking form of Draco Malfoy, running his fingers over his lips. He snapped them again using the tidal ebb and flow of the world’s magic and the friction of his fingers to spell his voice back into his body. The ragged rasp of Malfoy’s heavy breath signalled his success. 

“Why?” Malfoy heaved. 

“Because it didn’t work,” Harry replied, letting his lips trace the line of tears running down Malfoy’s face, tasting his bitter despair. 

“You should have tried again, then,” Malfoy urged, the hope in his tone was almost a greater torture than living this half-life. Harry shook his head against Malfoy’s cheek, swallowing his mournful wail with a kiss he could feel no more than the imperceptible passage of time. New tears cascaded down the streams forged by earlier ones, and Harry wiped them away with his thumbs, holding Malfoy’s face and kissing him with whatever remained of Harry’s memory of passion. 

“Nothing?” Malfoy asked into their kiss, his desperation an acrid note on Harry’s tongue.

“Nothing at all,” Harry replied, running a hand through the air between them and cleaning Draco’s befouled body free of the come that dripped down his abdomen and matted his chest hair. 

“Keep trying,” he sighed against Harry, nuzzling his face into the crook of Harry’s neck. 

“You promised,” Harry breathed into his mane of white blonde. Draco hiccuped a soundless cry against him. 

“Not yet,” he croaked. “It’s too soon.” 

“It’s been nearly ten years, Draco,” Harry could hear the exhaustion in his soul echoed in his tone. 

“I’m not ready,” he sobbed. It was always like this. Every time in a never ending spiral that folded infinitely over itself. It had been ten years of hoping, and grieving in an endlessly repeating cycle of torment, and life had grown onerous and unwieldy to maintain. Malfoy had made the promise only days after that day at Hogwarts Castle. Days. If Harry couldn’t find a way to become whole again, Malfoy would end his suffering for good, and send him back to the lightless nothing. But despite their failure, their repeated inadequacy, it had become apparent that Malfoy would never be able to keep his side of the deal. He was a soft thing, lost among the thorns, hunting a rose that had long since burned to ash. 

“You never will be,” Harry argued, snapping his fingers behind Malfoy’s back and freeing his wrists. Harry felt Malfoy’s hands tangle in his hair and embrace him so tightly a cough huffed from his chest. He held him closely, knowing that even if his own soul had rotted away, Malfoy’s still sang in Harry’s arms. “But you promised.” 

“I can’t,” he whined in a strained whisper that squeaked with his throat’s effort to contain his wretched moan. 

“I know,” Harry sighed. “I know, Draco.” 

“Keep trying,” Malfoy begged. “For me, please, don’t give up yet.” Harry nodded, pressing his chin into Malfoy’s skull with a weighted sigh as the great pressure of living continued what little of him remained to powdery sand. 

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Everyone has one . Draco thought as he fastened the heavy clasps of his Quidditch Bracing-Charmed boots from the bottom up. Pregame rituals were, indeed, the backbone of athletics, and he had seen enough silent prayers and tokens of luck around the locker room to know he was not the only one who indulged in them. Setting oneself up mentally for the rigours of the sport was crucial, really; it was paramount, and Eighth Year Quidditch was far closer to serious athletic competition than it was the mere children’s play that had been the Quidditch Cup.

The Eighth Year class had forgone sorting and houses as they were too few in number. Likewise, Headmistress McGonnegal felt the division it bred only proved counterproductive to those still healing from the previous year’s wounds. All of that to say, the Quidditch teams, of which there were still four, were not limited to the talent pool in any one specific house, and instead were a rich assortment of unified minds and bodies. 

Draco played Chaser for the Kappas. He found his thoughts decrescendoed to a quiet and manageable hum amidst the chaos, and while Seeker had been a thrill in his younger days, he craved the action. He craved the mental calm. 

Hogwarts Castle had not changed over much after its repair, but, since the Eighth Years were no longer sorted into houses, the four teams shared one massive locker room with four distinct quadrants that the players had taken upon themselves to absolutely drench in their team’s colours. The Kappas, as one might expect, were a sort of deep teal and silver. The Dragonflies were green and black, the Sirens were blood red and white, and the Ashwinders were orange and deep grey. 

Draco pulled on the black long-sleeve jumper he wore under his robes, and adjusted his hair in the small mirror inside his equipment locker. Standing still, his fringe was wont to fall into his grey eyes, but on the pitch, the wind blew it back behind him, so it was never a problem once he was in the air. He spritzed himself with a cologne his mum had picked out. It smelled of musk and mahogany, a rather posh and in character selection from Mrs. Malfoy. A lucky one, too, he felt. Every time he wore it, good things seemed to happen to him. 

Draping his teal robes over one arm, Draco gave a careful glance around. Not a single soul was present in the lockers. He’d had some narrow misses in the past, and it pushed his routine earlier and earlier until he was in the habit of arriving three hours prior to the game. In between the Sirens’ and Ashwinders’ lockers were several wide rows of changing stalls. They were maybe two metre by two metre stalls with a heavy linen curtain that most players did not care at all to close. Draco had a certain one that he always used, all the way at the back, third row. He liked the number three. His Quidditch number being twenty-seven, his mum’s birthday being September the ninth. Three’s always seemed present in things that mattered to Draco.

He hung the heavy fabric of his robes on the worn silver hook just outside the curtain. The stall was barren save for a small bench. In the quiet of the early morning, Draco’s mind was restless. He sat back on the bench letting his head tip back against the thin wall of the stall, and breathed in and out, allowing the cacophony in his head grow rote. He thought of pleasant things. Calming things. Lovely things, even, as he split the flies of his heavy twill Quidditch trousers. His cock was already somewhat erect from the anticipation of this practice. Sighing at his own familiar touch, he enjoyed the feeling of his knowing fingers tugging gently and stroking him the way he favoured best. 

Twisting, Draco moved to have his back against the adjacent wall so he could put one heavy boot up on the bench, splaying his legs a bit wider. He closed his eyes with a tight huff, slowing his tender caresses, wanting not to rush his most sacred tradition. Their match the week prior had been cancelled, and Draco withheld this particular institution, leaving it only for the pregame so as not to dilute its effect. He’d grown hard so fast, pent up and thirsting for the blissful release that would follow, and his thighs tightened as the pressure deep in his belly grew heated and thick.

The pitch came to mind. A wide open expanse, bright with the Scottish morning, the scent of dew on the grass and the sound of his boots digging into the soft dirt was a comfort Draco’s mind conjured eagerly. His fingers ran past his thick base, brushing featherlight touches over the blonde peach fuzz over his bollocks and pinching the skin there delicately, his breath narrowing to shallow pants. He visualised the sensation of the cool pitch wind in his blonde hair, the textured leather of the Quaffle, and the way its stitches gave his hand a perfect grip. 

A small breathless moan worked between his parted lips, and Draco ran his hand over the small bead of anticipation that swelled from his flushed tip. In the palace of his mind, Draco pictured weaving amongst the action, catching the Quaffle and sending it on its path to his teammates (three Chasers per team) or otherwise drilling it down the length of the pitch to thrust it through one of the three (see? Good number) golden hoops. He could feel the ripple of the air whooshing around him, and the flutter of robes as he brushed past other players sending his hand tightening around his throbbing shaft. 

As his pulse quickened his thoughts slowed. Converging, as they often did, on one player in particular. Messy black hair, a chaotic mane in the wind, and tan skin warm, cheeks pinked as though the sun beamed from within him, and the number ‘9’ in large white print on his teal and teal robes (‘three-times-three’, Draco would repeat in his head every time he saw it as though reminding the universe the value of that number to him). The muscles in Draco’s abdomen grew taut and twitching as his thoughts came into crystal focus around Harry Potter. The way he gripped his broom, strong but not too tightly, and what it might feel like to have that strong-but-not-too-tight grip around his dripping cock. Draco hummed a gravelly purr at the notion, hips rolling into his fist as his free hand stroked the velvet skin of his balls. 

Locked away in his mental eutopia, Draco did not even notice the quiet padding of bare feet on the tile floor. He entirely missed the nearly inaudible rustle of the linen curtain on the stall adjacent to his. Too far away in a world where, after the match, Harry would kiss Draco in showers, working that same grip over both their hard pricks, as they washed away the sweat and grime of the pitch and replaced it with the fevered white wet of their shared orgasms. Lost in the feeling of Harry’s plump lips against his own, and what it might sound like to hear him gruffly huff ‘ Draco ’ into the sensitive crook of his neck. He could just imagine Harry’s strong hands on his body, tracing his scars, knowing their patterns in intimate and vivid detail. Draco felt himself sprinting, hurtling towards the precipice beyond which lay the crashing bliss of his end. 

“ Harry ,” he moaned, so quietly it was little more than a breeze over the churning tides. The muscles along his groyne strained as the burning pressure in his low belly tightened to a dense coil of pleasure wanting to break free, wanting to spill over. He stroked himself in earnest, feeling the heat of his prick as his hammering heartbeat pulsed in the thick vein along its length. The tidal crash of his orgasm crested Draco as his body shuddered, come spilling into his readied hand and pumping fat streams of white with each wracking aftershock. He moaned gently, then grit his teeth to bite back a cry that battered his lips wanting to be set free. Several small sounds and pleasured simpers worked loose, but the heavy blanket of tranquillity left Draco without a care or concern. He panted, thick breaths of satisfaction, feeling the tension of the last couple of weeks slide from his shoulders like so much dead weight. Freeing him to fly with the levity of a bird on the wind during the match. 

So dazed by his relief, Draco missed the hitching breaths and quiet whines in the stall next to his. He had not heard the small, airy ‘ Draco ’ that huffed only metres away. After all this time, he still hadn’t realised that his pregame ritual was a shared one. That his solitude was far less solitary than he’d believed. 

Draco simply did not know.

Chapter Text

Draco held the long black cane, the statement silver serpent’s head glinting at the top, polished even in its master’s absence by the Manor’s staff. It had once been a symbol of authority, a vector of fear used to intimidate or otherwise punish when necessary, but now it felt little more than a fancy stick. The wand seated within held not a trace of magic. A twig fallen from its bow. Useless. Strange, the terror this stupid cane had once been able to invoke. Mad, honestly. Draco could not remember what it felt to be afraid of Lucius Malfoy. Stricken from his mind’s record, his childhood felt another life, untouchable from here and so far from now. 

“He leave that to you?” A familiar voice came from the hall. Draco had hoped to find solitude, away from the guests and the false platitudes and the inane decorum that comes with funerals. How like Harry Potter to dash his hopes yet again. He did not turn around to reply. 

“No, I scarcely think he believed he had a son in the end,” Draco sighed. 

“Feels like the trial was ruddy yesterday,” Harry said in that idiotic way people always reflect on the passage of time in moments of deep sorrow and introspection. 

“It does not feel as such for me,” Draco intoned, slowly, unwilling to hide his current malcontent especially from one who had so many times been the source of it. “Two years that felt like two centuries watching my father whither to dust in Azkaban.” Draco felt Potter’s full body cringe even if he did not witness it. 

“Sorry for your…” he trailed off, and Draco huffed a sardonic chuckle. 

“Thought for a moment you were serious,” Draco said, finally turning to face the man, the myth, the legend, that was Harry fucking Potter. He wore a simple yet well-tailored black suit that made sense given the occasion, but ill-fit his casual almost lackadaisical personality. Potter was tall. Taller than Draco, to be fair, and it seemed the Auror business kept him fit enough as the bulk of his arms and thigh beneath the tailored lines of his suit were evident even at a glance. 

“Don’t seem sad, really,” Potter noted, and Draco rolled his eyes. 

“Come off it,” he sighed. “Been to a hundred of these. At some point, they all sort of blur together.” It was Potter’s turn to huff a humourless chuckle as he ran a tanned hand through his dark hair and scratched at his manicured beard. Draco looked at him at first, then after a few more moments of mindless ticks, he watched him. “Why are you here?” 

“Closure, I reckon,” Potter replied, but his eyes flicked up to Draco and there was not a bloody millilitre of sincerity to be found in his tourmaline gaze. 

“Tosh,” Draco countered, placing the cane against the black and silver veined marble floor of his father’s study and leaning against it to cross one ankle over the other. 

“Yeah, well, the real reason is a bit shite,” he admitted, nonchalantly, putting his nervous hands into the pockets of his black trousers. 

“When has your reasoning not been a bit shite?” Draco remarked, straightening the hem of his black Italian double breasted tailcoat and running his fingers over the silver filigree ‘M’ on the buttons on his matching waistcoat. His mum had demanded that Draco appear patriarchal. That no one would be able to look at him and fear for the future of House Malfoy, but it all just felt like a fucking charade. There was no corpse in the casket. There was no grave, just some etchings in their family mausoleum. It hardly felt real at all. Like at any moment, Lucius would stride through the doorway of this very room, lip curled with threat as he snarled ‘ boy ’ and demanded an explanation for Draco’s presence in his study. Harry breathed a thin chuckle devoid of jest, and Draco’s eyes flitted over him feeling like even he might not be real at all. 

“This place smells exactly like how I’d expect Lucius Malfoy’s private study to smell,” Harry remarked. “Like old things rich people think are important and the effort that goes into wanting to appear important.” Draco actually laughed at that. A proper laugh that made it all the way to his eyes and warmed a small puddle around his frozen soul. 

“What is it, then?” Draco asked, the ghost of a smile attempting to haunt his icy features. “The real reason. Let’s have it.” That hand in his hair again. A nervous habit, to be certain. Harry’s eyes fell away a moment, and Draco straightened before they flicked back up with a glint of something sinister flickering around their edges as though hidden in the shadows and clamouring for the light. 

“Wanna fuck?” he asked, bluntly. “Feels poetic.” 

“When have you ever cared about poetry?” Draco asked, but his voice’s tempo increased just slightly belying his increased heart rate. 

“Seen you at the last hundred of these,” Harry explained. “Doesn’t it just seem like a better use of your time?” 

“Fucking you in my dead father’s study?” Draco snapped, his fists so tight around Lucius’s cane his knuckles popped and cracked with the strain. 

“Fucking you at all. I don’t really care where or how,” Harry said, and he took one stride forward. 

“Why?” Draco asked, but even as he did the question seemed to answer itself. He’d danced around Potter his whole young life, why should it be any different now that they were adults who fucked people for good, bad, or no reason at all other than their shared presence at the myriad funerals one attends when they were inetricably involved with a war. “Nevermind, fine.” 

“Yeah?” Harry asked, advancing another step and closing the distance between them to a mere metre at best. “Do you need me to romance you a bit more? Sweep you off your feet?”

“Don’t be dense, Potter, you’re either having me on or you’re getting me off, so what is it?” Draco spat, holding the end of the cane against Potter’s chest, crinkling his black silk satin tie. Harry tiled his face down to peer at the black rod pressed into his sternum, then looked back up at Draco with an amused expression with that lingering halo of sin. He raised his dark brows, scratching at his bearded jawline. Draco looked at the cane, feeling as though what was once discord fell into a rather perfect pitch. 

“How predictable,” Draco sneered. “Harry Potter wishes someone would come along and rough him up a bit, but no one ever will? Not the Saviour , not Harry .” A devious smirk slowly curled one corner of Potter’s mouth upwards. 

“You have me pegged,” he mused, voice dropping to a gruff baritone that sent a thin shiver through Draco as he felt a heat behind his cheeks betray his appearance of aloof coolness. “And I like it when you call me ‘Harry’.” Draco tossed the cane up slightly to readjust his grip such that he could pull the long forgotten wand from the hilt, waving it to draw the door shut with a harsh slam . Its magic felt stale, but with its purpose served, Draco sheathed it once more, using the serpent’s head fangs to hook around Harry’s belt and draw him forward, closing the distance between them. Draco slid his fingers under Harry’s tie, tethering his grasp tightly around it, and wrenching him forward into a kiss more bite than peck.

Harry tasted like the heavy red Cabernet the servants had unearthed from the depths of their wine cellars and the fags he’d probably smoked just before coming inside. Draco shoved his tongue between Harry’s lips, tasting his heated breath and the gruff moan that huffed from his throat. One handed, Draco worked the leather of Harry’s belt free from its keep, parting tongue from hole, and sliding the length from his waist with one jerk of his wrist, tossing it like so much rubbish to the floor. Harry’s hands split the flies of his trousers, and Draco snatched a hand to his collar, dragging the man back towards the large mahogany desk in the northeast corner. He shoved Harry against it, and kicked the inside of each ankle to splay his legs wide. 

“Yeah, well, I had you all wrong,” Harry grunted, as Draco reached up and slammed his head into the glossy wood, then hooked his hands in Harry’s loose waistband pulling his trousers down over his slim hips. His tight arse was coated in a pelt of coarse dark hair that Draco ran a palm over before squeezing the muscle in his clenched fingers. “Always thought you’d be a fussy-” The twack of Lucius’s iconic cane against Harry’s tensed glutes was a satisfying sound, indeed, but the craggy grunt that halted Harry’s incessant yammering was bloody music.

“Bottom,” he finished, and Draco rubbed the red band that formed across his skin. Draco scowled behind Harry. 

“A bottom?” he snarled. “How very dare you?” He wound back and brought the black slick wood of the cane across Harry’s arse again, drawing forth another grunt through gritted teeth. 

“When you say things like ‘how very dare you’,” Harry did a rudimentary impression of Draco’s Wiltshire lilt that was neither practised nor flattering. “And hit me like a ruddy girl, it seems only fair.” Draco frowned, his brow furrowing with insult and this time when he reeled back he did not restrain himself, lashing Harry’s backside with his full force. The skin purpled nearly immediately, and Harry gripped the edge of the desk to bite back his scream. “Alright, that’s a bit better,” he rasped, panting ragged breaths. 

“Merlin, do you ever stop talking?” Draco snapped, sliding a hand between Harry’s legs and tightening his fist around Harry’s impressively hard, thick cock. A low rumbling purr vibrated in Draco’s throat feeling the heated skin of Harry’s length. 

“Never,” Harry replied, smirking with one cheek pressed to the desk. Draco brought two fingers to his mouth, slicking them hastingly and using the thumb of his free hand to peel Harry’s arsecheeks open, revealing his swollen pink hole. 

“I believe I may actually like you like this, Harry ” Draco said, rimming his fingers around Harry’s opening before shoving them in unceremoniously. Harry coughed a groan, clenching his jaw at the rough service. “Can’t even sodding imagine what my father would think if he saw this.” Draco moaned, feeling around inside Harry’s scorching insides, the smooth muscles there tensing and clenching around his fingers. “Fuck, you feel good.” 

“Reckon I’d feel better around your posh prick, yeah?” Harry asked through a ragged sigh and even through his layers of clothes, Draco could see the way his back strained with his rough intrusion. 

“That what Harry Potter wants?” Draco asked, working his fingers in and out of Harry in a rigorous rhythm that drew forth grunting moans with each thrust. 

“ Fuck ,” he panted. “Yes, Christ, Draco, fuck me. Fuck me, hard,” Harry groaned, and Draco felt his ready cock aching and dripping a small wet spot inside his silk wool trousers. He split the flies with his free hand (his left, so it was a bit precarious), tugging the hard length of his prick free and nudging the underside of Harry’s bollocks with his wet tip. Draco pulled his hand free, reaching to the corner of the desk and upending the crystal phial of quill ink onto his cock. Black ink spilled over him, coating him in onyx that splashed to a puddle on the marble tile beneath their feet. The mess was obscene, but somehow the destruction of a place Lucius viewed more sacrosanct than anywhere else felt just. Righteous. 

Draco coated Harry’s arsehole in the liquid black, smearing it over his balls and along the insides of his thighs before pressing the swollen head of his cock inside. Harry moaned a throaty cry that made Draco stiffen with the thrum of arousal before he slid the rest of the way inside. Harry balled one hand to a fist, slamming it against the desk. 

“God, fuck , Draco,” he growled. “Your cock feels amazing.” Draco held Harry’s slim hips in his hands, spreading streaks of black over his tanned skin. He fucked into Harry, digging his fingers into his skin feeling the strange wet of the ink slicking rough thrusts. Harry pressed his forehead against the desk, his hands gripping the edge, arching his back to take Draco to his base. “You’re going to make me come like this,” he huffed. Draco panted, a smirk ticking up the corner of his mouth. 

“ Mm ,” Draco purred. “Glaze my father’s desk in your hot come, how,” he paused, feeling Harry’s body quiver around his cock. “Poetic.” Harry cried out at that, and Draco shoved his ink-stained hand around the man’s thigh to grip his cock, stroking it impolitely as each thrust into his arse grew rough and urgent. Draco felt the wracking spasm of his orgasm hit him only a split second before he felt the warm wet of Harry’s release spill into his hand. He pumped several more time, emptying himself in his entirety and indulging in the sticky glaze coating his hand. When the last whispers of his climax faded to silence, Draco pulled free of Harry watching him jerk with the sudden vacancy and smirking once more as his white release dripped down the inside of his thighs, mixing with the still wet quill ink to form a grey mess on Harry’s ravaged body. Panting, and spent, Draco stepped back several paces to lean against the arm of his father’s deep green velvet sofa, tucking his ink-slathered cock back into his trousers. 

Harry straightened, filthy with a brilliant purple welt across his arse, and pulled his own trousers up as though he were simply getting dressed in the morning. Neither of them fucking cared, as was made entirely evident. This was just another moment among the endless mourning and loss that had followed the war. It hardly mattered at all. Lucius was dead. His office was just a room, and his things were little more than rubbish for the bin. Harry brushed his long fringe from his flushed face, straightening his tie. 

“See you at the next one, yeah?” he sighed. 

“Yeah,” Draco panted, draping the back of one arm over his forehead as the cold dread of returning to the guests and the rot and tosh downstairs began to creep in. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

“My apologies,” Draco stated, his voice tighter than his arse which was really saying something. “ What is the briefing again?” Harry sat back in the uncomfortable armchairs Shacklebolt kept in his office to dissuade visitors from lingering too long, knowing this would not be brief. 

“You heard me, Malfoy,” he replied. “We have one shot at this and between the two of you ‘uptight middle-aged pureblood Wizard who prefers the company of younger men’ seemed almost archetypal.”

“I will quell my deep insult at that to politely argue that this mission seems certifiably batshite mad,” Draco spoke each word in the harsh staccato Harry knew meant he was positively fuming. Shacklebolt sighed, and Harry rolled his eyes, almost certain that the next time he had to come in here the chairs would be lined with nails. 

“What about ‘we have one shot’ did you not get, Malfoy? This is it. We need to nail down Sangiovese’s mansion and this event happens once ,” he held up one dark finger for emphasis. “A year. You’re lucky it’s just a bloody Ageing Potion.” Draco tossed his arms out evidently not feeling very lucky at all. Harry, on the other hand, couldn't care less. He’d done far worse for far lower profile cases and posing as some silver pervert’s ruddy arm candy for a night seemed hardly difficult. Even if that pervert was his partner, Draco Malfoy. “Plus, you’re just a distraction to get our team in and out to set the perimeter. I’m basically giving you the night off!” Harry winced, preemptively, a split second before Draco slammed a fist on the man’s desk.

“You are going to give me a bloody aneurysm, that’s what you’re doing!” he snarled. 

“Great! Either way I’m giving you something, so you’re welcome, now get the hell out of my office!” A small chuckle escaped Harry’s lips that immediately drew Draco’s razor sharp glare. They made their way into the corridor, down the labyrinthine halls of the DMLE’s Auror offices, to their shared solitude far in the back where Shacklebolt couldn’t hear their seemingly endless arguing. Draco slammed the phial of Ageing Potion, a sort of yellowy swirling goo, onto his desk with a huff when they entered, evidently still upset about their mission assignments. 

“Suppose I’ll see you this evening,” Harry said, attempting to navigate the magical minefield that was an irritated Malfoy. 

“Oh, I’m certain you are loving this,” Draco growled as Harry grabbed his robes and scarf from their shared coat rack. 

“I assure you, I am not,” Harry sighed. “Let’s just get it over with, alright? Next case, you can take the blue pill and I’ll be the bitchy old git.” Harry opened his palm to reveal the De-Aging Pill he’d been given. It was not enough just to age up Draco, the briefing called for Harry’s age to be decreased as well. 

That evening, Agent Ninety-nine, the DMLE equipment manager whose name Harry did not, nor would he ever, know, dropped off a garment bag that rattled ominously with a note that read ‘ don’t argue’ in her telltale swooping script. Harry unzipped the bag, pulling free a rather luxe black tailcoat, waistcoat, and trousers, but the bag seemed to be missing a dress shirt to complete the ensemble. It was unlike Ninety-nine to forget something, and Harry felt his stomach clench as he reached into the bottom of the bag. 

Along with a pair of shiny black oxfords, Harry pulled a strappy leather harness with at least three dozen rivets along its bands and big silver o-rings from the bag. He sighed, heavily, reminding himself it was just one stupid case and one stupid night and if he did everything right he’d probably get a bonus week off. Ninety-nine had also included, Harry learned, a thick black collar that matched the harness and an honest to fucking Merlin silver linked leash. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry groaned, donning the absurd attire, and spritzing himself with the cologne that allowed ninety-nine’s Ops team to track Harry’s pulse. His rendezvous was set for just under twenty minutes from now at an undisclosed remote location Ninety-nine’s team will have spelled and warded to the teeth. Mercifully, the Portkey was also in the bag, a small snow globe that read ‘Tucson, Arizona’ and had a sort of comical cactus inside of it which seemed probably the least logical thing to put inside a snow globe. 

As the clock struck eighteen hundred, Harry felt the Portkey draw him through space, lurching him to the dusty floors of what appeared (and smelled) to be an abandoned warehouse down by the East London dockyards. He stood, dusting off his suit only to be assailed by Ninety-nine and her team of tailors and cosmetologists. Letting out a cough as his nose filled with dust and the scent of the Thames, Harry cringed, crinkling his nose. 

“Where is this, Ninety-nine? Canary ruddy Wharf?” 

“Canning Town, actually,” she corrected, her high heels clacking against the concrete. Ninety-nine had no time for absolutely anyone’s shite, but she seemed extra impatient where Harry was concerned. Her dark almond eyes were always narrowed, and her thick lips perpetually pursed in his presence. 

“What on earth is going on with his hair, Sixteen?” Ninety-nine snapped as a sharp crack signalled Draco’s appearance. He stepped through the ether as though striding through an open door, brushing off the hem of his classic black tuxedo which he’d been lucky enough to pair with a pintucked white dress shirt and black satin bow tie. Harry held his arms out to the side letting Ninety-nine’s staff take in seams here and clip loose threads there. She even had someone charming out links of the ruddy leash to make it the proper length for Merlin’s sake. 

“When is our go-time set?” Draco asked, all business, adjusting his sleeve cuff so it sat exactly five millimetres below the hem of his jacket sleeve (Harry knew all about Draco’s five millimetre rule. It worked for sleeves and for the proper height above one’s ankle bone the hem of one’s trousers should sit.) Harry rolled his eyes, groaning inwardly at how utterly Draco this mission would certainly be. 

“Supposed to be half eighteen,” she snapped, and Harry felt the targeted irritation in her tone. “You look dashing,” she added. 

“Well, I have an excellent stylist,” Draco mused, and Harry rolled his eyes again at how utterly unbearable they were sometimes. “Now?” Draco asked, sliding back into his all-business tone. 

“Go ahead,” Ninety-nine replied. “You have four hours of time, the covert team should be wrapped in one, plenty of time for a clean exit.” Harry watched the blonde slide back over the crown of Draco’s head as he drank the yellow goo Ageing Potion. Her staff finished up coiffing Harry’s hair and clearing away his stubble a moment later. 

“You too, Potter,” Ninety-nine snapped. Harry did as she said, tossing back the blue pill and dry swallowing it down. Draco turned, having apparently not even noticed Harry was there, and Harry only just caught the mocking laugh before his vision blurred and his blood felt as though it was boiling in his veins. The effects were immediate. Harry felt his heart thundering in his chest, Ninety-nine’s Ops team reporting his elevated pulse behind him though their voices were garbled as though under water. 

“One seventy-six. One fifty-one. One twenty-nine. We’re green.” Harry caught his panting breath, feeling as though he’d been momentarily liquified and frozen back together all wrong. Going from thirty-five to nineteen was not a pleasant feeling. His heart beat too quickly, rattling his ribs, and he felt a wave of strange emotion crest over him, tightening his chest. Where he once had a rather thick thatch of chest hair, Harry felt smooth skin beneath the blasted leather harness. Not to mention he felt he weighed a good several stone less than he had a moment ago. Skinny, almost. Waifish. 

“The car is out front, we need to move,” Ninety-nine said, and Harry felt his shaking legs attempt to carry him forward while his mind felt as though it was crawling through sludge to catch up. Ninety-nine’s men slammed Harry into the back of a limousine discourteously, ripping his glasses off, and replacing them with a different pair before they slammed the door. Harry rubbed his eyes, gritting his teeth at the whirlwind of sensory input. 

“Put yourself together Potter, we’re almost there,” Draco snapped, his hand on Harry’s shoulder was anything but comforting. Harry let his eyes focus behind his new glasses that had thick white frames and felt odd on his face. He let out a blustery exhale, and looked up at Draco who was once again adjusting his sleeve cuffs. 

—Oh.

Harry’s heart tumbled as though tripping a step before recovering its steady beat. Whereas Harry had been made slender, Draco’s shoulders had broadened, his chest wider and his face fuller. A manicured dark blonde and silver goatee outlined his thin sharp lips, and his silvery-white hair was tied back in a low ponytail at the base of his neck. He looked… good . Steel eyes peered down at Harry, and he watched them bounce like a coin on the ground away and then back to him, a gleaming smirk silvering his stare even before his features curled to match it. Somehow the crow’s feet around his eyes and stubble on his jaw only managed to make Harry feel even more uncomfortably warm. He felt his body was on fucking fire, like there was too much hot blood in his adolescent veins. 

 “You actually make quite a great little twink, Potter,” Draco sneered, sending a thrum of anticipation through Harry’s body at the pejorative use of his surname. He pulled his pocket watch free of his waistcoat, the face flashed faintly red. It would glow green when they were cleared for extraction. 

“M-my-” Harry went to say, but his voice actually ruddy cracked . He cleared his throat trying to ignore the abject delight in Draco’s stupid gorgeous eyes. “My codename is ‘Bentley’,” Harry corrected. 

“I’m aware,” Draco intoned, arrogantly, evidently already in character. “Mine is ‘Roman Kiselyov’, but I believe you are to call me ‘sir’.” Harry groaned. 

“Now who is loving this?” he said as the limousine slowed to a stop. Draco raised his salt-and-pepper brows, and Harry groaned again. “Sir,” he added, and Draco smiled, haughtily. The door opened and Draco held out an elegant palm. Harry instinctively placed his hand in it thinking Draco was offering it to help him from the car, but Draco only scoffed and Harry realised he was gesturing for the fucking leash . He rolled his eyes and placed the leather loop of its end in Draco’s hand, sliding from the car behind him. 

Harry was beginning to acclimate to his nineteen year old body. He still, however, had not quite adjusted to what a fifty-two year old Draco looked like. It was almost a shame really that he couldn’t stay this way. Or that Harry would seemingly need to wait another seventeen years to see him like this again. They stood in front of the target location: a mansion that looked pretty much no different from any other old British mansion owned by a black market cartel kingpin. A bit castle-y, a bit ostentatious, and entirely trying too hard in Harry’s opinion. They were escorted by two large guards to an unreasonably attractive witch asking for their names and invitations which Draco manifested from his coat pocket. 

“Kiselyov,” Draco said in a perfect Russian accent that made Harry quiver slightly. “Party of two.” 

“Thank you for joining us Mr. Kiselyov,” the witch stated, gesturing inside. If you’ve seen one grand ballroom you’ve seen them all, and Harry set to hunting for the target. Their only mission here was one of distraction, a task any rookie agent should be more than qualified for, and yet, the DMLE decided to send their top agents. Whatever. The sooner Harry completed this mission, the sooner he could go the fuck home and perhaps stop thinking about how good Draco’s arse looked in his trousers. 

“Mark. Seven o’clock, red bow tie, white stripe in his hair,” Draco murmured sotto voce , as he nonchalantly smiled at other party members all of whom had their own young toys tethered on silver leashes. Harry reached across his chest to dust his left shoulder with his right hand, allowing him to turn in the direction Draco had provided and take note of the man in question. 

“That’s Santa Clara or whatever the hell his name is?” Harry asked, keeping his voice little more than a breath amongst the din of candid conversation and the thirty-piece orchestra playing loudly in the background. 

“ Sangiovese , you cretin,” Draco snapped, and Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s a type of wine.” 

“You’d know, sir,” Harry mumbled, sardonically. He was too busy tugging on the tight collar around his throat to notice the subtle pink bloom on Draco’s cheeks. 

“Just because you look like a nubile little prat doesn’t mean you need to bloody think like one,” Draco lectured. Harry was used to it. Every mission they went on went exactly the same way. Draco was over prepared and under fire he overthought and got in his own way. Harry preferred to go into missions cold and let the situation unravel itself. “In any case, we only need to hold his fancy for an hour, and we can get the bloody hell out of here.” Draco tugged the leash and it made a shink sound as Harry was lurched forward. He frowned to himself, trudging one step behind Draco, feeling a certain way about being tossed around by a silvered Malfoy, and being very much ill-accustomed to such emotions. He shook his head slightly, and followed along. 

“ Sangiovese ,” Draco said in that amicable tone one employs when greeting an old friend. He reached out one arm, wrapping it tightly around the man’s shoulder while holding out the other to balance Harry’s leash. “What a pleasure. Kiselyov,” he prompted. “Roman, we met at the-”

“Ah, yes! Marrakesh, correct?” Sangiovese had a notable Mediterranean accent. Behind him were two boys younger than Harry’s de-aged self who wore far less than even he, holding platters with bubbling champagne flutes. Draco laughed a nebulous confirmation as the broad older man clapped him on the back. “How time flies, yes?”

“Indeed, old friend,” Draco agreed, effortlessly in his element here. Harry shifted uncomfortably, wanting very much for Ninety-nine’s covert team to hurry the fuck up. 

“And what a lovely young accessory you’ve acquired,” Sangiovese cooed in a tone that made Harry have to stifle a scowl of disgust. He brought a fat-fingered hand to Harry’s chin, grabbing his cheeks between his fingers and thumb and turning Harry’s head this way and that as though examining a bloody show dog. “Care if I have a small taste?” the man asked as he leaned in towards Harry’s face. A split second before the man’s wet lips were on him, Draco mercifully wrenched him away with two deft fingers in the back of his collar. 

“I have to apologise, but I am so very possessive,” Draco murmured, very smoothly, as Harry felt a heat form between his thighs at the gravelly baritone of Draco’s aged voice. “A character flaw, but, really, are any of us perfect?” Sangiovese laughed raucously, clapping his chubby hands together with glee. 

“Ah, then I shall enjoy vicariously,” he smirked, gesturing both hands at Harry and Draco. In Draco’s iron eyes was an entire monologue. Just do it, and we’ll never mention it again. It’s for the mission, and we cannot fuck this up. We only have one shot. In half a breath, Draco coiled his fist in the silver chain of the leash pulling Harry in towards him, roughly, and leaning down to crash his lips against Harry’s. God he tasted good. 

The featherlight lines around his mouth were a brilliant texture against Harry’s clean shaven lip and he smelled of musk and cigar tobacco. Draco slid his practised tongue between Harry’s lips, parted in overwhelm at what this version of Draco did to him, and laved over his mouth with a hunger and vigour Harry had not at all expected and for which he was ill-prepared at best. Suddenly, his logic of going into his missions cold seemed entirely flawed as he did not know what to do with his hands that wanted to reach out and pull Draco’s austere ponytail free letting his silver locks cascade over his broad shoulders. Draco broke off their kiss leaving Harry dazed, his cock throbbing in his trousers. This mission had certainly taken an unexpected turn. 

“ Bravo. Bravissimo ,” Sangiovese clapped. Come, come, sit just here, we shall reminisce about what it was to be young and hot between the thighs, yes?” Harry felt the rush of blood to his face and knew he was likely redder than Sangiovese’s bloody bow tie at that moment. Draco eyed him with an odd expression as they followed Sangiovese to his private table. Something between inquiry and interest that Harry could not possibly spare a second thought for while he could barely remain standing; he was so fucking hard. Christ, he felt like he was in the ruddy Quidditch locker rooms again, trying to conceal a stiffy in the showers with an absurd amount of lathered soap. 

They were seated at Sangiovese’s table, and Draco thankfully sat between Harry and the vile old man. They made small talk and it was evident just how much Draco’s meticulous studying of the mission brief had come in handy for this part. He was readily able to recall facts and details about Roman Kiselyov with such casual ease that it was entirely believable that he’d genuinely lived them. A ski trip to the Alps. An underground nightclub in Prague. Draco even added his own flourish so as to trip up Sangiovese at times and keep him on his toes. 

“Do you remember the waitress?” Draco asked with a gruff chuckle that had Harry tugging at the leather around his neck, feeling stifling even with no ruddy shirt under his suit coat. “I thought for certain you were going to take her home with you.” 

“Ah! Your memory is as sharp as your wit, Kiselyov. Time has certainly been kinder to you than it has to me, my friend.” Harry jumped at the sudden sensation beneath the table. Draco’s grey eyes slid to the corners, peering back at him, then shifted to focus once more on Sangiovese . Harry realised it was Draco’s hand slowly working up the inside of his thigh to his rock hard cock. Harry had to put his training to the test, keeping his expression neutral and his breath even as Draco’s palm found the bulge of his errant erection, fingers tracing along its length. Reaching forward, Harry nearly sent his wine glass across the table, fumbling it slightly before bringing it to his lips. 

“ Fuck ,” Harry breathed, covering his exclamation with a cough and nearly choking on the wine in the process. Draco’s fingertips ran small circles over the swollen head of Harry’s prick sending electric currents of arousal ripping through Harry’s body like so much lightning. Any level of adult endurance he’d cultivated in his life was non-existent in this fucking body, and he knew that at any moment he’d spilling into his pants like it was his first time. Harry huffed, trying to find a foothold of calm and cling to it, but he felt only surrounded by airy nothing. He swallowed thickly as though he had far too much saliva in his mouth and with each jerk and spasm had to adjust his hands or posture to make the movement appear intentional. All the while, Draco smiled a cool smirk and conversed as though he did not have Harry on the razor’s fucking edge.

“Could you excuse me, just a moment?” Draco asked Sangiovese . “I am a man of such limited restraint as I’m sure you recall.” In one swift motion, he turned to catch Harry’s open mouth just as the cry of his orgasm erupted from his throat, concealing it in a heated kiss between lovers. Harry felt the wet at the front of his trousers, and hoped the black fabric would conceal his, frankly pathetic, teenage libido. Draco broke away as soon as Harry’s sharp cries faded to mewling simpers, his body humming with the post-climax buzz. 

“Oh, to be young and beautiful again, eh, Kiselyov?” Sangiovese remarked. Draco gave Harry a sharp look before turning back with a cordial grin. He pulled his pocket watch from his pocket, pretending to struggle to read it by holding it out in front of him for Harry to see. The face was flashing green. Mission accomplished. 

“Ah, if only,” Draco mused. “But alas, the hour is late, my dear friend, I must away for the evening and enjoy my young treat while I have him.” 

“I hope it is not so long until I see you again,” Sangiovese said, clapping Draco on the back.

“Oh, I will make certain we see each other again very soon,” Draco replied through a tight smile. “Come along, Bentley,” he called. Draco tugged harshly on Harry’s leash, jerking him hard enough for Harry to remember his codename and stumble to follow behind Draco, the wet spot on the front of his trousers chilled by the evening air. It took Harry until Draco was slamming shut the door to one of the upstairs guest rooms to realise they were not heading to the extraction point yet at all. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked before rubbing his eyes as though trying to press some semblance of composure back into his brain. 

“I am going to fuck your hot young body before I absolutely lose my bloody mind,” Draco explained, through gritted teeth. “And then we are never going to speak of this mission ever again, do you hear me, Potter?” Harry whined the yes into Draco’s rough kiss, feeling the man’s hands splitting his flies and peeling away his come-stained pants to his thighs. “I could basically smell your bloody hormones all evening,” Draco growled, ripping small sounds from Harry’s throat at his gravelly tone. He split his own flies, pulling free his half-hard cock that lay beneath a thatch of silver hair Harry wanted to nuzzle his face into. 

“Fuck, you are so hot like this,” Harry half-gasped, half-whined. “It’s such a shame I’ll have to wait eighteen fucking years to see this again.” Draco stroked himself a few times, and Harry watched in stunned awe before swallowing past the lump of want in his throat. “Wait, let me,” he croaked, sliding to his knees, weakly and crawling towards Draco. He drew the long, partially soft cock into his mouth, moaning as he laved his tongue over the plump tip. Draco protested somewhat, tugging gently at Harry’s hair, but Harry swatted him away. 

“I can do it,” Draco argued, and Harry huffed around his cock, tasting every sweet inch of his slowly hardening prick. 

“Let me get you hard,” Harry breathed. “I want to.” Draco moaned a low rumble Harry felt resonate in the back of his throat and thrum through his body in a shiver down his spine. He slid his hands up under Draco’s dress shirt and waistcoat feeling the fuzz of his grey body hair like a soft pelt beneath his smooth palms. Draco brought his hands to Harry’s lips where they wrapped around his length, feeling the soft vibrato of Harry’s quiet hums of pleasure against his fingertips. It did not take over long for Draco’s cock to feel hard and fat in Harry’s throat, or for the warm wet of his dripping tip to fill Harry’s mouth with a sweet bitterness. 

“Get up,” Draco grunted, and Harry let his hard dick pop free of his swollen pink lips as he fumbled with his trousers around his thighs to stand back up. As he did, Draco brought a hand across Harry’s chest to his shoulder, turning him away from to face the wall then pressing him up against it, impolitely, with a manicured hand snaking between his legs. “Merlin, you feel impossibly soft like this,” Draco rumbled, his craggy tone slid through Harry’s body like ice cold water, sending ripples of quaking tremors down through his thighs. His cool hand against Harry’s oversensitive prick felt white hot and Harry had to bite back a keening cry as he let his head fall against the wall, arching into Draco’s touch. “I should have fucked you like this when we were young and foolish. I should have fucked you then and never stopped.” Harry’s eyes went wide as Draco spoke, and he genuinely could not tell if the man was being serious or if he was simply lost behind this facade. 

Draco tapped the inside of each of Harry’s thighs urging him to widen his stance, easier said than done with his trousers at his knees. Draco’s rough fingertips traced hypnotic circles over the velvet skin of Harry’s bollocks, drawing forth all manner of small sound and simper. Harry’s forehead banged against the wall as he suddenly felt Draco’s tongue sliding, hot and wet, over the underside of his balls, tasting the heat of boyhood radiating between his thighs. 

“Merlin, how youth is wasted on the young,” Draco groaned against Harry, the resonance of his tone prickling Harry’s sensitive skin like a dull static. 

“Next time, you take the blue pill then,” Harry panted. “See how much you love getting hard hearing my gruff silver fox voice, or even just the feeling of your pants against your dick.” Draco breathed a chuckle against Harry that had his knees trembling beneath the man. 

“Like I would willingly pass up the opportunity to fuck you like this again? I knew you were mad, Potter, but I didn’t know you were also an imbecile.” Harry heard Draco shifting behind him, and then came two wet fingers against his arse, pressing into him, unceremoniously, and punching a sharp grunt from his lungs. “Merlin, you feel like bloody silk, Harry,” Draco breathed into the space behind Harry’s ear, forcing him to clench his jaw and whine through gritted teeth. “Sultry, supple, silk,” he elongated against each ‘s’ like Parseltongue to send a stream of breath into the ludicrously sensitive skin of Harry’s jugular. Harry pressed against the wall, fucking into Draco’s fist, and keening for more. He got what he wanted a moment later when the dribbling heated tip of Draco’s hard cock pressed against his slicked entrance.

“ Merlin , Harry, you are so tight it is bloody maddening ,” Draco seethed. “I feel like I am fucking your very soul.” Jesus , Harry thought, just before Draco pressed his lips against the back of Harry’s neck, growling into his spine with each earnest thrust. He did not want to even think about what Ninety-nine’s Ops men thought was happening to Harry. His pulse fluttered to fever pitch as his blood surged through his veins, and he whined when he felt the spill of Draco’s orgasm within him, wishing it could last longer than just this one night. When Draco slid free of him, his white release trickled in a warm trail down Harry’s thigh, and he heard Draco almost purr behind him. 

“I do love my job,” he declared, the satisfied smirk curling up the edges of his tone. “I really do.” 

“See you on Monday, yeah?” Harry panted, letting his head fall heavily against the wall. 

“Or this weekend,” Draco mused, breathlessly. Harry’s cheeks flushed at the suggestion. 

“Or now.”

Chapter Text

“ Easy. ” The curl of slick fingers mingles with soft consonants and long vowels to draw a low trembling moan from Draco’s throat. His body shudders at the sudden pressure, and a warm milky tear beads from the firm head of his cock. It slides along the slit to fall to his belly, tethered until the last moment by a thread of white. 

Draco’s hands claw the sheets as though hungry for the reassurance that he is still real. Still assembled though his body seems spread thinner than the twinkling stars dotting the midnight blue sky just outside the window. His toes curl, knuckles popping with the strain of his body wanting to draw him in tightly, to collect him in the centre like sand through the hourglass’s throat only to be loosed into the wide globe below. Taut, and then adrift. Spooled, and then unravelled. 

A sharp note dances along Draco’s vocal chords to leap from him when the pressure increases. Several new beads form, following the path of the first to his abdomen and coating the snowy soft hairs there in a glassy glaze. His body responds to this service absent of his mind which stirs in rapture in amongst the simmering soft regret of having waited so long, dragging him beneath the bittersweet swells of at long last and finally . 

“ I know. ” The gravelly pur runs like a hum of static over his skin, coursing along the white scars that band his torso like veins in the marble. Silt among the quartz. A strong hand presses against the back of one thigh, rough skin catching on the thin fuzz of hair there, opening him, rearranging him to conform around the fingers attempting to massage his living soul. His cock weeps, a thick wet string that paints his abdomen in milk, and when he cries out the sound feels as though it was wrenched from deep within him, as though all of Draco has converged just beneath the fingertips inside him. “That’s it.” The praise strokes him absent of touch. 

His arms block out the world, draping over his face as his body becomes singularly focused on the otherworldly disentanglement, and the sensation of his climax being coaxed from somewhere unfathomably far away. Draco does not inhale, feeling there is no room in his body for his lungs to expand. Feeling he is so full of yes and more that even his breath is no longer welcome. His body overrides this with a pointed gasp as the fingers work along his insides, pressing and releasing, stroking, thrusting. Draco is undone by those two fingers. He is spent and empty, panting though his cock is still aching and hard below his navel. The fingers slide free, and a moment or perhaps a million million years later, rough palms wrap around his wrists to draw his arms from his flushed face. 

The near darkness feels almost blinding, but he does not need to see to feel the heated breath against his lips just before a tender kiss is pressed to them. Eyes adjusting and lidded with euphoria, he tangles his fingers in wild dark hair.

“Good?” Draco laughs into the kiss, but it is little more than breath and bliss.

“Incredible.”

Chapter Text

“I’m going to fucking end you, Zabini,” Draco groaned into his palms. “I mean it this time. I’m going to part your beautiful face from your bloody skull.” Zabini laughed his arrogant lark as though challenging Draco to even try while half the Eighth Year dormitory cackled on the bloody floor like they’d downed a litre of Gigglewater in one go.  

“Honestly, I’m impressed with myself,” Zabini remarked. “Who could have predicted it would work so well ?” He snatched out a hand so fast Draco did not have a chance to dodge it, squeezing Draco’s cheeks between his thumb and fingers so as to better examine his blighted handiwork. “You are a pretty girl, Draco, though I don’t think any among us can claim to be shocked.” 

Eighth Year at Hogwarts was a rather unique experience. The class was small, no houses, no sorting, just the classes they hadn’t gotten to take in their Seventh Year, and one shared dormitory that generally played host to the worst of their indulgence and hedonism on any given day. Uncommon were the evenings where at least one of them had not popped the stop on a bottle or five of Fire Whiskey, each shot pushing the boundaries of their heated games of Truth or Dare and Never Have I Ever deeper into the realm of true depravity.

Backing down from a dare was almost always far worse than just plucking up the resilience to suffer through it. Almost always. But in the aftermath of Zabini’s utterly flawless sex-altering Charm, Draco felt he probably should have just eaten the bloody crow and been done with it. He tugged at the hem of his shirt that fit all sodding wrong now that it had to curve around a notably full bosom, but that seemed far less concerning than the vacant space between his thighs in his trousers. 

“Merlin, you’re honestly stunning,” Zabini stated, tilting up Draco’s narrow chin and tracing a hand over his absent Adam’s Apple. “Though, again, I can hardly feign shock. You’ve always been a beautiful thing.” Draco rolled his eyes, shifting uncomfortably beneath Zabini’s scrutiny while the rest of the drunk cretins in their dormitory’s common space continued their debauched background chatter. “Well, let no one say Draco Malfoy backed down from a challenge,” he concluded, patting Draco on the shoulder and turning back to the rest of the room. “Who’s next?” 

Draco knew it was his turn to choose some poor chap to stand at the receiving end of his burning irritation, but he could barely focus. His body felt so… soft . He was seated in a nondescript armchair, knees wide, but he felt the growing desire to cross them as the new shape of his pelvis seemed ill-designed for his current position. Giving in, Draco slid one knee over the other, then attempted to cross his arms indignantly as well. The only purpose that had served him was pressing his tits together, so backtracking, he placed his arms back on the armrests in an obvious display of discomfort only to catch the subtle snicker of Harry fucking Potter as he did. Eyes darting to the git, Draco raised one dark blonde brow. 

“Potter,” he spat out the ‘P’ as though it were poison. Potter’s snicker curled into a smirk coated in challenge that made Draco want to bloody his face and watch him cry about it. 

“Predictable,” Pansy mused, dramatically examining her manicured nails. 

“Archetypal, even,” Theordore Nott agreed. They were sat shoulder to shoulder in the nook below one large window. Theo in a white dress shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, his long golden locks tousled over his shoulder, and Pansy in a fitted black sweater that cut low on her chest showing off the slope of her collarbone, black bob with not a single hair out of place. They’d had to snog a minute prior which was daft as both were bent as bloody rainbows. Draco could scarcely recall a worse display of such lack of chemistry. Perhaps not since Potter and the Weasley girl. Lacklustre at best. “Almost a trope, really.” Draco scoffed, irritated by the lot. 

“Get on with it, then,” Potter cajoled, reclining in a wooden chair seated around a similar table with Granger, boy Weasley, Longbottom, and several other once Gryffindors. He had a careless cool to him that plucked at Draco’s nerves with all the inelegance of an amateur cellist as though he just knew he was so much bloody better than everyone. He wore tatty old Muggle jeans that exposed the curled hairs over his knees and parts of his thigh that peaked through the myriad holes, and a black t-shirt that hugged his slender frame and left his fit arms distractingly bare. 

“Truth or dare, then ,” Draco spat back, but it came out petulant and pratty instead of annoyed . 

“Truth,” Harry chuckled, more to Weasley than Draco. “I know better than to challenge a pissed off Malfoy.” His table of nitwits laughed like he’d delivered the most hilarious joke ever told. Bloody sheep. 

“Again, predictable,” Pansy sighed, evidently bored and intent to make that everyone else’s problem. 

“Honestly, do you ever tire of being so cliche?” Theo asked. Draco rolled his eyes, turning his focus back on Potter. It was clear from the flush across his cheeks and the way his glinting green eyes were lidded to lazy slits that he’d had enjoyed a fair amount to drink. “Just ask him if he’d fuck girl you, and let’s get on with our lives.” 

“The trials of being a side character is the endless saga of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter,” Pansy waxed poetically, before clinking her glass against Theo’s and knocking back another shot of Fire Whiskey with a wince. 

“Oh, definitely,” Potter mused. “I’d reckon nearly everyone in the room would just love a go.” Draco resented the heat that rose in his cheeks absent of his will. 

“Truly, I’ve thought of little else in the last ten minutes,” Pansy agreed. 

“I liked him better the way he was,” Theo whined like a bloody child. 

“Oh, Teddy baby, of course you do,” Pansy replied, pejoratively, as the last vestiges of Draco’s sanity whimpered their final breaths. “Anyway, darling, you might as well get something out of this. I imagine Zabini is unlikely to Finite away his hard work, so you’ll be like that until it wears off, I presume,” Pansy explained to Draco. 

“Just seems…not quite right somehow?” Zabini offered, coming to lean against the frame of the window next to Pansy. “As though it could be somehow improved, perhaps.” 

“Is it my birthday?” Pansy asked, only a split second before Zabini’s wand traced the complex swirling hand motion. Potter reeled as Draco had, the spell was nasty business on the onset, truly. 

“Oi!” Ron called, falling backwards out of his chair in an attempt to dodge any errants flickers of the spell’s magic as it shot past him. Granger rolled her eyes, nose in a book the size of most coffee tables, as usual. From the window, Pansy clapped her hands together in delighted glee. 

“Oh, Blaise, I love it, thank you,” she cooed as though receiving a gift. 

“Merlin, it’s even bloody worse now,” Theo scoffed. “I’m going to bed, if someone with a cock wants in on that, you likely already know where to find me.” 

“Yes, I have to agree, Pans, this is entirely better,” Zabini chuckled, triumphantly. “Ok, now snog, but make it good,” he added, as though Draco and Potter were trained bloody circus seals. Against, all conceivable logic, Potter shrugged, stood, and said,

“Alright, then.”

“ What? ” Draco spat. “What do you mean ‘alright, then’?” 

“I’m drunk, Zabini spelled away my cock, and you’re probably the hottest girl in this ruddy castle. It’s not like I needed much convincing on this,” Harry explained as he strode towards Draco, crossing the space between them in only a few lithe steps. Draco sort of constricted, his knees crossing tighter and his fingers on the armrests gripping for dear life. It wasn’t as though Potter didn’t make for a great woman, he really and truly did. Thick lips and tan skin, his hair a mane of coarse curls, and the way his hips sort of swayed back and forth when he walked was something out of fantasy, but it was Harry Potter. An awful realisation crested Draco as he squeezed his knees together —he was rather wet. He could feel the sort of pre-emptive slicking between his thighs as his body responded to the woman in front of him absent of logic and devoid of reason, entirely. 

Potter brought his hands to Draco’s locked knees, prying them apart with far less coaxing than Draco would care to admit had been needed before placing one hand on each of Draco’s shoulders. He set one knee between Draco’s legs sending a sweet sound vibrating along his thin, delicate vocal chords as he worked it against Draco’s wet centre. Nearly cleaving through his own tongue, Draco bit back a whine at the immediate pleasure the pressure and contact sent rippling through him like rain on the water’s surface. 

He did not recall the impulse to reach up and touch Potter’s small, round breasts, but that is exactly what Draco did just then. Potter’s t-shirt was thin and with no bra beneath it, Draco was able to grab firm fistfulls of him, readily. With a soft sigh, Potter leaned into the touch then forward to press his soft, plump lips against Draco’s. Was it a girl thing or a Potter thing that he tasted so sweet? That his tongue was like velvet and the way it slid so effortlessly over Draco’s was as satisfying as fresh ink over clear parchment? Draco urgently shifted, slinking his hands under Potter’s shirt to feel the warm softness directly against his skin. Was it a girl thing or a Potter thing that Draco was positively soaking through his pants as he ran his smooth fingertips over Potter’s hard nipples, feeling every tense of Potter’s muscles at the sensation and tasting every small simper? 

“ Merlin , I could fucking die like this,” Pansy expressed, her voice little more than a thick sigh somewhere very far away. Potter’s knee ground against what felt like a billion billion bloody nerves all sparking with heated pleasure, and Draco’s thighs tensed, his knees squeezing in around Harry’s in an effort to drive him nearer to the place that felt otherworldly to touch. The place that was so astoundingly erotic, that felt better than anything he’d ever experienced, the place that seemed endlessly demanding. 

“ Touch me ,” Draco breathed into their kiss. “I need it.” Potter moaned in response, and Draco felt it hum through his entire body. “I’m so wet right now,” he admitted in a whine as drenched in want as Draco’s thighs, sending Potter’s hand urgently to task splitting his flies so he could shove it down the front of Draco’s trousers. He nearly cried out as Potter’s fingers brushed around his sopping opening, slicking themselves with him before running along his folds to his throbbing clit. Merlin , how was he supposed to stand it? How did anyone with parts like this last at all? He arched into Potter’s touch, mewling sharp, urgent cries into their kiss and wanting desperately to know if Potter was soaking through his jeans as well. Are you as wet for me as I am for you, Potter?

His hands moved down to split Potter’s flies, quickly working a palm down over his navel. The heat and dripping wet was utterly divine, and it only made the pressure deep in Draco’s belly grow scorching and desperate. Potter was drenched. His pants pooling with the ethereal moisture that female bodies could manifest like mana from the bloody heavens. Draco’s tentative fingers stroked over its source. He coated them in Potter’s sultry moisture, exploring the tucks and soft ridges of his decadence, drinking in every panting breath and tightened muscle he received in response. 

“ Ah ,” Draco cried a breathless soprano note as the pressure broke in a blissful cresting surge over his entire body. Potter stroked him through the cathartic orgasm, kneading against his clit, not stopping until Draco brought a hand to his wrist in a desperate unspoken plea. His body thrummed with an energy that buzzed across the surface of his skin like so much static in the winter and every small motion and touch of fabric against his breasts sent a jolting sensation down his spine. Stroking Potter with all the earnest focus his post-climax bliss granted him, Draco felt the small vibrato of Potter’s orgasm grow to a thundering crescendo as it tore through him. Potter panted against Draco’s lips, whimpering and crying into their kiss as he came, glazing Draco’s palm anew and sending aftershocks of pleasure pooling between Draco’s thighs. When he stilled, Draco slid his slicked fingers free, tugging Potter to sit on his lap so that he did not need to lean so far to kiss him.    

“ Finite! ” Blaise called in a harried huff that cracked to breath at the end. “Ginevra, I find myself inspired in more ways than one to carry on this evening upstairs.” He held out an urgent hand, and Ginny stood from where she’d been mostly pretending to read a book she held notably upside down. The girl nearly sprinted over to him and they were gone with the breath Zabini’s anti-Charm had Vanished from Draco’s lungs. How odd it was to feel…himself…again. Potter’s soft bulge pressed against his own as he tangled his wet-slicked fingers in the man’s wild hair. The Charm had faded and yet the feeling of demanding Harry Potter remained. It seemed ill-inclined to fade. Lingering in a manner that made Draco feel as though it had been permanently etched upon him. Or perhaps, it had simply always been there. Not raised, but unearthed. Not new at all. 

“My room or yours?” Draco asked, his gruff baritone almost startling him. 

“Either, both,” Harry sighed. “Everywhere.”

Chapter Text

“Ow! Bloody bastard!” Draco spat, bringing the side of his hands to his lips to staunch the blood welling from the speckled puncture wounds. The young Ukrainian Ironbelly had been so excited, it snatched up the bloody piece of meat Draco held before he had a chance to toss it safely away. Mercifully, this particular hatchling was small enough its bites were not catastrophic, but they still hurt like a right bitch. The bleeding slowed, but dragon mouths were filthy business. Not to mention Draco used any and all injuries, small or horrific, as an excuse to see the site Healer. Sneeze? Site Healer. Small cough? Gotta see the Healer, lads. Truly, what was the Healing staff for if not this precise purpose? 

A telltale warning caught his attention. Ironbelly mothers were not maternal at all. They laid their eggs and left them entirely in the cold, so one can imagine how hearty and strong the ones that survive end up being. After they hatched, the young ones fended entirely for themselves (or in this case, got fed like bloody princesses by Draco). However, it seemed the smell of his hot blood had proven enough of a lure to draw ol’ mumsy back towards their hatchling enclosure. The Ironbelly was a massive beast. Easily the biggest and broadest sky demon alive, and her growl was a sound, once heard, never forgotten. 

Draco stilled, the sounds of glass beads tumbling over ice growing louder and more threatening by the second. The gust of wind that followed her landing fifty metres or so away from Draco nearly toppled him. Her massive claws sunk into the earth as though demonstrating how easily they could sink into Draco’s flesh. She was fit with a harness of sorts, a device that did not infringe upon her autonomy, but allowed her to be subdued if she caused too much of a nuice or got too aggressive with other dragons. Still, the amount of damage she could do in the time it took for the harness to shock her badly enough to send her away without killing her was…well, extensive, to be certain. 

Her scales glinted in the bright noon sun of the Moldovian countryside like tempered steel. She was a nasty thing, this one. Predatory. Cruel, even. She likely smelled the few drops of Draco’s blood kilometres away and her twenty metre wingspan had carried her here in under a few minutes. There was, of course, protective gear all of the site team wore when dealing with such a beast, but Draco had forgone it all thinking he’d be brief with the hatchlings. Just some winter robes to stave off the uncaring chill of the Codru Reservation. A careless mistake. One that comes with the arrogance of having been in this field for over a decade. 

“Hello, beastie,” he whispered. Massive and fast they may be, the Ironbelly had nearly no discernable sense of hearing and relied entirely on sight and smell to hunt. That’s why the clackers worked so well, because the undulations in the air around them from the sonic disturbance wasn’t painful to their ears, it was wretched against the sensitive membranes of their eyes . The Ironbelly grunted a great huff, staring down Draco with blackest black eyes like a doll. Absent of anything other than eat and instinct . Draco slid his hand to his wand, moving slowly and silently, so her focused eyes could not hear him. 

She was on him the instant after he’d cast the Spell. Teeth clamping down around his body, sinking into his flesh like her claws through so much softened soil. He screamed, instinctively, absent of survival and driven only by the shock and pain of her rending his flesh in the seconds before the magical voltage in her harness grew too overwhelming to ignore. He felt the cool of the earth at his back when she dropped him, and foolishly brought a curious hand to his side. It came away wet, soaked even, with his spilling blood and he knew if he looked down, he would see bone and viscera plainly. The only saving grace was their protocols. Was his team's skilled and practised system. He’d triggered her harness, so his location would be sent via a magic that bordered on Apparition to a Charmed globe at their headquarters which glowed and sounded until someone came for him. 

The pain dulled in seconds, his body languid and enervated trying to stay alive, trying to keep his insides in when the Ironbelly had worked so hard to pull them out. He was freezing, vision failing and growing dim around the edges. The protocols were in place for this very event, this very incident, but even the most perfect protocols were not without their flaws. He had to hope that one of the site Healers was near the globe. He had to hope. He felt the magic surrounding him even before hands were on him, even before he smelled the lemon-y zest of Healing Charms capturing his errant insides and placing them back where they belonged. 

“I’ve got you,” came a familiar voice, like ice to a bruise. “Hey, stay with me.” Draco thought he had been, but consciousness seemed a fickle mistress just then, one moment in his grasp and the next sliding away like the tide from the shore. “I am sorry for this.” The Apparition magic crested him like the Ironbelly’s fangs piercing his flesh, and crushing bone. It was a wave of pulling and splitting and compressing. Draco did not even realise he was shrieking until the quiet of the Healing tent shattered under his agony. “I know, I know, but you’re going to be alright. Just…” Harry trailed off. “I’m sorry, it’ll be better if you sleep.” 

Draco awoke some nebulous amount of time later, surrounded by the clinical white curtains of his shrouded area inside the Healing tent. He winced, his body was immobilised from the chest down, but he was still able to move his arms. He could still see . Purple and black bruises mottled his skin so thoroughly he could barely discern his own flesh from injury. Draco dared not lift the thin cotton of the sheet that lay above his torso. He’d not only seen the extent of the damage, he’d bloody felt it. The feeling of that dragon’s fangs sinking through his body would not soon leave him. Rubbing his eyes, he whimpered a soft sound, readjusting to the sensation of being safe and stable. Not a minute later, the curtain whipped open, the metal on metal shink of the hooks along the rod was a biting note to his tender senses. 

“How’s the pain?” Draco let his head loll to the side which was about as much motion as he could manage. Harry wore his white Healer robes, but not in the austere manner they do in the cities. They were open in the front, exposing his Muggle t-shirt and denim jeans, more a visible cue for anyone needing medical assistance than a uniform. His hair was wild, more so than usual, and Draco surmised the hour to be very late, very early, or the conjunction of both. He met Harry’s concerned expression, sliding beneath the sea of emeralds that lay in his eyes and letting his nearness be a balm on his aching muscles. 

“Painful,” Draco remarked, candidly. Harry groaned, catching his head in his hands. 

“You went out into the field with no protective gear then decided it would be a good idea to provoke Dolores ?” Yes, that’s worth noting. The Ironbelly’s name was Dolores. You know, because she’s bloody nasty. Draco went to chuckle but his body rejected the notion, offering instead only a strained, dry cough that made Harry’s eye twitch. 

“Yes,” Draco said, wanting to argue and banter and do all the things that kept Harry near him for as long as he could, but being so entirely ground down by his extensive injuries, he could manage none of it. 

“Unbelievable,” Harry snapped. “You nearly died .” 

“I am aware,” Draco intoned, irritation lacing among his cool aloof though it was merely a charade. Hearing Harry so utterly shaken by his wounds had Draco’s heart clenched uncomfortably in his chest, beating, seemingly, around a tightened claw. Harry rubbed his eyes under his glasses, evidently exhausted. “You can lay down if you want.” Tired eyes darted to him, dark circles beneath wide green irises. “Actually, I’d very much appreciate it right-”

“Draco.” Harry said his name like a statement. Like it was synonymous with ‘no’ or ‘stop’, and Draco winced from a pain not at all physical in nature. 

“Yes,” Draco sighed, and it rattled in his chest. A punctured lung, he’d know the sound anywhere. “Right.” 

“It’s not that-”

“Please spare me, Harry, haven’t I suffered enough?” It had been ten bloody years. A decade of Draco lost and running, and then stopping and finding . A decade of passion and drive and really feeling he was doing something worth a shite. A decade of and then Harry Potter came along . A decade of why does it still feel like it did back then? And a decade of will he ever feel for me what I feel for him? The silence that thickened the air between them threatened to suffocate Draco, and he felt intent to let it have a bloody go. Harry exhaled as though the breath in his lungs had turned to paste. 

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he said. “Try to get some sleep.” It was easy enough given a moment later Harry waved his wand over Draco, forcing him into the warm dark quiet of sleep. 

When he woke, he could feel his toes up to his knees which was brilliant until he realised how stiff and sore he’d gotten laying in this bloody Healing tent bed. He groaned, wanting more than anything to be able to go back to his cabin. Wanting more than anything for Harry to go with him. The bruises on his arms had lingered, even with Harry’s advanced and, at times, otherworldly Healing magic, the damage he’d sustained proved considerable. The shink of the curtain had dulled somewhat from its dagger-to-the-eardrums effect to the minor discomfort of perhaps stubbing one’s toe.  

“How’s the pain?” Harry asked, absently, and Draco tried not to focus too intently on the sting he felt being reduced to little more than a checkbox on his parchments.
“Fine,” he snipped, even though it was not at all. Even though every muscle in his body was drawn tight and screaming. It all seemed so bloody minor compared to how tired he was from loving a man who could barely stand to remain in his presence much less like him. 

“Draco,” Harry sighed, frustratedly. “If you tell me what hurts, I can make it not do that, that’s literally my only ruddy job here,” Harry gesticulated wildly as he spoke. 

“Everything bloody hurts, Harry, as you so eloquently put it, I almost died ,” Draco hissed. There was a pause before Harry grunted an exhale. 

“I know,” he spoke suddenly softly. “I know, I’m sorry.” Draco turned to face him and saw the dark circles beneath his tourmaline eyes had only grown deeper and darker. He looked bloody wretched and that was saying something from someone who was more meat than man at the moment. Harry shook his head. “I’ll see what I can do, but I’m-” he cut himself off, but Draco could see the words even if Harry didn’t speak them. Tired. How much of his magic had he had to use to save Draco’s life? How almost was his death? 

“Harry,” Draco said, his tone tendered by concern. “I can manage. You should sleep. Get something to eat.” Harry’s eyes snapped up, his brow furrowing as though Draco had slapped him. 

“I’m fine,” he snapped, and Draco winced from the bitter edge of his tone. Harry caught his face in his palm, breathing a few long, calming breaths before speaking again. “I just can’t fucking stand to see you like this.” Draco’s heart stumbled in his chest, rolling over itself and seeming to trip and scramble anew each time it attempted to find its rhythm once more. Draco shifted his shoulder to manoeuvre his arm over the edge of the bed, palm lazily up in front of Harry. 

“It’s alright,” Draco consoled. “I’m alright.” Harry stared vacantly at his hand as though etched upon it was an inscrutable message. Draco moved his long fingers slightly, watching as Harry’s lips parted as though taking in that thin breath before speaking. He did not speak, however, and instead licked his lips, shaking his head. Draco felt he could not breathe watching each microscopic twitch and movement of Harry’s face, trying to read him like the bloody Rosetta Stone. 

“Harry,” he said, finally, feeling the silence like a twisting garrote intent to strangle him. Harry’s exhausted eyes snapped up to Draco’s with a look of pleading. Of begging. Please don’t do this , his eyes urged. Please . Draco closed his open palm, not quite to a fist as he scarcely had the energy to blink his eyes let alone move five whole fingers, and he turned his wrist, setting his hand back by his side. All the while, Harry’s eyes implored him to do something he could not do. I can’t. He thought. I don’t know what it feels like not to love you. 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly overwhelmed with a crushing pain that stemmed from nowhere physical and nothing tangible. He let his head fall to the other side, the pillow cool beneath his cheek waiting for the blasted shink of the curtain to signal Harry’s exit. 

But it did not come. 

Instead, after several agonising seconds, Draco felt the soft warmth of Harry’s hand on his. All at once the pain melted into an aching catharsis. Please he begged the universe. The stars. He begged anyone who would bloody listen. Please let me have him . The hand atop his squeezed lightly, and Draco risked it all to turn back to Harry, meeting the man’s conflicted gaze. I have never asked for anything, but this I must have.  

“Every time you come in here I feel as though I’ve failed you,” Harry whispered. “I was too late, or busy with someone else, or just…” he trailed off and Draco felt his heart beating against a wall, waiting for the rest of Harry’s revelation. “And you’re always ruddy injured, you know? You’re always hurt, and I just felt like one day he’s going to come in here too hurt for me to fix. One day, he’ll come in here dead.” Harry licked his lips again, exhausting toying with his emotions like a cat with a trapped mouse as tears lined his tired eyes. “And then this,” his voice cracked to breath at the end. “I’m not…I’m only human, and I cannot fathom letting myself fall for someone who may not be here tomorrow.” Harry let the hand on Draco’s remain, and used his free hand to wipe at his face, drying the tears before they could fall. Draco let out a short sigh. If he had even an ounce of energy to spare he’d laugh boisterously, but spent and broken, he could only manage an awkward cough.

“Harry,” he croaked. “Most of the times I came in here were simply so I could see you.” Harry’s right eyebrow, the one marred by his scar, worked in immediate alarm. As with everything he did, it was ridiculously endearing. “I am not so fragile, you know, present injuries excluded.” Harry choked a strained laugh. 

“You are easily the most fragile thing I’ve ever touched, Draco” Harry chuckled. “You’re like blonde blown glass, honestly.” Draco huffed a laugh then winced which he saw echoed on Harry’s face. 

“Don’t make me laugh,” he warned with a soft smile. “I almost died, you know.” Harry rolled his teary eyes, wiping at his face again with a sniff. 

“I’ll come back and check on you tomorrow alright?” Harry said, and Draco squeezed his hand almost too tightly, not ready to let this moment end. “I’ll be back soon, okay? I’m right here.” His free hand had his wand drawn and the sleep spell cast not a moment later.

Shink . Draco jerked awake, rousing to the sound he came to associate with Harry’s arrival. Only it wasn’t Harry. It was Kirsten, Harry’s Healing Assistant. She balanced a fat stack of parchments, flipping through them as she approached. 

“How is your pain?” she asked, and Draco scowled. 

“Where’s Harry?” he demanded, watching Kirsten’s hazel eyes flick up at the sharp edge of his tone. He swallowed thickly, feeling a sense of omen in his absence. Was someone else on Draco’s team hurt? Was someone dead? His heart rate kicked up to a canter in his chest. Kirsten cringed a bit as though not wanting to say. “Kirsten,” Draco urged. 

“He’s just not feeling well right now, Dr. Malfoy,” she explained, cordially, without really explaining anything at all. 

“What does that mean?” Draco asked. She sighed a long grunt. 

“He’s been using all his energy Healing you and now that you’re stable, he’s ruddy sleeping, alright? The man is absolutely knackered for Merlin’s sake.” Draco’s brows raised at her outburst and she covered her face with her stack of parchments, attempting to conceal the chagrin pinching her features. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine, really,” Draco assured. “But since I am, as you say, stable, am I free to perhaps go to my cabin, then?” Kirsten flipped through what seemed three hundred pages of her parchment stack before scanning a page and declaring,

“Yes, you can, but no field work yet.” Draco was elated . His wounds had mostly healed to truly horrific gashes and bruises, all sealed but angry and healing in their own time, and it was slow going getting back to his cabin, showering, and changing into a pair of black slacks and a deep red sweater made of soft cashmere wool and did not constrict his injuries too uncomfortably. He had not intended to linger in his dwelling, however, and made the arduous trek across the reserve to Harry’s cabin by the tent. He knew Kirsten said he was sleeping, but Draco couldn't bloody stand to wait. It had been ten fucking years, and that five minutes of holding Harry’s hand and feeling the man’s warmth and the delicate moderato of his pulse behind his thumb as they spoke was enough to send every second he spent pining over this man for the last decade screaming for retribution .

When he reached the door, he didn’t even knock. He just turned the handle and pushed the thin wooden door open, stepping over the threshold. Their cabins were nothing at all fancy. A sleeping area, a small kitchen, a table for eating or reading, a bathroom that contained little more than a standing shower made for the most slender of chaps, and a toilet. It was daylight, and the ray of light that snuck in as Draco entered caused Harry to stir. He squeezed his eyes, letting them open to slits and blinking at Draco standing in his entryway. As though piecing it all together, he sat suddenly bolt upright.

“Are you alright?” he asked, urgently. “Is something wrong?” Draco shook his head, putting both palms up. 

“No, no, I’m alright,” he explained, quickly, so as to quell Harry’s concern. “Brilliant actually, but my Healer seems far better than yours.” Harry groaned, rubbing his face, then sliding his fingers through his hair.

“Why-” he began, but now the tables were turned and Draco had the wits and energy Harry now lacked. 

“You know why,” he stated. “I’ve not been subtle.” 

“How are you even standing right now?” Harry asked, dodging the trajectory of their conversation and reaching to his side table to fumble for his glasses. 

“Precariously,” Draco admitted. “Tenuously, even.” Harry groaned again and this time it was more a growl that sent a quiver down Draco’s spine. 

“Come here,” Harry rumbled, shifting over a few centimetres, so Draco could sit by his side. Harry’s chest was bare, acres of tanned skin pulled taut around his fit frame that made the saliva in Draco’s mouth run thick and hot. When Draco was seated beside him, Harry’s hands immediately reached out, snatching his arm and sliding up the fabric of his sweater to examine his wounds. Draco attempted to retrieve his arm, but, even exhausted, Harry had more strength than Draco did at the moment. “You bruise like a ruddy banana, you know that?”

“I’m British,” Draco said, almost insulted. “Of course, I do.” Harry’s hands on his skin, running over the faded black of his Mark with a tenderness unmatched by any other was a quiet joy Draco could hardly contain. As though he was breathing for the first time, but still feared the moment where the air would be ripped away once more. Harry unceremoniously lifted the hem of Draco’s sweater to examine his torso, and, for some reason, Draco jumped, swatting his hand away. He didn’t want Harry to feel this was required, that being with Draco would be constant work, but Harry looked up at him with an earnest expression, one of genuine care and concern. The next time he attempted to peel up the hem of Draco’s sweater, Draco allowed it. A moment later, Harry had it over his head, his snowy hair tousled by the sweater’s removal, and on the floor. Draco felt a hum of anticipation work through his battered body, and heat him from the inside. 

“Christ, it must have been ruddy agony,” Harry said, ghosting his hands over Draco’s recently healed wounds, not wanting to hurt him. “When I got to you, Draco,” he shook his head. “How loud you screamed. I’ll never forget it.” Draco brought his hand to Harry’s pressing it gently against the pink ridges of marred flesh, healed enough by Harry’s care and skill that they could be brushed lightly with little discomfort. 

“I am sorry to have worried you,” Draco spoke softly as Harry’s probing touch melted to a gentle caress. “I will be more careful,” he promised. “Since I do not plan on going anywhere anytime soon.” Harry huffed a thin chuckle. Draco leaned down, catching Harry’s chin with a finger to tilt it upwards such that he could meet those bottomless green wells. “I am sorry to have worried you,” he repeated, wanting to impart on Harry how genuine the sentiment was. There was only a few centimetres between them, so few that Draco could smell the peppermint of Harry’s toothpaste on his breath. Merlin, how he just wanted to-

Harry pushed himself up to brush his lips over Draco’s. Little more than a fleeting touch. Draco’s top lip had been split when Dolores dropped him, but mostly healed over in the (what turned out to be) three weeks he’d spent in the Healing tent. Draco leaned down, deepening the chance touch to a proper kiss, tasting Harry’s surprise then letting the way he relaxed against him be a soft triumph. It was quiet and tender, but no less divine. Draco felt the entirety of the last decade, and even the tumultuous memories before that, from Hogwarts, from his childhood, coalesce in the thin space where their lips touched, and where Harry’s delicate fingers traced his bare skin. A low vibrato strummed in Harry’s chest, trembling against Draco’s lips and sending a wave of static over the surface of his skin. 

“You have no idea how many times I have pictured nearly this exact moment,” Harry admitted in a wan whisper. “Minus your life-threatening injuries.” Draco let his hands slide over Harry’s chest, indulging in the curves and ridges of his abdomen. The heat beneath his skin made him feel almost fevered against Draco’s cool hands, and he shifted and simpered beneath Draco’s touch. Harry’s tongue flicked over Draco’s top lip, cuing them to part. When they did, Harry slid into Draco’s mouth, tethering them together in a delicate, blissful kiss as Draco’s fingers indulged in the dark curls beneath Harry’s navel. 

“I think I have an entirely accurate idea, actually,” Draco breathed into the kiss, tracing the protrusions of Harry’s hip bones beneath his blanket and gasping lightly as he realised far later than made any sense that Harry was completely nude. 

“You don’t have to stop,” Harry whispered against him, sending a heat pooling between Draco’s thighs. Harry split the flies of Draco’s slacks, but seated as he was he could not do much more than that. He drew back, and Draco found himself leaning forward not wanting the kiss to end. Harry sat up, blankets pooled around his waist, moving so there was more space for Draco on his small bed. “Actually, lay back,” he said. Draco had to strangely bend over to get his shoes off, his body was so stiff and every muscle in his torso throbbed, rejecting any and all motion. He layed back as Harry commanded, and Harry brought a featherlight touch to his brow, brushing away a stray lock of blonde fringe. 

“ Episkey ,” Harry said, waving a wand Draco had not even seen him retrieve as Draco moaned from the flittering sense of euphoric relief his Charms sent through him. “Harry,” he whined. “You don’t have to, I’m fine.” Harry smiled warmly down at him, his eyes lidded with sleep, but the deep dark bags beneath them had quelled somewhat. He cupped Draco’s chin in one hand, sliding his thumb over the mostly healed cut that split his lip as he prized him in a manner that made Draco feel so profoundly safe. “It’s what I do. Let me. Episkey .” 

Another moan rumbled through Draco as his body cried out, echoing his voice as the blissful reprieve from, what seemed, endless pain washed over him. Harry hummed a satisfied chord as Draco keened beneath him, tightening the pressure between his thighs as his cock swelled and hardened in his pants, bulging between the split flies of his slacks. Draco felt Harry’s hand press against him, his fingers tracing the outline of his hard prick before hooking in the waistband of his pants and drawing them down, freeing his dripping length. 

“It does feel good, doesn’t it?” Harry asked, brushing his lips over Draco’s forehead. “How many times I came back here after watching your body respond to my magic like this.” Harry smeared a wet bead over the swollen tip of Draco’s cock, coaxing Draco’s breath to panting and drawing forth all manner of small sounds from his vocal chords. Something too far away to matter and buried beneath his pleasure wanted Draco to feel embarrassed for his body’s response to Harry’s magic while he was unconscious. “A blonde torture.” However, a moment later, Harry had Draco’s trousers and pants Spelled to the floor with his sweater, and naked next to Harry, Draco could not manage any emotion beyond yes . The welts, bruises, cuts, scrapes, and gashes were the worst over his midsection and then again across his thighs —roughly Dolores’s bite radius. 

“You don’t have to exhaust yourself, Harry,” Draco turned to speak into Harry’s collarbone pressing his nose between the bony heads under his throat, taking in every centimetre of that which, until now, he’d only dreamt. A thin baritone resonance thrummed under Draco’s lips and while he recognised it at a small chuckle something among its harmony hummed a sinister note. 

“I’m not so exhausted right now,” Harry spoke against Draco’s hair, nuzzling into his soft blonde, the tip of his wand tracing absent lines of magical static over his body. “In fact, I suddenly feel brilliant.” His heated breath on the crown of Draco’s head had a sheen of goosebumps pricking the skin of his biceps and down his forearms. Breath calming, Draco sighed into Harry’s throat as his wand came to hover over the worst of the marred flesh on his left thigh. “What does it feel like?” Harry asked. 

“Getting nearly consumed by an Ironbelly? Bloody awf-”

“No,” Harry interrupted, pressing a kiss to Draco’s head in apology. “No, sorry, not that. What does this feel like?” He explained before the lemon scent of his Charms assailed Draco’s olfactory senses. The sensation was indescribable. He cried out as Harry’s magic blanketed him in a silken heat, a honeyed inferno of pleasure as he banished Draco’s pain and knitted his flesh to fresh smooth skin. 

“Incredible,” Draco panted, feeling as though he were experiencing wave after wave of climax just from Harry’s magic. His hands slid over Harry’s chest, feeling that desire to touch and be touched as his body resonated with pleasure and arousal in equal measure. Drawing away the tangle of blankets, Draco brought his deft fingers to Harry’s thick hard cock, dripping and readied between his thighs, delighting as the man arched into his caress with a heated groan that purred from deep inside of him. He stroked over Harry’s length, forming a fist around his ample girth, learning Harry with his hands. “Like this.” Harry panted a hot breath into Draco’s hair. Draco leaned forward enough to bring his lips brushing over Harry’s sternum, lost in the endless expanse of sepia skin all healed to perfection by the incredible magic that coursed just within. Each hummed moan and soft keen dove under Draco’s soothed skin and went to work healing the open wounds on Draco’s soul. Thank you , he thought the silent grace into the universe. For this. For hearing me. 

Harry shifted to lay down on his side facing Draco, tethering his arms around Draco’s shoulders and hooking a leg around Draco’s healed thigh as though wanting to fuse them together. His arms were so warm and strong and contrasted Draco’s lily fair complexion in a beautiful way that made him feel so utterly complete. Two unstable molecules crashing together to form a stable bond. Harry squeezed him tightly, and Draco sipped a small breath when he felt the warm wet of Harry’s cock against his own. Breath against his forehead, Harry whispered quiet reassurances, and praise that sent sparks down Draco’s spine and a radiating heat between his thighs. 

“I have wished for this for so long, it feels - ah - a dream,” Draco panted, the friction against his length causing the, now healed, muscles in his abdomen to twitch and work with each swell of pleasure. 

“I know,” Harry sighed. “I mean what I said, though.” He worked his hand in between them, taking both their lengths in his grasp. “I can’t stand the idea of falling for someone who might not be here tomorrow.” Draco clenched his jaw, biting back a keening cry and his frustration in equal measure. “But,” Harry said, thumbing their slits and smearing the pearly wet there over their joined tips. “There’s just nothing for it, now.” He huffed a hitching groan over into Draco’s brow sending a racking shiver straight through him. “I already have.” Draco cried out against Harry’s Adam’s Apple at the admission, letting the bitter edge dull to a sweet smooth touch. “You have to be more-”

“I will,” Draco whispered, urgently, his hips rolling into Harry’s touch as his soul warmed to a fevered glow within him. “I’ll be more careful,” his voice cracked to air at the end. Harry rumbled a low chuckle into his hair that sent him whining into the man’s jawline. 

“Christ, you are a wonder, Draco,” Harry said, somewhere between bewildered and impressed. “I felt so ruddy empty before you came here and now I feel like I could Heal you a dozen times and still have magic left over.” 

“Harry,” Draco mewled against his throat, letting his aquiline nose trace the stubbled on Harry’s chin, smelling his lemon-y magic and his musky cologne and the heated scent of man and sex beneath it all. “— Ah , I’m close.”

“I know,” Harry pressed a kiss to Draco’s brow furrowed as his body drew his muscles tight, the burning pressure inside him wanting to burst free. “I swear I can feel it, Draco.” Merlin , Draco reeled, internally. “Your magic is like a song, and I swear I can hear it so loudly now.” Harry let out a throaty moan. “I don’t know how I lived without it.” Every muscle in Draco’s body pulled taut as a cresting flood broke over him, submerging him in Harry’s magic, and bathing his entire body in scorching orgasm. He whined against Harry, crying out with the intensity of it like drowning in bliss, like suffocating in euphoria. 

“ Draco ,” Harry gasped, as his body shuddered against Draco, thick, wet streams, mingling together and glazing Harry’s palm in them . The sensation was not of this life, it was other and fantasy. It was paradisal. Draco felt every torn and strained muscle knit and grow lax, every cut, sealed, every bruise, eased, as Harry trembled against him, bound by their shared climax. When the seas of their sultry gratification quelled and calmed, there was a glinting sheen of sweat over the surface of Harry’s body like morning dew. “ Fuck ,” he whispered, breathlessly, panting and swallowing, thickly. “Fuck unicorns, they should fill wands full of you.” Harry’s arms tightened around him. 

But Draco was too enraptured, too justified and validated, too triumphant to reply just yet. How he’d waited, and hoped. How he’d wished. How long he’d longed . What do they say of the man who suddenly got everything he wanted?

He was so bloody happy.

Chapter Text

Draco leaned forward, the backs of his hands sliding to his back and deftly manoeuvring his thumbs to hook the loops of the thick, white laces, drawing them taut with an exhale before tying the two ends in a bow at his mid back. Blonde fringe slid into his face as he looked down, tugging a bit at the first hook on the busk, then repeating the process on the bottom to settle into the right spot. The white silk satin of the underbust corset complimented Draco’s porcelain complexion, granting him an almost ethereal quality he quite liked. He tossed his hair back, prizing himself in the maple framed standing mirror before him. 

Reaching for the mahogany dresser, Draco unfolded a bundle of white Venetian lace, stepping one foot at a time into the delicate panties that accentuated the slightly feminine curve to his slender hips and the far more noticeable curve of his luscious arse. There is at once so little and an entire library that could be said regarding the otherworldly divinity that was the feeling of fine lace on his most sensitive skin like a sultry caress. Draco rearranged the soft bulge of his cock until it sat nicely in the gauzy fabric, elegantly, even. A whisper of anticipation sent a ripple down his spine, his meticulously arranged cock swelling somewhat behind the lace. 

Next came the garter belt. He stepped into it, slipping it up over his growing erection such that it sat between the corset and his panties, completing the aesthetic, the metal of the clasps chilly on his bare skin. Bunching the white nylon of the thigh highs, Draco slid the material over each foot, pulling it effortlessly up to the garter, the clasps biting into the bands at the top, keeping them in place. Draco turned to one side and then back towards the other with a satisfied sigh. He was hard enough now that the weeping tip of his cock sat exposed above the hem of the panties. The gauzy lace against his length only stirred the heat between his thighs. 

He strode over to the dresser once more, opening a small drawer at its centre that mostly contained cufflinks, tie clips, and the like, and retrieved a pair of teardrop white gold diamond earrings. He leaned his head to one side then the other to put them on. Last would be the necklace, a stunning piece that matched the earrings, glinting even in the evening dim of his lavish dressing chambers. Almost time now . He thought, hooking the clasp of the diamond masterpiece behind his neck. 

The bed was meticulously turned down, and Draco patted several white satin pillows to fluff them up somewhat before kneeling onto it, reclining dramatically in the veritable menagerie of pillows. The timepiece on the wall read two minutes to midnight, though Draco was not naive enough to think he’d be on time. He watched himself in the mirror across the room, experimenting with different poses or simply indulging in the way the lace stroked him absent of his bloody husband. At six past midnight, Draco heard the telltale scrambling of his never-once-been-on-time-in-his-life-not-bloody-once partner. 

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Came a desperate chant down the hallway while Draco theatrically examined his manicured nails in mock disinterest as the door was impolitely shoved open, a harried…well, Harry, panting in the doorway. Draco raised a scrutinising brow, tossing his hair back to look down his nose, judgmentally. Harry was still in his red Auror robes carrying a dozen of the most stunning deep crimson roses in all of bloody England. The plastic wrap around them crinkled as he hugged them to his chest, lips parted with the soft exhale of, what seemed, every molecule of air from his lungs. His face flushed to somewhere between the roses and the robes in colour as his dark brows tangled at the centre of his forehead. 

“Perfection,” he breathed, stepping forward, and it was evident that every muscle in his body had been told the same urgent command. Touch . But then. Do not touch . Harry stilled with one knee on the bed leaning over Draco, an expression of pure wonderment as though his eyes beheld something beyond human understanding brightening his face. “I cannot believe you are real.” 

“I cannot believe you are late,” Draco replied, playfully with a soft smirk. Harry sighed, bringing the hand still holding the roses to his face and then remembering he was still holding the roses, sighing again. 

“Long day at the office. Valentine’s brings out all the nutters,” he explained, handing Draco the arrangement. “And I stopped on the way home.” Draco took them, smelling their fresh crisp scent. No one had ever bought him roses before Harry. No one had ever thought Draco capable of loving something so delicate and graceful. 

“They are beautiful,” Draco said, genuinely, before summoning a vase for them to the bedside table. Harry huffed a small chuckle. 

“No, love, you’re beautiful,” Harry corrected, leaning forward to bring a tentative hand to Draco’s cheek as though concerned he would sully something irreplaceable. “Those are just flowers.” Draco turned to kiss Harry’s rough palm, smelling the roses on him still. He sat up on his knees a moment later, unbuttoning the top button of Harry’s robes while Harry’s discerning stare glazed over every millimetre of his body with such heated desire, Draco could almost feel it. The robes fell to the floor in a red pool, and Harry tugged his black shirt over his head, tossing it aside, hastily. Draco ran his hands over Harry’s broad chest, twisting his fingertips among dark hairs and flicking his thumbs over tanned hard nipples. Sans his robes, the bulge below his waistband was rather apparent. 

“I’m glad I’m to your liking,” Draco murmured, brushing his lips over Harry’s. “As I intend to get you much the same gift every year.” Harry slid his tongue urgently into Draco’s mouth, moaning into the kiss with breath so scorching it could almost burn. Harry’s hands found Draco’s body at last. They traced the steel bones of his corset and brushed the delicate lace of his panties still straining around his thick needy cock. He got lost there, it seemed, and Draco’s breath hitched as Harry’s fingers traced his captive length and down to his laced-wrapped bollocks. The dainty fabric coupled with Harry’s touch made Draco keen into their kiss as he arched into Harry’s caress. “Don’t stop,” he huffed, though that’s exactly what Harry did. Draco whined against his husband. 

“Draco, you’re a fucking vision, I feel like I’m destroying art touching you like this,” Harry bemoaned, but Draco reached out and grabbed Harry’s hand replacing it between his thighs. 

“What is art but the destruction of a blank canvas?” Draco hissed against Harry who, after a contemplative pause, squeezed and kneaded his cock in earnest, evidently satisfied with Draco’s logic. 

“Lay back,” Harry croaked, breaking off their kiss, suddenly and splitting the flies of his trousers to remove them along with his pants, tossing both to the floor. Draco did as he was told, eyes darting to Harry’s fat cock, flushed and heavy between his thighs. Harry kneeled onto the bed, pulling Draco’s knees apart, impolitely, and shifting to lay on his stomach between Draco’s legs. Draco reached down to run his hand through Harry’s dark hair just as Harry nuzzled his face against the lace of Draco’s garter belt and down to his panties, both of them moaning as his nose and lips pressed against Draco’s dripping prick. Running his hands over the white nylon covering Draco’s legs, Harry hummed a pleasured note that culminated in him snapping the elastic bands of his garters against his thighs, gleefully. 

“ Careful ,” Draco warned through a grunt, clutching at the diamonds dripping over his collarbone, absently. Harry’s ministrations against him had him riding the edge of orgasm already. “You’re going to make me come if you keep at that.” 

“I have never once known how to be careful, love,” Harry purred against him, plucking his strings and sending a whining chord from his lips. “And I intend to make you come like this. Then perhaps some other way. Then later, again.” Draco sighed a high-pitched cry, tangling one hand in his own hair and the other in the white sheets as though desperate for an anchor in the maelstrom that was Harry. He nearly screamed when Harry’s tongue flicked over the exposed pink tip of his cock, humming a soft ‘ mm’ as he licked away one pearly bead. “God, you taste divine.” His breath against Draco’s cock had his thighs tensing and twitching with each soft huff or languid sigh. 

Harry shifted to kneel in front of Draco then gestured for him to move over a bit. When he did, Harry moved behind him such that Draco’s back pressed against his strong chest, his hands sliding up Draco’s sides and over the silver metal busk of his corset. Draco could feel Harry’s hot and fat length behind him, positively spoiling in the sounds he could elicit from his lover by shifting his hips or arching his back a bit. Pinching a pink nipple, Harry had Draco yelping a sharp note before leaning in to whisper in his ear. 

“What is art for if not to be seen,” Harry explained. Draco smiled lustfully at his own reflection in the standing mirror. Harry was much bigger than he, broader and taller, and Draco quite enjoyed the look of his lithe frame fitted between Harry’s bulky thighs. 

“I’m glad you are seeing things my way, darling,” Draco purred, as Harry’s hands worked down over Draco’s hips, fingers twisting and snapping the garters again before sliding over his pelvis to play in all the white lace there. He tugged the hem of Draco’s panties, grinding the soft fabric against his achingingly hard cock as Draco arched and moaned into the friction. Harry rumbled a bassy thrum of satisfaction into Draco’s hair, green eyes lidded with something hungry, something demanding and gratifying. 

“Your argument was eloquent and persuasive, as always,” Harry whispered, plunging his fingers under the band of lace, and squeezing Draco until he cried out. Each stroke was indelicate, yet Harry breathed soft words of poetic filth into Draco’s silky blonde as he thrust him bodily towards his end. “I want to see you destroy your canvas, love.” Draco whined, sharper and louder with each vigorous caress. “Let’s create art, Draco.” His thighs instinctively squeezed together, but Harry slid a hand under one to draw his knee towards his chest, opening him, spreading him like brushed paint. 

As the eruptive heat of his orgasm burned through him, scorching his earth, Draco keened, his head falling back against Harry’s shoulder, watching his own reflection through unfocused slits. The rough stubble of Harry’s cheek brushed against Draco’s, and their eyes met their mirror selves’ stares. Harry’s verdant gaze tethered Draco’s pleading expression as he moaned and shuddered against him. Like a jade shackle, he was bound there, falling beneath Harry’s tourmaline swells and drowning in his luxuration . Harry indulged in him, stroking him through his orgasm, transfixed as though consuming Draco’s rapture, gorging himself on Draco’s euphoria.

“ Darling ,” Draco panted, the delicate word shattering to sand as he spoke it. He could feel his heated wet glazing the lace of his garter belt and dripping down over his panties. White hot thrums like harp strings plucked by fingers of flame forged paths of fire through Draco’s body, igniting his blood to boiling. “Ha- ah -” He cried, interrupting himself with a choked moan, burning to ash under Harry’s lavish service. All the while, Harry devoured him, that emerald hedonism endlessly delighting in Draco’s voice and his body and his pleasure in equal measure. Insatiable.  

“You are perfection,” Harry whispered. “A masterpiece.” He turned to kiss Draco’s brow dotted with a sheen of sweat. “My magnum opus.”

Chapter Text

Flashbulbs. Harry stepped from the car, shielding his vision from the sensory assault, turning back to put out a hand. Lithe fingers slid into his palm as he tugged Draco to standing beside him. The press was unhinged madness, a gluttonous, demanding sea of screaming and questions, hands reaching for them, clawing for their attention, vying for their very souls. Two guards stood on either side of the stone walkway, wands out, attempting to tame the beast. Hercules and the hydra. 

Their eyes were shaded behind dark sunglasses despite the late hour and the dim of sunset barely providing enough light for them to make their way forward. Harry’s arm was around Draco protectively, a sense of if you want him you’ll need to go through me in each of his tensed fingers driving into Draco’s shoulder. 

“Harry Potter!” The multi-headed demon screamed. “Harry Potter over here!” As though he could discern anything amongst the insanity. As though order could exist amongst this chaos.

“Rough estimates put the views around two billion and climbing since it was leaked only two weeks ago—” he catches from an almost cliched sounding news anchor. 

“Harry Potter!” They all wanted a piece of him. Even though they’d seen everything they could possibly see, they always wanted more. Harry raised his middle finger with his free hand, hearing the discordant alarm of the media behind him. 

***

Timestamp: 0:00:00

The scene blurs and sharpens several times before the picture finally comes into focus. A shirtless Draco Malfoy stands, arms crossed and one dark brow raised sceptically,  looking just off-camera.

“Muggle technology, Harry, really?” Mr. Malfoy asks. From somewhere behind the camera, Harry Potter’s voice can be heard.

“I think you’ll like this even if it is, as you say, Muggle technology,” Mr. Potter calls, using a caricatured posh drawl to mock Mr. Malfoy’s Wiltshire lilt. A moment later, Mr. Potter steps into the frame wearing a nondescript black t-shirt and denim trousers. The two men are seen kissing for roughly three and a half minutes before Mr. Malfoy tugs at the hem of Mr. Potter’s shirt and pulls it over his head.    

***

“Through here, quickly,” a red-robed Auror offered, opening the door for Harry and nearly shoving him through it, leaving the writhing black mass they called the press outside to rot. The austere, almost strained, silence of the Ministry of Magic’s Wizengamot vestibule was its own sort of deafening. Three Aurors rushed towards the door, gritting their teeth as they cast wards the press attempted to shatter like so much blown glass. 

Harry drew Draco into his chest, instinctively, the stubble of his chin brushing the long blonde fringe by Draco’s temple, when a red-robed DMLE Auror approached, gesturing to a set of doors both of them knew all too well. Harry grimaced knowing the scrutiny they would face within. The Ministry seemed intent to offer Harry little respect at all despite being the victim of this crime. They’d decided to offer Draco none at all. 

When they moved to follow the Auror, Draco stopped to straighten Harry’s black suit jacket, and brush a stray lock of hair from his face. Harry smiled an unaffected smirk which he saw mirrored on Draco’s cool features. He removed the shaded lenses, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fingers and replaced them with his own glasses. Draco’s pewter gaze slid to the double doors that menacingly separated them from the ever-tipped scales of justice within. 

Draco’s waistcoat was blood red, and Harry could not help but consider how many articles would draw allegory to Hester Prynne’s infamous ‘A’. He wondered how many more would reference Hogwarts. Such trite pabulum. Draco tugged the white cuffs of his dress shirt’s sleeves, elegantly, haughtily, even. Harry knew he held no love for this place, and it, in return, held no love for him. The media had painted Draco as depraved. Press syndicates across the Wizarding World had used only the most low filth to describe him. And so here they stood. Exposed. If the world wanted to paint them sinners, then so they shall be. 

***

Timestamp: 0:13:47

On the bed, Mr. Potter leans over the smaller form of Mr. Malfoy. Mr. Potter touches the cheek of Mr. Malfoy’s face. The two men kiss for roughly two minutes and ten seconds, during which Mr. Malfoy is seen biting Mr. Potter’s lower lip. 

Mr. Potter appears to use his knee between Mr. Malfoy’s legs as a means of arousal. Mr. Malfoy’s head falls back and sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard. 

“Hard for me, already?” Mr. Potter asks. Mr. Malfoy does not respond verbally. Mr. Malfoy proceeds to unbutton his trousers. At this point, Mr. Potter’s hand is obscured beneath the waistband of Mr. Malfoy’s pants. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard. 

***  

“Ready, love?” Harry asked, taking Draco’s pointed chin in his hand and watching his pewter gaze glint with an indignant fire. 

“Let them eat their hearts out,” he purred. Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s, tasting his resilience, and the honeyed sweetness of his pride. The Ministry had all but disavowed themselves from Harry in light of this scandal. Once the morning star, now the devil. It was all such rot. Such a bloody charade. The doors parted behind them, a familiar black bob strutting in, red smirk matching the soles of her stilettos. Her tight black pencil skirt hugged the womanly curve of her hips while her white blouse hung low on her chest exposing the milky lines of her collarbone.

“Apologies for my tardiness, boys,” she excused in a posh tone silvered with arrogance and the white hot desire to serve justice down the throats of every person whose hand had clenched around stones within the confines of their glass houses. Every pot to their kettles. “Shall we?” She had on a black capelet with a deep emerald lining tethered over her shoulders by a golden chain that billowed behind her as she strode towards the Wizengamot’s double doors. The attendants eyed her and she eyed them back. “Parkinson for the Defence.”

“This way,” the man on the right stated, pulling open the great wooden door. Pansy tilted her chin upright as she stepped over the threshold, and Draco and Harry straightened as they followed. Two nondescript chairs, a good two metres apart, sat at the centre of the circular room, and up on the bench, loomed the scrutinising presence of the Chief Warlock, Wilhelmina Brimstuck. Harry met her judgemental glare with a pejorative smile, taking a moment of brief gratification in the snarl that curled on her thin lips. 

***

Timestamp: 0:25:14

Mr. Malfoy is on his elbows and knees in front of Mr. Potter. Both men are nude. He is in profile to the camera. Mr. Potter puts his index and middle fingers on his right hand into his mouth. 

“Ready, love?” Mr. Potter asks. Mr. Potter’s hand is obscured behind Mr. Malfoy. Evidence suggests manual anal penetration. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“I can never believe how tight and soft you are, Draco,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Like silk,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Fuck me, Harry,” Mr. Malfoy says. His face is obscured against his arms. 

“Fuck me, please, darling,” Mr. Malfoy says.

“We’ll get there, love,” Mr. Potter says. Mr. Potter’s left hand is obscured behind Mr. Malfoy’s right thigh. Evidence suggests manual stimulation. Mr. Malfoy does not reply. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.  

***  

It took little time at all for the press to surge in like mud in the rain. They set up all manner of Charmed recording devices, filming whatever, and note-taking apparatus. Silent and hungry like a pack of looming wolves. Wilhelmina harrumphed a high-pitched ahem, tapping her wand against the edge of her dais and demanding the attention currently draped over Draco and Harry as they took their seats, arms and legs crossed defiantly, while Pansy stood between them. 

“It is my deepest wish that this be brief,” the Chief Warlock intoned, her eyes narrowed in condemnation. She was cocooned in the Wizengamot judiciary black robes and garnished in the traditional tall black hat denoting her authority, but Harry could see her for what she was. Hypocrite . He thought. All of them . “That justice may be swift in this courtroom today, such that the Wizarding World can move on from this most…unscrupulous of events.” Harry smiled brightly at that, hearing the photos of his self-righteousness snapping around him. 

“I assure you,” Pansy replied, arms wide with a theatricality that matched the utter farce that was this trial, the comedy of it all. “There can be no justice as long as my clients continue to be accused of crimes they could not and did not commit.” The chatter around the room grew to a cacophonous din until the bang of Wilhelmina’s gavel returned the facsimile of order to the court.

“Can you confirm for the court that you are Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy?” she droned, apathetically, but Harry could see the fear in her eyes. The Ministry may have the press tethered like broken ponies in the stables, but the court of public opinion had been riotous in their assessment of the Ministry and their handling, or lack thereof, of this sensitive situation. Harry and Draco verbally confirmed their identities for the court. “Harry Potter, you stand accused of indecent exposure.” Harry rolled his eyes. “Draco Malfoy, you stand accused of sexual assault and illegal distribution of pornographic materials.” Harry felt a swell of pride as Draco let out a full-throated ‘ ha ’ as she read the charges.

“You tried the man who stole the tape in question, and found him guilty, yet my clients sit here accused of the very same crime?” Pansy snapped, pointing with each hand to either side of her at Harry and Draco. “You mar the good name of justice with this obvious stunt.” The uproar returned, and Harry felt he could subsist entirely on the outrage of the corrupt men and women around him. That he could thrive on it and it alone. 

“Strike that from the record,” Wilhelmina snapped. “The results of that trial are of no relevance here. And for the record,” she hissed. “He was tried and found guilty of theft, an entirely different crime than what we are discussing today, or do you need me to explain to you the difference Miss Parkinson?” Harry could almost hear the blood boiling in Pansy’s veins.

“It’s Doctor and I know you know that. Your petty attempts to defame me in front of the court are as pathetic as this trial.” Bang . The gavel’s rap had become a sweet sound of retribution. “And what I need you to explain, your honour, is how my clients could be accused of distributing something they no longer possessed.” There was a long pause during which several of the Council whispered to each other or scribbled something down on their parchments. 

***

Timestamp: 0:26:46

Mr. Potter’s face is obscured. Mr. Potter’s left hand can be seen stroking Mr. Malfoy’s penis. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“F uck , darling,” Mr. Malfoy says.

“Oh, you do taste magnificent, love,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Don’t stop, Harry,” Mr. Malfoy says.

“I want you to come for me,” Mr. Potter says. 

“I’m so close, darling,” Mr. Malfoy says.

“Come for me, Draco,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Oh, fuck,” Mr. Malfoy says. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard. Mr. Malfoy’s alleged ejaculation can be seen on Mr. Potter’s hand. 

“So good, my love,” Mr. Potter says. Mr. Potter can be seen bringing his left hand to his own penis. 

“Such a good boy you are for me,” Mr. Potter says. 

***

“This may be a closed courtroom, Doctor Parkinson, but the world needs to know that the Ministry cannot abide by the rampant disregard for decency that has plagued our community. The assault of the hero who slayed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. That filth—”

“You watched it, though,” Harry said, and the room stilled to silence under the authority he still possessed. Under the leaden weight of his infamy. “Yeah?” 

“Strike that from the re-” Wilhelmina began.

“Did you or did you not watch the filth in question?” Pansy asked, the clerk cringed, unable to strike a sanctioned inquiry from the record. “Can the Defence be made certain you are, at the very least, familiar with the evidence presented against my clients?”

“For the purposes of understanding the crime we are addressing, everyone in this court was forced to-”

“So you did, then?” Draco asked, cutting off her equivocation. “You watched it?” 

“It’s a yes or no question, your honour,” Pansy explained, crossing her arms in such burning indignation, Harry would not be surprised to see scorch marks beneath the woman’s spiked stiletto heels. “Because, of course, we have the deposition, and the transcript, but I would like to know if you’ve seen the evidence in question.”  Pansy added, twisting the standard viewing of all evidence from protocol to indulgence. Wilhelmina licked her lips, anxiously, as all the eyes in the room darted this way and that, no longer able to stare down in judgement.

“I am not the one on trial here, and I will have no more of this chicanery in my courtroom!” The sharp note of her raised voice was as good as a ‘yes’. 

“Two billion views, they said outside,” Harry remarked, in a conversational tone, delighting in the bulging veins and twitching lips of the puritanical hypocrisy around him. Wilhelmina’s eyes went wide with utter and complete shock. “Reckon some of you have done more than just seen it, yeah?”

“ That is -” Wilhelmina seethed, her voice little more than a hiss through her clenched jaw. 

“How many times did you watch the tape, your honour? Council? Press?” Pansy postulated, her palms up as though granting them the floor. “The entire Wizarding community is probably only some five hundred million and yet,” she snapped the ‘t’ off like a dry twig. “Two billion views in just two weeks.” She paused, letting the silence be a sweet note. “But I never was one for maths,” she quipped. “Shall we play it now, I wonder? You sit your Saviour here, a crown, not of thorns but the biting castigation of the press, atop his head. Shall we all bear witness, then, Pontius?” Bang .

***

Timestamp: 0:27:01

“Please, darling,” Mr. Malfoy says. 

“Fuck me, Harry,” Mr. Malfoy says. Mr. Potter is seen anally penetrating Mr. Malfoy. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“God, you feel incredible, Draco,” Mr. Potter says. Mr. Malfoy does not respond verbally. 

“I love the look of my cock inside you,” Mr. Potter says. 

“I love filling you with my hot come then watching it spill out of you. Watching it run down your thighs,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Painting you with me,” Mr. Potter says. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“[unintelligible - redacted],” Mr. Malfoy says.

“Yes, love?” Mr. Potter asks. Mr. Malfoy does not immediately respond verbally. It is twenty-five seconds before Mr. Malfoy speaks again. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“Come on me, darling,” Mr. Malfoy says. 

“I want you to paint me,” Mr. Malfoy says. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

***

The gavel’s silencing effect had become far less potent the longer the trial went on. It was evident that the Ministry intended to portray Draco as an agent of corruption, a predator, even if the evidence entirely to the contrary had been witnessed over two billion times. The idea of the Wizarding World’s Golden Boy willfully engaging in ‘acts of sexual extravagance’ (a term both Harry and Draco had come to quite enjoy) was not in line with the image the Ministry had hoped to leverage as propaganda to maintain peace in a world ill-designed for such a concept. 

With tensions in the Wizarding public running hot as more and more convicted Death Eaters skirt Azkaban, and the Ministry looking like a bunch of cockless mutts, the public turned their sights on Harry more and more. It became commonplace for the press to demand his opinion on any and all political happenings. He was twenty-six, but they didn’t care. The public wanted someone to turn to. They wanted sense. But as the public opinion became more and more reliant on Harry’s political views, and his political views becoming more and more sceptical of the Ministry’s inaction, the Ministry had begun to fight back. Even more so once Harry and Draco’s relationship had been outed to the public. 

And then came the tape. Everything changed after the tape. The press spun webs of lies and while some of the world gladly tangled themselves among the silken threads, most agreed; the only corruption was within the Ministry. It cascaded from there. The press no longer acted as the public’s eyes and ears into matters unseen. They were liars , and the tape made that entirely apparent. The more the press condemned Draco as an aggressor, the more the public condemned the press as snakes. Their puppet strings had been revealed and the public outcry against the press and, more importantly, the Ministry, mounted. 

“Let’s end this charade,” Wilhelmina sighed, though her panic was as plain on her face as her muddy brown lipstick. “How do you, Harry Potter, plead on the matter of indecent exposure?” 

“Not guilty,” Pansy stated for him. It was fact. It was ironclad. Cameras snapped, and Pansy tilted her chin up as though granting them her best angle. 

“On the matter of sexual assault against Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, how do you plead?” Draco laughed again, and Harry wished he could kiss the man. His courage in the face of such malignance. His strength. Harry felt he could not possibly love Draco Malfoy more than he did at this moment. As he laughed in the face of adversity. 

“Not guilty,” Pansy repeated. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she added for good measure. 

“On the manner of illegal distribution of pornographic materials, Draco Malfoy, how do you plead?” 

“Not guilty.” 

“Wilhelmina…” A nasally men’s voice came from one of the robed Council. “Perhaps we should reconsider. They are the victims of a grave injustice, not the perpetrators.” Bang . But the gavel was little more than a toy, now. Wilhelmina’s army had begun to dissent. 

***

Timestamp: 0:29:35

The camera has been moved from its stand. Mr. Malfoy can be seen lying on his back. Evidence suggests that Mr. Potter is kneeling over him, holding the camera. 

“God, you are beautiful like this,” Mr. Potter says. 

“Flushed and needy,” Mr. Potter says. Mr. Potter’s right hand is seen touching Mr. Malfoy’s mouth. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.  

“Darling, please,” Mr. Malfoy says. 

“Drench me, Harry,” Mr. Malfoy says. The camera shifts again. Evidence suggests that Mr. Potter has moved the camera from his right hand to his left. For twenty-six seconds, the frame only shows the wall of Mr. Potter’s bedroom. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

***

“This is wrong, Wilhelmina,” an older woman who reminds Harry of Amelia Bones in more ways than just her elegant demeanour. Perhaps there could be justice yet? “These are two young consenting adults who have had their privacy and lives turned inside out by your puritanical crusade.”

“This is a bloody witch trial!” A heavy-set older man cried, one chubby finger pointed in the air. “We’ve all seen it. We all know the only crime here is allowing you to attempt to sully these boys’ names.” Harry could not help the smirk that crested his features.

“Draco Malfoy’s name is already filth! The man should be in Azkaban!” Came another cry across the room. 

“That needs to be stricken from the record!” An bespectacled man called, pointing to the courtroom clerk. “There will be no double jeopardy in this court!”  

“We can’t allow the Wizarding World’s children to admire such depravity!” A slender gent with a manicured white beard explained, gesticulating urgently. 

“Have we slipped so far from reason that consensual sex is seen as depravity now? What is it that you’re really upset about, Reginald? The fact you can’t stop thinking about them?” Not-Amelia Bones demanded. Pansy’s dark brows rose. Her eyes slid to catch Harry’s, a glint of triumph behind them. 

***

Timestamp: 0:30:09

  Mr. Potter’s right hand around his own penis can be seen in the bottom of the frame, above Mr. Malfoy’s face. 

“Draco, I’m going to come,” Mr. Potter says. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

“[unintelligible - redacted]” Mr. Potter says. Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard. Mr. Potter can be seen ejaculating onto Mr. Malfoy’s face, his hair, and into his mouth. 

Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard. For thirteen minutes and twenty-four seconds, the camera points only to the white ceiling of Mr. Potter’s bedroom.

“I love you so very much,” [redacted - unconfirmed] says. 

“Yes, but I loved you first, darling,” [redacted - unconfirmed] says.

Sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard.

***

It was anarchy. The maybe two dozen Council members in complete chaos. A schism between those who agreed with Wilhelmina and the media and those who agreed with the public tore the Council apart. It was music, then. It was victory. Pansy cleared her throat, clapping her hands together to gain the floor. While the gavel had lost its authority, Pansy’s had grown absolute. 

“I. Demand. A mistrial ,” her voice echoed in the round chamber as the chatter faded. Half of the council stood in applause while the other half jeered, slamming fists against their podiums. Cameras snapped all around, pointing no longer just at Harry and Draco, but at the Council. At Wilhelmina. She turned to the floor, bringing her hand to obscure her face.

“I call for a mistrial!” Pansy repeated over the din, driving the sword of righteousness into the heart of corruption. 

“A vote!” The woman who had first spoken against Wilhelmina’s crusade demanded. 

“Seconded!” The heavy-set bloke called. “Let it be a vote!” When the room had finally calmed to a tense silence, Harry shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hand. Twenty Council members. They needed eleven votes for it to be deemed a mistrial.

They received eighteen. The case was dismissed, all charges dropped. 

The ripple effect of the ordeal was instantaneous. The Ministry called for a vote of no confidence against Wilhelmina Brimstock as the Chief Warlock. She resigned before the actual vote could be cast, and nearly a dozen policies were brought to the Wizengamot floor regarding the weaponization of the press. News syndicates continued to hunt Harry and Draco, and while their reporting had dulled to little more than tabloids and gossip, the phrase ‘ sounds of alleged pleasure can be heard’ had inadvertently become a piece of Wizarding history.

Chapter Text

“Not yet, princess, you can wait a bit longer,” he smirked more than said it, knowing very well a statement more false could not possibly exist. 

“Darling, please ,” the word seemed pulled and stretched to mirror his muscles drawn taut and shaking. Sweat glinted on his furrowed brow. Such a dramatic thing. 

“So impatient,” but the ‘t’ was cut off by a desperate whine. Just one high-pitched forsaken note. Harry could not allay the cresting of his grin across his features. “Just breathe.” The gasp that followed would have to suffice, though it would have been more effective had he not held his breath after that. “Out, too. Both parts are important.” 

“ Harry ,” he cried out the name, and his captive breath rushed out with it. His whole body trembled, fingers tethered in the sheets. The tears that welled in his eyes, squeezed shut so tightly his nose crinkled a bit, had run over his flushed pink cheeks. His bottom lip held hostage under his teeth.

“I am here,” Harry consoled, stilling his fingers, letting the tides roll back from the shore. “Keep breathing.” His chest rose and fell quickly, grunting a frustrated yelp, and Harry chuckled softly in response. White knuckles tangled the white cotton of the sheets in tight fists, the vasculature in his forearms bulging in long strands just beneath the milky white skin. “Oh, you do look gorgeous like this.” He cried another soft whine, stroked by the praise just as much as Harry’s touch. Just as much as Harry’s fingers thrusting within the heated silk of his body. Head tilting back, it seemed he found something that came near to breath, though his body still clenched and worked around Harry’s fingers. Though he still quivered at every brush, every featherlight caress. 

“Darling.” It was more hiccough than word, new tears sliding down the trails forged by the old ones, dotting the sheets below his head. He shifted, then cried at all of the sensations, even the slight movement, set blazing through his languishing body, burning his nerves to crackling cinders. “I have to,” he pleaded through pouting pink lips, swollen and chapped from their earlier fun. 

“No you don’t,” Harry remarked, keeping his voice low and quiet knowing even the vibrations of sound across his skin could shove him over the edge. And we wouldn’t want that. Harry thought, absolutely feasting on the site of him enervated and begging, fighting his body’s demand with every ounce of will he could muster. Gorging himself on Draco’s desperation. “You’re in control, princess,” he encouraged. “Just don’t stop breathing.” Draco sucked in a long gasping stream of air as though breaching the surface of the swells under which he’d so nearly drowned. “You are incredible.” Harry knew the adulation might prove too much, but he just had to tell him. “A masterpiece.” 

“Harry, please ,” Draco whined, the slow and steady rhythm of his tamed breath unravelling to a ragged pant under the sultry caress of Harry’s praise. “Let me, please, darling.” 

“I am not stopping you,” Harry teased, knowing that whatever sound came next would likely be a sharp lash to his eardrums. Draco cursed, but it was such a screeching sound that Harry could scarcely discern what he’d said. 

“I want you to let me,” he whined, one crystalline bead of sweat trailing his temple and mingling with the dried tears over his cheek. “Please, darling,” he whispered, his pulse pounded through the fat vein along his reddened cock. “Please, tell me I can.” Harry twisted the fingers inside of Draco’s overstimulated entrance and he keened a sharp, throaty note as though his living soul could not fit around his body’s need . As though he were being consumed by it. Burned to ash by it. 

“Look at you, sweet thing,” Harry remarked, his tone belying the wonder he felt watching Draco splinter. Watching him split at his seams. Watching him stretched so thin he’d become gossamer, and yet he held the razor’s edge. “Such a good boy for me.” The plea was little more than a whimper now, tears welling and falling anew. Blonde plastered to his sweat-drenched brow. A vision. Perfection. “Don’t stop breathing.”

“Darling?” the word ticked up at the end, curling like a ribbon drawn along a blade with a tentative hope. 

“Remember, that I’m here,” Harry advised, watching the rise and fall of Draco’s scarred and stunning chest quicken in anticipation. “Just breathe.”

“ Harry— ”

“Come for me, princess,” Harry whispered, a low rumble like distant thunder. “Come for me.” Draco’s breath hitched as his body tightened and quaked around Harry’s thrusting fingers, and inside the tight fist that stroked his throbbing cock. The cry that came next was a blessed thing, all finally and thank you . All just for you, Harry like a sweet song only he could hear. Thick strands of hot come glazed Draco’s stomach, dotting the fine platinum hairs that trailed beneath his navel with white pearls of release while he whined and moaned, tears trailing his cheeks once more with the cool relief of his orgasm. “You are a wonder, Draco. Miraculous.” 

The pooling white on his belly spilled down his sides when his abdominal muscles worked and twitched, each racking spasm pumping a few more drops of milky wet from the swollen tip of his beautiful cock. He was art. Truly. Draco’s breath was shallow and ragged long after his body calmed to mild aftershocks like small thrums of thunder even after the storm had passed. He brought one arm over his face, draping it across his forehead in a dramatic pose. Harry slowly freed his fingers, indulging in the sweet small sounds that resonated from his throat like plucked violin strings. 

“I love you,” Draco breathed. “So very much.” Harry moved to sit by his side, brushing a gentle caress over his shoulder. 

“The world did not know love before I found you, Draco,” Harry sighed. “And it will never find its equal.”

Chapter Text

Harry crossed his knees, leaning his head against the cool of the glass and enjoying the way the Scottish hillside rolled listlessly along the vista. The September morning was bright, puffy white clouds glinted with the carefree glow of the sun peaking over the east horizon. Another year, another class, all in the repeating cycle in which Harry had found a contented calm. Hogwarts had always been his home, and teaching there, a dream. 

He breathed a long, slow inhale, taking in the familiarity of the car around him. The forest green striped velvet worn to suede, the scratched glass of the window, the scent of unintrusive cleaning Charms like fresh cotton and morning dew. It was all timeless. The small breeze as the door to the car slid open drew Harry’s eyes from the sprawling landscape to the white blonde and cool grey eyes of Draco Malfoy. He wore traditional black robes, split open at the front now that he was inside, revealing the emerald green waistcoat over his black dress shirt beneath. As professors, they were supposed to remain House-neutral, but sometimes a glint of pride broke through. Harry gestured to the open bench across from him, letting the Gryffindor cufflink on his deep red shirt catch the morning light. 

Malfoy placed his black leather brief, the swooping, curling script of the monogrammed ‘DLM’ catching Harry’s attention, up above before removing his robes and hanging them on the hook just inside the door. Harry found that, like the landscape, he watched the effortless existence of Malfoy in all of these inane ministrations. Tugging the cuff of his sleeve or the hem of his waistcoat then adjusting his black silk satin tie and flattening the front of his grey trousers. Like the landscape, it all held a sort of innate beauty. It always had. Malfoy sat, crossing his long legs and quietly excusing the way his tan oiled leather oxfords brushed Harry’s black loafers. 

“Have a decent summer, then, Malfoy?” Harry asked, casually, even though the way the sun beamed in the man’s face bordered on fine art, and sent his heart fluttering behind his ribs like a canary in a cage. It had been eleven years since the war, but only four since Draco Malfoy strode back into Harry’s life. Where he’d gone or what he’d done before then, Harry still did not know, but one day, on the teacher’s manifest, there he was. In lilting, elegant script. ‘Draco L. Malfoy’. And then ‘Astronomy’. It had not been then, and continued to not be now, what Harry had expected. Perhaps Potions or Alchemy. Hell, even History of Magic would have been more believable. 

“Fine,” Malfoy replied, his eyes staying out over the vista a moment longer before flicking to Harry. “Yours?” 

“The same,” Harry replied, a bit contrived. It had been four years of this. Four years of small talk, and little else, so it make not sense whatsoever that Harry was just a fucking mess over the man. He scratched absently at his close-shaved beard, adjusting his glasses. Fidgeting. Uneasy, as he always seemed to be around the stone-eyed man who prized the stars. Off centre, as a spinning top just before it tumbles. Malfoy’s unaffected glance shifted over Harry’s body, and though it was little more than a half a heartbeat in length, he felt like those eyes were peering around inside of him. He thought for a moment on other things of Malfoy’s he wouldn’t mind inside of him then cleared his throat wondering who Vanished his sanity.

“You look good,” Malfoy offered, conversationally, before turning back to the window as though Harry’s heart had not stalled in his chest. 

“T-thanks,” he croaked, like an utter buffoon. Malfoy tucked a lock of argent blonde behind his ear and Harry found himself transfixed on the white striation that traced down his neck and behind the black collar of his shirt. Harry swallowed and his saliva felt suddenly like paste. 

“What’s got you inside out?” Malfoy asked, but it wasn’t in that sneering tone Harry had come to associate with the man, it was cordial. Kind, even. His brows pulled together, a line etching between them in what appeared, genuine concern. Harry shook his head, gaze fixed on Malfoy’s ear where it met his sharp jawline, unable to face those eyes. 

“I think,” Harry heard himself say, though he could not recall making the conscious effort to do so. The millimetre of contact where the side of Malfoy’s shoe grazed the toe of Harry’s felt alive somehow. Electric. “I, um,” Harry stammered, looking to the door because now even the perfect line of Malfoy’s jaw and his pointed chin seemed too much to take in. He was quite tall. Fit, as well. Of a height with Harry, but slimmer, and lithe in a way that made him want to run his hands over all that porcelain skin. All that Malfoy .  

“Would you prefer it if I left?” Malfoy asked, and Harry hated the way his words tightened as though prodded with a sharp point. Hurt, or otherwise insulted. Harry cleared his throat, trying to get a hold of himself. 

“No,” he said, too enthusiastically. “No, you’re fine,” he added, then sputtered slightly. “It’s fine, I mean.” Christ, Harry . He thought. Malfoy sighed. It fogged a small bit of the window, and Harry loathed the part of him that wondered what that warm breath would feel like on his neck. For god’s sake . 

“We’ve worked together for four years, Potter,” Malfoy remarked. He sounded so tired all of a sudden. Exhausted by, what seemed, their instability. “Can’t we be civil?” Harry knew he was doing something just awful with his face, but he seemed to have lost all ability to control it. He just didn’t know how to be around Malfoy. He didn’t know how to exist in this space where his mind ran sprinting to the sixth floor bathroom, hurtling towards the Room of Requirement, the Astronomy Tower, the Manor. There was just so much between them, so much that Harry only faced when he looked into those storm cloud eyes. So much that he shoved deep into the shadowy corners of himself when Malfoy was not near. How could he say ‘I don’t want to be civil, I want to be depraved ’? How could he admit that? 

“Evidently not,” Malfoy muttered under his breath, and Harry realised he’d said nothing when he needed to say something. Anything .

“Sorry,” Harry managed, barely, suddenly feeling his chest crushed under the weight of this conversation. Malfoy’s eyes darted to the corners as though he did not trust Harry to be genuine. Harry ran an anxious hand through his hair, feeling run through by Malfoy’s assessment. 

“Did I do something?” he asked, and Harry felt fucking stabbed , because no, of course not, the only thing he’d done is sit in a train car with his coworker who was a complete nutter. 

“No,” Harry breathed the word like a laugh with no humour. “No, god, Malfoy, no,” he stammered. “It’s me, not you, mate.” He caught the subtle twitch of Malfoy’s dark blonde brow at the overly familiar term. “Er, Malfoy,” Harry attempted to correct himself a million years too late. 

“Then what is it?” Malfoy snapped. “Is it honestly that hard to have a minute-long conversation with me?” Harry’s cheeks were suddenly burning at how sideways this had all slid. How wholly he’d mucked up this interaction. He clamped a steadying hand over his mouth as though willing himself to not say the words currently battering his teeth to escape. “Is it truly that awful?” 

“No, Draco—”

“ Draco ?” he spat his own name back at Harry in obvious bewilderment, and Harry could almost hear the wisping tatters of his last remaining sanity blowing off in the breeze. 

“Sorry. Malfoy,” Harry corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose under his glasses and wishing to be struck dead on the spot. “I assure you, the problem is not you .”

“Then what is it, Harry ?” Hearing his name in Malfoy’s posh Wiltshire lilt sent a wildly inconvenient heat to his thighs. One stray lock of blonde had fallen into his face and Harry had to squeeze his hands to fists so as not to reach out and brush it away, not to cup the man’s cheek and say ‘the problem is I’m a fucking idiot. You make me absolutely daft and there’s just nothing to be done for it.’. Just then, Malfoy ran his right middle finger along the hairline on the left side of his face, brushing the strand from his eyes in what had to be the most meaninglessly elegant motion. Harry felt whatever had been twisting and tugging at him, whatever had been crushing him, dissolve just then. 

“The problem is I’m a fucking idiot,” he said, running his hand over his chin and tugging somewhat at his beard as he spoke. Malfoy considered him reluctant to respond immediately or at all. “You make me absolutely daft and there’s nothing to be done for it,” he admitted, feeling the way Malfoy’s eyes widened, not in horror, but in something else. Something softer. Surprise? “It’s always been like this,” Harry sighed, letting his head fall back against the seat. “You’ve always done this to me, and I’ve never once known how to handle it.” There was an endless pause or perhaps Harry had simply died and now floated aimlessly in the inky black void of nothingness.

“I see,” Malfoy said, ripping Harry back from the great beyond which almost seemed cruel given he now had to face what he’d just said . Harry swallowed again, this time his saliva was cement. He coughed awkwardly, wondering where all the air in the room had gone. Where all the air in the world had gone. His heart pounded as though trying to escape his chest. The edges of his vision blurred. Malfoy brought a contemplative hand to his mouth as though pondering a particularly perplexing maths question. His grey eyes slid to Harry as though pondering him . He frowned and Harry felt his soul leak out of his arsehole. “All of that was just going on in your head in between ‘fine’ and ‘you look good’?” Then Harry frowned. 

“What?” he snapped, shaking his head and urging it to think or otherwise just explode so he could be done with this encounter. “No, I— well, yes, actually.” Malfoy’s lips pursed in a pitying expression and Harry sighed, letting his head fall back against the seat again. “Just let me die here.” 

“I scarcely imagine, even if I did, that you’d stay as such for very long.” Harry scowled, meeting Malfoy’s expression which was something akin to humour ? Was that a joke? Had Malfoy made an actual joke? Malfoy cleared his throat. “Sorry, perhaps that was in poor taste.” Harry breathed a thin laugh more in awe than in amusement. 

“I can’t honestly say anyone has ever made light of my death before,” Harry explained. “Good one.” Malfoy cringed a bit, and somehow it was a relief to see he was suffering as much as Harry was just then. He laughed, little more than an errant breath, but it bubbled from deep in his belly and Harry could not help his response to the absurdity of it all. “Honestly,” he added. Another pause, though this one didn’t feel as world ending as the last. Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes drifting out over the distant mountains, absently, before that look of deep calculation crested his features again.

“ I make you daft,” he stated, then scowled a bit. “What on earth is it that I’ve always done to you ?” He asked, echoing Harry’s words back to him, drawing them out. Harry groaned, letting his head fall into his hands at how bloody mad he sounded. At how intentionally dull he was playing. Because that’s what it was. That’s what that little golden glint in Malfoy’s otherwise iron gaze held. Mischief. Glee. 

“Don’t torture me, Malfoy,” Harry sighed. “You know what.” At that, Malfoy’s feigned confusion melted away, replaced in its entirety with the cheshire grin he’d let poke through like sunlight through gossamer clouds.

“Yes, but you can’t fault me for wanting to hear it from you, now, can you?” His tone was honeyed with delight, absolutely saccharine. “What is it, then, for which nothing can be done?” He emphasised the word with feigned drama, but his voice was silk and velvet and it sent a heated tingling through Harry’s body. A very small, pathetic noise clawed its way up Harry’s throat and tore itself free. “What do I do to you?” He asked, turning to face Harry straight on and then placing his elbows on his parted knees and resting his chin on his steepled hands. “Harry,” he added, his tone lowering to a bassy note that sent a shiver diving down Harry’s spine and pooling between his thighs. Malfoy’s argent stare was penetrating, but it was his thin-lipped smirk that splintered Harry to kindling. 

“You—”

“Yes?” Malfoy urged, and Harry huffed a conflicted exhale. 

“Malfoy…”

“I think ‘Draco’ will suffice at this stage,” he mused in that tone so thick and syrupy it could be drizzled over pudding. Harry groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

“God, I’m so fucking hard I can’t think straight,” Harry admitted, then a moment later realised he’d done so out loud . Malfoy raised one absolutely ominous dark brow. 

“And there’s nothing you can think of to be done for that? Truly nothing , Harry?” Malfoy, well, okay, Draco now, he supposed, asked in mock inquiry. “I could make a suggestion, but I feel you’re being intentionally obtuse, I just cannot understand why.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Such a prat,” he sighed. 

“Yes, but it seems that’s what you’re into,” Draco mused, living for this, subsisting on Harry’s humiliation and just utterly thriving off of his frustration. Draco stood, just then, and drew the short curtain that hung to one side of the small window on the door shut. The shink of the drape along the rail made Harry jump, but it was Draco’s eyes, gleaming with hunger, with honest starvation , that made his heart nearly leap from his throat. 

“What—” But Harry’s question was swallowed in its entirety by Draco’s mouth over his. His tongue slotted between his lips, invading Harry while his nimble hands had buttons falling free of their once secure holes in seconds. Draco pulled the sides of Harry’s shirt open, tugging it free of his waistband, then placing fair palms over Harry’s tanned chest to shove him back against the window. God, he felt expensive. He tasted of clove cigarettes and smelled of posh bergamot and musk cologne and on his right middle finger was a jewelled silver ring that brushed against the sparse pelt of dark hairs across Harry’s chest. Draco nipped Harry’s lower lip sending a craggy rumbling hum rippling up his throat, coating their kiss in his need. Taking that cue, Draco split the flies of Harry’s black trousers and sent a similar sweet note of desire over Harry’s tongue. 

“You weren’t lying,” Draco purred, running a thumb over Harry’s bulge; his cock was so hard it could split diamonds. “‘Course you’re hung,” he mused, but all Harry could manage in reply were mewling whines into the kiss that felt like stepping into the warmth on a frigid winter night. That felt like breathing after dying. Draco grabbed a handful of Harry’s fat bulge, squeezing until he let out a cry that Draco muffled with another scorching kiss coupled with a look of scathing warning. “I’m going to fuck you, Harry,” he whispered against Harry’s whimpering lips. “Can you be quiet?” Harry gasped against him, his hips rolling helplessly against Draco’s hand, as he nodded. He hadn’t entirely pictured Draco fucking him in any of the myriad wet dreams, daydreams, errant thoughts, or hypothetical situations he’d concocted in his mind, but now it seemed more important even, than air. Now, it just sort of made sense. 

Draco kneaded his palm over Harry’s bulge, coaxing a small damp spot to the front of his pale blue boxers while he kissed away each pleading simper. He used his free hand to work the tongue of his belt free, then split the flies of his heather grey trousers, tugging his half-hard cock from beneath his pants. In this respect, Harry’s mental image had not given the man enough credit. His swollen pink prick was thinner than Harry’s, but long and sleek like the rest of the man, and entirely bigger than Harry had expected. Draco drew back a bit, breathing heavily, and stroking himself hard right the fuck there, in front of Harry, and it dawned on him that even in his most wild fascinations, Draco was never like this . Not this bold or this brave, not this commanding. 

“Turn around, Professor,” Draco growled, and Harry pushed himself upright and did what the man said. Also worth noting, it was a ruddy train car on a moving train , so Harry’s options were limited where comfort was concerned. He turned to face the window with one knee on the bench, and all at once, it all seemed mad. Not that anyone was just faffing about in the Scottish highlands, but he suddenly felt so exposed . In the glass’s reflection he saw his flushed face, his messy hair falling into his eyes, his shirt open, tie parted, and he thought, dear god, what on earth am I doing right now ? But then just over his shoulder he saw Draco. Their eyes didn’t meet because Draco was too busy pouring over Harry, sliding his hand under the fabric of Harry’s shirt and feeling the warmth of his skin, cupping his arse and squeezing the bulky muscle there, prizing him like something he wanted. Like something he needed .  

Draco pulled the waistband of Harry’s trousers and boxers down over his arse, exposing more of his body to the man’s urgent gaze which Harry felt on his skin like heat. Like the fucking sun. He pressed a palm against the window, the tip of his hard cock touching the cool glass as Draco leaned against him, driving his length against Harry’s tailbone and moaning deep and low in his throat. Harry felt the steam of Draco’s breath on the back of his neck and he shivered into the man, letting his head fall heavy against the glass with a thunk . It felt better than he’d ever imagined. Draco nuzzled his face against the nape of Harry’s neck, then up into his dark hair with a soft sigh like something that sounded like relief, like something that sounded like finally . One of his hands clutched Harry’s bare hips a moment before the other reached around his thigh to take the girth of his length in hand. 

Harry breathed a silent fog against the glass. Draco’s hand worked over him as though learning him. His manicured fingers traced Harry’s dripping tip, sliding over the pink swell of his head and down over each ridge, each vein as though studying him. Memorising him. He continued his tactile assessment, pressing his body against Harry’s to be able to reach his swollen bollocks, rolling the soft skin between his fingers, then cupping his heft in his hand. The vibrato of his close-lipped moan tickled behind Harry’s ear. 

“ Merlin , Harry, you feel so fucking full ,” he whispered against Harry’s jugular sending goosebumps skittering over his entire body. Harry was panting, breathing as though sprinting while Draco Malfoy squeezed his balls so engorged with come, he was more than just a bit likely to drench the fucking window in it. “You ever been fucked before?” He asked into the space just behind Harry’s ear that existed for no other purpose than to make him keen and tremble beneath Draco. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, then for some reason added, “you?” Draco hummed a sweet sound, tracing his lips around the shell of Harry’s ear. 

“Not with a cock like this, I haven’t,” he purred, his grip on Harry sending his cock twitching and throbbing while his apparent fascination with Harry’s size sent a flush to his cheeks. A moment and a hastily, almost desperately, cast Lubrication Charm later, Draco’s slicked fingers were pressed against Harry’s tight entrance as though awaiting a ruddy invitation. Harry moaned an agonised cry he cut short in his throat as he tossed his head back then let it fall heavily against the window again. “Desperate for me inside you, Harry?” And it was that fucking voice again. That voice like polished silver, like butter for the scones. 

“Yes,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth, and it was true. He felt he couldn’t wait another minute, he couldn’t stand it. 

“I will make it worth the wait,” Draco whispered against the bony protrusion at the top of Harry’s spine, making him fog the window again with his huffing breath that was more steam than air. The fingers eased into him and Harry tensed, instinctively, at the intrusion. Draco used his free hand to gently caress the outside of Harry’s hip and thigh as he pressed kisses against his back which Harry felt like a soft heat even through the fabric of his shirt. He moved only the smallest bit, in and out of Harry with patient and practised grace until his body stretched to accommodate him. Harry bit his fist at the easy, slow, undulating thrust into him. Draco’s fingers were as curious inside of him as they had been on his fat cock, swirling and feeling him as though seeing Harry with his hands. Reading him. 

“Merlin, you feel brilliant, Harry,” Draco groaned, languidly against his back. “I can’t wait to feel you on my cock.” His fingers twisted inside Harry, curling just slightly against his swollen insides and sending several drops of white dribbling from his cock. It slicked against the window. It felt bloody depraved, really. Fucking like this, smearing himself all over the window of a train car he may have sat in in his first year. God, somehow thinking about that made it even hotter, made Harry’s cock tense at its base and his thighs burn. 

“Do it,” Harry snapped. “I want to come with you inside me,” he added, entirely shocked both by how true that statement was and how readily he’d spoken it. Something about Draco had him so lax and pliant, split open like a ripe peach and dripping for the man. 

“Close already?” Draco purred, pushing up Harry’s shirt to trail his lips along his spine. Harry whined against the window, arching back against his fist as another couple of drops daubed the window. 

“You have no idea,” Harry admitted, breathlessly. “I’ve nearly lost it from so much less. Passing you in the corridor, watching you eat in the Great Hall. Fuck , Draco, the things I’ve done to you in my mind.” Draco pulled his fingers free with a haste that belied the effect Harry’s confession had had on the man. Another Charm and the slick heat of his cock was slotting in between Harry’s arsecheeks, kissing his entrance as Harry bit off a cry of pure thrill. When Draco eased into him, Harry gasped at how hot and hard he was. How completely he filled him, how every ridge and curve of his length seemed to slide perfectly into Harry’s insides like a lock and bloody key. 

“ Oh , Harry,” Draco breathed, then let out a soft desperate sound that made the pressure in Harry’s low belly tightened to a dense coil of mounting need. Draco’s hands brushed over Harry’s hips, his arse, his thighs with a desire echoed in the thrum of his cock inside Harry. “I will not last like this,” he breathed, gasping after he spoke as though drowning. It was all for the best, then, because Harry was riding a fine line, he was so close even with his cock pressed against the fucking window. Draco had him undone. Had him full to the very brim and nearly sloshing over the edge. “Can I come inside of you?” Draco asked, and it almost took Harry by surprise that he’d be so cordial about it. 

“Yeah,” Harry panted, licking his lips at the idea of what it would feel like when Draco spilled into him, when he coated his insides with his warm release. He moaned, feeling as though anything at all would have him doing the very fucking same against the window of the Hogwarts Express. “Drench my insides, Draco,” he said, before he could stop himself. At that, Draco thrusted into him hard, his cock driving against every nerve, every fold as though intent to ignite him from the inside. Harry’s head tipped back and Draco clapped his hand over his mouth a split second before he keened into his palm. Fat streaks of liquid white glazed the window in a perverse display, smearing it with each urgent thrust of Draco’s cock inside of him, slathering whatever come was not already dripping down the pane. 

“ Oh, fuck ,” Draco gasped, and Harry felt it. He felt the hot wet spill. He felt the splash of Draco’s come inside of him, filling him up, painting him. Harry moaned into Draco’s palm, still mercifully clapped to his face because despite what he’d implied earlier, Harry could not be quiet. Not like this. Not with Draco Malfoy’s cock sliding along his tight arse, lubricated now by his own release. Not with Draco shuddering behind him, breathing puffs of fire against his neck and biting the sounds of his orgasm back to needy little simpers that threatened to make Harry hard all over again. After Draco stilled, he slid his wet cock free of Harry’s arse, and Harry made a motion for his wand but Draco’s long fingers clamped down into the meat of his arsecheek, halting him.

“Don’t you dare move,” he rasped. Harry felt Draco peeling him apart, spreading him and indulging in the view of his thick load dripping out over the underside of Harry’s balls and down the insides of his thighs. “Merlin, you look good like this,” Draco breathed, his tone was one of honest wonder. “As you so eloquently put it, drenched in me.” Harry shivered at that. At the implication of being anything in Draco because it sat shoulder to shoulder with being anything to Draco, which was just so very near anything with Draco. All of which lay beyond the event horizon at this point because the entire train car smelled of them and their sex, and Harry’s come was smeared against the window, and the idea of going back to a world where this was not a part had Harry’s heart clenching in his chest. 

“Fuck,” Harry sighed, letting his head rest against his forearm on the glass while Draco hedonistically delighted in the sight of his wet arsehole. Why did he have so many fucking emotions and why were they all pushed to the surface and spilling out of him in much the same motif as what was going on with his backside just then? “Draco,” he croaked, receiving only an absent-minded ‘hm?’ in response. “This can’t just be this.” What was it about Draco Malfoy that had the truth dripping out of him? Must every aspect of him be uncorked and upended like so much wine? “I can’t just fuck you and be done with it, and you might as well know that now.” There was a lengthy pause where even yet more pondering took place, and it dawned on Harry that with all the bloody pondering Draco did, Astronomy really was bang on for him. All those stars and planets and comets or whatever. His thoughts blurred to static, however, when Draco pulled his shoulder back enough to cup his bearded chin in his hands and kiss him. Softly. Tenderly, and it felt so very much not just this . It felt entirely so much more. 

To say the cleaning Charms needed to manage all that they’d done to this train car were extensive would be on par with saying the sex Harry had just had was ‘quite alright’: a wild, and almost blasphemous understatement. Draco dressed Harry. Harry hadn’t asked him to, he just had. Buttoned each button on his deep red shirt and tied his tie in a posh knot like his own. Harry watched the way the silky blonde slid over the crown of his head when he bent forward, and revelled in the noonday sun catching the light in Draco’s eyes like mountain mist. 

“You know where I am,” Draco stated. “In the Astronomy Tower?”

“Oh,” Harry said, shaking his head slightly, then realising that made it seem as though, after nineteen years at the bloody place, he did not know where the Astronomy Tower was. “Yeah.”

“Come there, then,” Draco said, gathering his things. “So it won’t just be this.”

Chapter Text

“What is it?” Harry asked, reaching out a curious hand that Hermione slapped away with a sharp rap. “Ow.” 

“It’s sort of a manifestation of magical energy,” she explained. “My magical energy, in this case, so yours may look a bit different.” The glowing white orb hung in front of them, and hummed just slightly. 

“Does it do anything?” Ron asked, and Hermione scoffed a frustrated grunt. Eighth Year was a lot of this. It was a lot of Hermione doing amazing things and Harry and Ron just sort of existing in the space around her incredible mastery of magic, entirely aimless. 

“It does whatever I tell it to,” she said, waving her hand. The orb followed the direction of her fingers, and then flattened to more of an oval, then burst into a sort of star shape as she moved her hand. “It’s my magic.” 

***

“What is that ?” Malfoy asked, and Harry nearly jumped out of his bloody skin. He had been practising manifesting his magical energy as Hermione had shown him in a sort of forgotten bit of the Ravenclaw Tower that no one ever came to. It looked out over the grounds in a way that made Harry grateful to be alive, and offered him a quiet sort of calm he experienced few other places. Imagine his surprise, then, when Draco Malfoy showed up out of the ruddy blue.

“You followed me, Malfoy?” Harry asked back. Malfoy scowled, not really in anger but in insult. 

“You stalked me for seven bloody years, I’m basically owed this.” It was, in truth, a very fair point. Malfoy had on a white dress shirt under a grey and aubergine argyle sweater vest. Under the moonlight his eyes had an almost silver quality that Harry attempted not to notice too much, but ended up noticing a lot . Malfoy sneered. “So what is it?” 

“What’s what?” Harry said, then remembered what he was just doing before Malfoy showed up. “Oh, yeah. Hermione says it’s a manifestation of my magical energy.” She’d been right (as usual), his looked nothing like her glowing white orb. Harry’s magical energy was a sort of white anemone-like thing, like a swirling mass of wisping tendrils all coiling amongst themselves, braiding into each other. 

“The bloody hell does that mean?” 

“I dunno, mate,” Harry said with a sigh, but he felt Malfoy nearly jerk in horror at the too-familiar term beside him. “Is that odd?” 

“No, just-” Malfoy paused, his dark blonde brows tangling in the middle carving two deep lines into his forehead that Harry felt that absolutely mad desire to brush away. “Just different, I suppose.” Harry chewed the inside of his cheek, and Malfoy crossed his arms examining the wiggling construct with an almost inquisitive expression. There was something far more intimate about this than Harry could have predicted, and somehow he felt as exposed as he would if Malfoy had walked in on him having a wank. 

“Does it do anything?” Malfoy asked as though expecting Harry to put on a fucking show for him. “Other than look like something out of a porno?” The heat rushed so quickly to Harry’s face that it sent him coughing and sputtering like a nutter.

“It, uh…” he stammered, shaking his head to rattle loose some of his misplaced sense. “Feels good?” He said it like a question because he knew it sounded utterly bonkers. “Like a relief sort of?” 

“I guess it would have to be a relief not to have this thing inside you,” he said, and Harry watched the bloom of pink under the man’s fair cheeks. “I mean…” Harry laughed, and Malfoy seemed relieved by that. Something about Malfoy being here was oddly…nice? He didn’t look at Harry like he was a vase constantly teetering on the edge of the counter, ready to shatter at any moment like Ron and Hermione. And he most definitely did not fawn over Harry like everyone else ruddy did. He just…was. And Harry just was, and so they just were . 

“What the-” Malfoy hissed, jarring Harry from his mental peace. He swatted a hand out at one of the wispy tendrils of Harry’s magical energy that appeared to be attempting to touch his face. Harry frowned. It hadn’t ever done that before. Even when he’d worked on manifesting it with Hermione and it had come out all wonky and wrong, it still hadn’t tried to touch her. Malfoy took a step back and the whole construct slid forward, maintaining the roughly one metre gap. “What are you doing?” 

“I-I’m not doing anything, Malfoy, what are you doing?” Harry shot back. 

“Me?” Malfoy whinged like a little prat. “I’m not the one in control of this thing!” True, though Harry didn’t feel he wasn entirely in control of it either anymore. This time when the tendril reached out, it ran along Malfoy’s sharp jawline, tracing a path to his chin, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat as though his lungs had been sealed off with mortar because he felt it. He felt the smooth skin of Malfoy’s cheek as clearly as though he’d touched it himself. Suddenly, he realised how much he wished he had. Malfoy’s eyes slid shut, tightly at first as though he thought the manifestation might harm him, but after a long moment of the tendril brushing his cheek and tracing down his nose and along his lips, he relaxed a bit. 

“What does it feel like?” Harry asked, keeping his voice quiet for no discernable reason. Whenever he’d tried to touch the manifestation in the past, it hadn’t felt like anything at all. 

“You don’t know?” Malfoy opened his eyes, turning to Harry and his lips parted just a small amount in this way that sent a hum of something entirely unexpected straight through him. Want . The tendril hovered there, touching the sharp corners of his mouth. Harry could feel Malfoy’s warm breath as though it were against his own fingers. He could smell his after dinner peppermint tea there.

“I can’t touch it,” Harry explained. “I didn’t even know it could…touch…things.” Malfoy’s cheeks pinked at that and the ghostly wisp drew over his flushed face sending the heat there across the surface of Harry’s skin. Malfoy turned back to the manifestation and another gossamer appendage reached out to brush a lock of blonde from his face. Harry felt the sleek strands of his platinum hair brush the back of his hand. 

“It’s soft,” Malfoy said, with a sort of wan sigh. “It feels nice.” The night was cool around them, but Harry felt he was suddenly burning . Suddenly, asphyxiating on the sensation of his magic caressing Malfoy, and the way Malfoy leaned into it. The way he liked it. Harry tried to swallow but his mouth felt coated in ash. His throat was so dry. 

“I could-” he croaked, his voice cracking to dust. He licked his lips, watching the ethereal strands of his magic tangle in Malfoy’s hair, bleached to near white by moonlight, and so soft it felt like silk. “We could…” he tried, but he just couldn’t say it. Malfoy raised a brow, and this time when his lips parted, one of the tendrils slid in. Harry expected Malfoy to scream or draw away in disgust, but that’s not what happened at all. Instead, his mouth opened wider , and the tendril grew thicker, pressing into him, laving over his tongue. Malfoy’s jaw worked around the ghostly tentacle, his tongue slid over and under it, something between a kiss and a blow job. 

And Harry could feel it all . He could feel Malfoy’s tongue slotting against his own. He could feel his heated breath, and the thin rippling vibrato of his nearly silent hums and moans of pleasure. His cock throbbed in his jeans, twitching we each twisting undulation of Malfoy’s mouth around his magic. It was so hot, and it felt so. Fucking. Good . God, he was getting so hard, his mind was racing. And each thought sent wisps of magic flicking over Malfoy’s hands, his arse, the waistband of his black trousers. Malfoy pulled back, looking at the dozen, if not more, ghostly threads around him like he’d fallen into the spider’s web. He panted, then looked up at Harry, lips chapped and swollen from essentially deep throating Harry’s magic. 

“What else can it do?” He huffed, and Harry nearly toppled over at the madness of it all. He licked his lips again. Harried and undone by this entire ordeal. 

“Loads,” he said, knowing before knew. Knowing on instinct. Malfoy’s eyes washed over Harry like summer rain.

“You can feel it?” he asked, one tendril poking under the cuff of his sleeve. 

“No,” Harry replied, reluctant to elaborate, but at the same time wanting to tell Malfoy everything. Wanting him to know what this really was. “I can feel you. Through it, I guess.” There was a long beat while Malfoy appeared to think incredibly hard on that. 

“Merlin, that’s fucking hot,” he finally said, and then, “take off your clothes.” Harry’s eyes went wide as Malfoy’s hands grabbed the hem of his sweater vest, pulling it up over his head in one swift motion that tousled his hair, before setting to the buttons of his shirt. Each one parted, exposing more of the milky smooth of his chest, his hard pink nipples, the scars. Fuck, he was so gorgeous. Logically, Harry had known that, he was bent not blind, but he’d never really considered it. But now, with Malfoy shirtless in front of him, the threads of his manifested magic sliding over his skin, flicking against his nipples, tracing his scars, Harry could do little else. 

“Well?” Malfoy snapped, and Harry realised he was just staring at the man. He shook his head, and managed to get his jumper up over his head, tossing it to the side. They were of a height, but they were not at all of a build. Malfoy was slim, all long lines like a bloody ballerina, while Quidditch and war and maybe genetics had broadened Harry. Thickened him to a rather muscular frame which Malfoy seemed to quite enjoy once it had been parted from the clothes that obscured it. “ Merlin, ” he breathed. “‘Course you’re cut like a bloody diamond.”

Perhaps Malfoy would have more scathing witticisms, but as he split the flies of his trousers, the tendrils of Harry’s magic, reached out, urgently, slinking along the waistband and feathering the heft of his impressive bulge. He staggered a moment before falling to one knee under the curious ministrations of Harry’s magic. The ethereal strands caressed him hungrily, endlessly wisping over him, shoving him, pulling him to the wood planked floor of the forgotten parapet.  

Eventually, the white appendages had him on his back, crying out into the hand clapped over his mouth. Harry collapsed to his knees in awe of the sight, of course, but completely undone by how it all felt . The firm heat of Draco’s captive erection, the slim curve of his hips just above his loose trousers, and the way his eyes stayed on Harry as though both challenging him to look away and hoping he’d failed to do so. And he did fail. How could Harry even excuse blinking away one moment? How could he look away from this ? From him ? 

Draco worked his trousers and pants over his lithe thighs, freeing his cock that bobbed, hard and thick and already dripping over his lily white navel. He pulled them free, tossing the garments to the side and leaving himself naked under the moonlight that bleached his hair to argent and painted him in a glow so ethereal he seemed even more brilliant than Harry’s magic. There was a kept second where the tendrils just hovered over Draco, perhaps in breathless wonder as Harry was, before they shot forward touching every exposed inch of Draco’s body as though starving for it. 

The hasty Muffliato Harry cast as Draco nearly screamed under the desperate service of Harry’s magic would need to suffice. God, it was a fucking sight. The wisps thickened and braided into themselves to form fat arms that wrapped around Draco’s small waist, around his biceps, his thighs, and one bundle of thin strands that coiled readily around his cock. Harry split his flies with trembling hands as his breath seemed to slam against an invisible barrier in his chest. His lungs burned in demand, but seeing Malfoy arching and crying, coated in his entirety in Harry’s invasive magic and feeling like mine had vanished every last molecule of air from the space. He pulled his throbbing cock free, as Draco’s slitted silver eyes veiled him like silk in the breeze. 

Harry tried to stroke himself, but the sensation was too much. Each fat tentacle of his glowing magic sent the feeling of Draco’s body across Harry’s skin in a maddening sensory assault that had sweat pricking his brow and his teeth gritted trying not to wail. 

“Come here,” Draco panted, but then he crawled towards Harry, the ghostly trails of Harry’s magic sliding over his hips and shoulders as he moved. “Let me.” Harry was on his back though he didn’t even recall how he’d gotten there, and Malfoy had his hand wrapped around Harry’s cock and directing it towards his open, wet mouth as Harry whimpered in anticipation. Malfoy’s tongue lashed over Harry’s aching head, laving along his slit and swirling over the sensitive ridge. His breath was scorching against Harry’s skin, sending his thighs tensing, and his fingers scraping against the dusty wood slats on which he sat. 

“ Fuck ,” Harry breathed, and then, “M-Malfoy.”

“Draco,” he corrected, the vibration of his voice hummed against Harry’s hard cock sending him keening and crying as Draco swallowed him down. The fattened tendrils of magic slid up along Draco’s thighs and Harry felt the sparse soft hairs there as they slithered to tangle around his cock and press against his bollocks. Each sensation was exponential as Harry’s magic transmitted the taste of Draco’s wet cock to his tongue and the feeling of the peach fuzz over his balls to his hands, his fingers, his lips. When his magic feathered against Draco’s tight hole, he felt him whine around his cock. He felt the sultry heat there when Draco arched into the caress of his magic against him. 

Harry attempted to will the magic around Draco’s pinked hole to thin somewhat so he could enter him gently. The strands played around his rim, slotting between his cheeks, and tickling the underside of his balls. Draco’s tongue slid over Harry’s cock in perfect rhythm, sending wave after wave of boiling pleasure through his body. Replacing his blood with it. 

“ Ah—Harry ,” Draco mewled, coughing as Harry’s cock thrust against his soft palate like warm wet satin. Harry felt his magic slide into Draco, he felt it dance like golden threads among his folds, twisting with each dulcet curve of Draco’s magnificent body. The threads of gossamer magic braided into each other, thickening, stretching Draco slowly as they washed into and out of him like the tide to the shore. Harry moaned as Draco cried around his cock, eyes squeezed tightly shut before pulling back with a gasp. Fuck, he looked so good like that. Teary and flushed, lips swollen and pink from gulping down Harry’s length like a greedy little thing. Harry couldn’t stand it, his hand shot to his cock as his balls tightened with his imminent orgasm and he pumped himself to crying and spilling in just a few quick strokes. Draco whined a desperate sound as Harry’s thick white come streaked his face, dripping down his cheek and over his lips, painting him with Harry’s release. 

Harry’s body calmed to panting satisfaction, but his magic seemed stoked from cinders to inferno by his climax. As Draco’s head tipped back, mouth wide, moaning, his whole body trembling with invasion, Harry’s magic slid between his lips. His jaw worked to accommodate the thickened appendage, one tear welling and trailing down his face, mingling with Harry’s come as it slid over his cheek. Three or four ghostly strands coiled into each other to stretch Draco’s needy little arse, working him like they were trying to crawl into him, like they needed to be inside, and Harry could feel every instinctive tense and twitch of Draco’s body around his magic. 

Harry was so ragged, spent though his cock was still brutally hard, still throbbing as Draco stretched to accommodate the girth of his magic as though he were stretched over Harry’s fat length. God, he was so soft, so tight. Harry leaned forward, running his hand over Draco’s tear-stained cheek and wiping the sweat-slicked blonde from his brow. 

“So good, Draco,” he murmured, and Draco trembled beneath him. “So good, taking all of my magic,” he encouraged. Draco keened from the back of his throat, unable to speak with the white ghostly tentacle pumping into his mouth like a fat hard cock. His fingers tensed against the wood, nails scraping the thin veil of dust, and Harry could feel the way his heartbeat raced as his pulse pounded through his cock, his jugular and in the million million tiny vessels around his insides. He was close. He was so close and Harry’s magic was intent to see him drench the floorboards. Draco’s brows tightened, etching two thin lines on his forehead, a look of pure pleading, of begging on his face. Please, Harry , it said. Fuck me empty .

One wisping curl slithered around the length of Draco’s cock that sat bobbing between tensed thighs and ready to spill. It pumped him, the magic inside of Draco pressing hard into his swollen muscles, milking him from within. His whole body convulsed around the manifestation, whining, almost screaming as his cock emptied onto the floor. The wet white of his come dripped in long creamy threads, pumping with each heated thrust of Harry’s magic into his stretched arse. Harry cried out at the sight as his own body echoed Draco’s, quaking with his second burning climax, several drops of white dotting the dark curled hairs of his navel. Draco’s orgasm was no quick thing. The magic inside of him spent him to fucking hollow, the puddle beneath him impressively big with the come still dribbling from his swollen tip. 

Harry lunged forward to catch Draco’s enervated body when his eyes rolled back and his head lolled between his shoulders, the manifestation falling apart, dissolving into the night’s tranquillity and the sweet din of owl songs and crickets. He lay like that for a few seconds, Draco’s head on his chest, his naked body pressed to every last curve and ridge of Harry’s own. His skin was so soft, and his breath slow and calmed by relief. When he stirred only a moment later, Harry felt the tug of regret, not wanting to leave yet, not wanting to lose this contact. Mercifully, Draco did not draw away. Their sweat-slicked bodies breathing against each other under the sharp crescent of the moon’s glow. Harry’s hand touched the damp argent threads of Draco’s hair, absentling running his fingers over something he’d always viewed as just out of reach. An impossibility. 

“That feels nice,” Draco purred in a low rasp, his voice broken and ragged. “I doubt I can stand.” 

“You don’t have to,” Harry replied, trying for no good reason at all to conceal how much he loved this quiet bond. The sex had been explosive, earth-shattering and soul-destroying in and of itself, but this— this was something all its own. This was the dawn after the darkness. Sunlight after the storm. Whereas the sex had split him open, depleting him until his body simply could not take any more, this soothed parts of him he had not known were cracked, and raw. “We can stay like this.”

Chapter Text

“A seven-letter word for ‘Bonnie and Clyde, perhaps’,” Draco said, bringing his monogrammed ballpoint to his mouth pensively. “Ah, ‘abscond’.” He marked the letters in their respective squares, all capitals in his posh swooping script. 

“Ah, so this must be ‘ andante ’, hm?” He asked, though he did not expect to receive an answer. “Slow in tempo, how apt.” He hummed an amused note at his own witty repartee that melted into a pleasured groan, pulling his knee closer into his chest. 

“ Mm , yes like that,” Draco purred, letting his head fall back over the arm of the sofa. His puzzle, forgotten. Harry’s breath huffed against the underside of his bollocks as he worked his tongue in and around his tight pink hole. His hand stroked his own tanned cock, languidly, as the Sunday morning light painted his skin in a golden glow. 

“That’s good, darling,” Draco sighed, bringing an arm across his brow and arching into Harry’s face beneath his tailbone, the warm wet of his tongue stretching him softly. A muffled moan against him drew his attention, and when Draco shifted his arm, he saw the milky splash of Harry’s quiet orgasm onto the sparse dark hairs of his twitching abdominals. “That’s good - ah -,” Draco sighed, as Harry reached up, smearing his release down Draco’s length.

“ Oh , Harry,” Draco’s head fell back once more as Harry stroked him, laving his tongue around his opening. Breath hitching, the pen tumbled from his hand, bouncing on the floor and rolling away as the hot spill of Draco’s orgasm glazed his chest in creamy strands. He panted, bringing his hand to his collarbone as Harry slid from beneath him. 

“That’s good.”

Chapter Text

“ Oi! ” The blasted sound came only a split second before Draco felt the hand slap him upside the back of his head. “Cheeky little devil, you are!” He rubbed the spot she’d hit, turning away from his lipstick-smeared mirror, so caked with powder and rouge it was barely usable for its intended purpose anymore, to scowl at the woman, naked from the corset up. Her nipples were covered by small glittery pasties stoned with diamonds about as genuine as the Transfigured tits on which they sat. By all standards, she was beautiful, all tousled red hair and sinful smiles. Truly, if she wasn’t a heinous bitch, Draco could see himself actually growing fond of her. “Stealing my client last night? You better be buying my supper, slag!” She screeched an awful din that ground against Draco’s eardrums like so many shards of glass. 

“Hard to take something you never bloody had,” he muttered, hearing the way the clacking of her heeled footsteps halted.

“You have a problem, Baiser ?” Her French was as hideous as her dancing, though no one who frequented this place would ever care. 

“No, Dia,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “And, please, don’t call me that.” She glared for a moment, her bluest blue eyes piercing into his silver gaze in the mirror before she scoffed and turned towards the door with her name plastered across it. 

“ Le Rêve is my castle and I’m the bleedin’ Queen ‘ere, Baiser . I’ll call you whatever it is I want.” The door slammed shut behind her, and Draco’s shoulders fell with an exhausted exhale before he set himself to task putting on his lipstick so red it matched the depraved interior of the den of evil he called home. 

“‘Ello, lovey,” came a sound much more pleasant than the metal on metal of Diamant’s banshee shriek. Hands found Draco’s bare shoulders as the dark complexion and deep brown eyes belonging to his one true friend here. 

“ Bon soir, Champagne, ” Draco greeted, turning to kiss the back of the hand on his shoulder and leaving a red lipstick stain there. She batted his shoulder, playfully, setting to wiping it away. They couldn’t appear used before they were bought for the night. He’d met Champagne (a stage name, her real name, whispered in secret between only them, was Martine) at the Ballet Academie they both attended. Young, naive, and brimming with hope and potential in equal measure, they were, unfortunately, sorely lacking in funds. Draco left England just after the war, adrift in his own life, he came to Paris, a place of possibilities, but Lucius Malfoy was not one to sponsor such frivolous fancies. Cut off, and near starving, he and Martine came to the nest of indulgence that was Le Rêve . 

Soon enough, the demands of the Academie became little more than background noise. Martine and Draco had fallen in love with the night. They took more pride in satisfying clients than in how turned out their ronde jambe en l'air had become. They were more interested in staying up late, rhinestoning corsets, and stitching holes in skirts than practising solos. Such was Le Rêve . They slept when the sun was up, curled together in their dressing room and living off the scraps their meagre pay could afford. At night, they transformed. They came alive under the stage lights and Paris night. Such was Le Rêve .   

Martine sat in the chair next to Draco’s, looking in her own filthy abused mirror for which they had no money to replace and adjusting her coarse dark curls that formed a sort of halo around her beautiful face. He watched her for a moment, finding in the mundanity of her touching up her red lipstick or tugging up her thigh-highs, little more than tattered threads at this point, a quiet beauty. They’d been at Le Rêve together for five years. Draco left the UK in search of a purpose, but what he’d found in Paris was not just the freedom of fucking and dancing for money, it was Martine. His dearest confidant. Martine’s eyes flicked up to Draco’s, catching him staring at her and she smiled sweetly before running a finger along his hairline to brush the platinum blonde fringe from his face. 

“Big night, cherie ,” she informed, though Draco already knew. There was a group of diplomats from across the Wizarding World meeting in Paris to discuss some policy that likely wouldn’t do a bloody thing to prevent the next power-hungry madman from reaping devastation. Among them were representatives from the Ministry of Magic, and the idea of possibly seeing a familiar face in such a place chilled Draco’s blood to ice. They would come here. Le Rêve was world-renowned and even if some were not so inclined to purchase companionship for the evening, they would turn a blind eye to those among them who were. “Perhaps some rich man will line your pockets with Galleons.” Draco huffed a laugh devoid of humour. Tonight would be shite, full of stuck up Brits who would take one look at Draco and his faded Mark and remind him of all the reasons he’d left Britain and never bloody looked back.  

“Perhaps,” he said, looking at the floor. Martine lifted his chin, so he could meet her eyes. 

“Just think of the dancing, cherie ,” she urged, shaking her head, her exposed dark breasts bounced with each motion over her sapphire blue corset, and the cheap satin of her multi-layered skirts swished and crinkled in a blue pool around her. “You always smile when you dance.” When she stood, she pulled Draco up with her, then straightened his sparkling silver waistcoat he wore over nothing at all, laying its hem flat over the waistband of his black trousers. “Just think of the dancing.” Draco nodded. 

Standing in the wings, he and Martine were among the frothing mass of feral animals all hellbent and hungry to find some wealthy lord or politician to feed them for a bloody week. The swishing of can-can skirts and tapping of anxious toes on the glossy wood floor was their song. Was the bell that tolled their transformation into creatures of the night. Draco feasted on this moment. Gorged himself on the anticipation of the audience seeing their show and feeling their trousers grow tight as they danced. Such power in that. Draco always felt powerful on stage.  

“ Argent! ” Draco turned, instinctively, hearing his stage name that seemed more his own than ‘Draco’ did these days. A sweet young French thing whose name Draco did not know, but who, on the stage, went by Bijoux , shouldered through the crowd. 

“ Bon soir, Bijoux ,” Draco smirked, catching the small flush that perked on Matine’s cheeks as that pretty young thing approached. He knew she fancied Bijoux, and he saw how close the two had grown since the girl arrived. Romance was not something that could easily root here at Le Rêve , so when something managed to bloom it was always a special thing.

“ Did you see? The men? They look expensive, ” she remarked in her Parisian French. She didn’t speak a word of English, but she understood it plain as day. Rather, she spoke perfect English, but chose never to do so, the little minx. 

“Decided to let it be a surprise, pêche ,” he answered. While Martine had taken one look at Bijoux’s sweet round face and crystal blue eyes under all that dark brown hair, and wanted to see her wet and whining for more, Draco had felt a sense of almost family. Bijoux was a bit like a younger sister. She asked Draco to help her dance better, and so he had. She was a driven little thing. Nineteen and hungry, she generally snagged twice the clients Draco did. Bijoux took pride in all facets of her work here, and because of that, Draco admired her spirit. 

“ So many. Maybe we all drink wine tonight ,” Bijoux said, her eyes glinting with pure glee, and Martine pressed an exaggerated kiss to the girl’s cheek, using her skirt to clear away the smear of red she’d left behind. Goodness, they were precious. Draco tried not to allow jealousy to poison the true happiness he felt for the two. 

“ Oui, Bijoux ,” Martine said, smiling broadly at the girl. “ And eat steak .” The announcer’s voice quieted the rabble to silence as the spotlight drew all eyes to him. An older man with silver hair and dark eyes who went by Serenade , an ode to his dulcet singing voice, stood at centre stage, holding a wand to his throat. His Sonorous carried his voice through the tables, lounges and twin bars of Le Rêve . Even from the stage, the air was thick with hookah and cigar smoke that clung to their clothes and hair so tightly it just smelled like them, like the night. Everything consumed in this place was Charmed to make the partaker crave the delights of the flesh. It was no secret, and to most patrons, it was a perk. 

“Let us have a dance!” Serenade called. That was their cue. Draco linked his arm in Martine’s leading her to the warped wooden stage, scuffed and dented from wear. The music was played by Charmed instruments and conducted by a witch named Mélodie . Well, that wasn’t her real name, but given they were all servants to the stage, whose to say their stage names weren’t their real names now. A boisterous can-can, an ode to the music halls and clubs of late nineteenth century Paris. An anthem of their grand tradition. 

“Let us have that smile, cherie ,” Martine whispered when she pressed her cheek to Draco’s. The stage here might overlook a red-lined room of utter heathens, but it was still a stage, and when he danced…well, it still felt like a magic all its own. Draco stepped in time with the music amongst the sea of his peers. The sequence was a heavily choreographed piece, very demanding, and largely showcased all the topless women in feathers and skirts that offered a colourful and sinful sensory delight. Being one of only four men to the roughly thirty women had both its advantages and disadvantages. Draco had far less competition for clients, but the clients he got were often unhindered by things like not wanting to hit a woman, or caring very much at all about his pleasure or even comfort. They weren’t all like that, however, and he’d become rather skilled in weeding out the ones that seemed potentially problematic. 

The stage lights painted the audience in a blinding glow, but still Draco felt their mounting desire. The way they watched him and wanted. He lifted Martine to his shoulder and she crossed her legs one way, fanning them open to cross them the other before he leaned to the side allowing her to cartwheel down to a split with the other women. He and the other three men then did synchronised round-off back layouts likely further warping the abused wood of the stage. Draco was in front for the simple reason that he was the most skilled dancer among the gents. They largely just did not care, and viewed dancing as a means to an end most evenings. 

As the song came to an end, Draco let the stage lights purify him. They drenched him in a moment of serenity before the madness. And when they stepped from the stage to hurry to the floor (the early bird and the worm idiom comes readily to mind here), Martine laced her fingers in his hand for the short journey through the bowels of Le Rêve .

“I love it when you smile, cherie ,” she said as one of the other dancers nearly shoved her to the floor in an effort to get to the clientele fastest. 

“Just because they treat us like animals doesn’t mean we need to bloody act like them!” Draco snapped behind the girl who went by En L'air , a cheeky sort of play on where her legs ended up on a good night. She held up a rather classy middle finger over her shoulder as she continued on her path. Once on the floor, Martine and Draco would be forced to part ways. If they stood too near to each other, potential clients might not feel enabled to seek out their company. Her fingers slid from his as the overwhelming noise and smell and chaos of Le Rêve assaulted their senses. 

There was a group of over a dozen girls clustered in one area Draco knew would be the dignitaries. His hope for landing one (not British) was high. The more respected a man in government, the more likely it seemed they were to want to slide their cock into his tight arse over one of the girls’ wet pussies. What was it about government that attracts the almost cliche straight man who swears he only sometimes fucks other men? Draco didn’t care, he was just grateful that it did. He slid over to the bar. It was a costly gamble, but sometimes these types nearly foamed at the mouth when he bought them drinks first. It made him seem like something more than he was. Like he was expensive. And, in truth, he was expensive. Le Rêve always made a pretty Galleon off of Draco’s sale even if the pay he received was quite shite.

“Something cheap that looks posh,” he said to the bartender, a woman named Glace . “Put it on my tab.” She rolled her eyes, piling lavender cocktails with little twinkling stars around the rim onto his silver platter. She was able to shove a good eight or so on there before it became too precarious. Draco would just need to hope that at least one in eight of whoever he gave these to was bent or close enough to it they’d buy him for the night. “ Merci .” 

“Be safe, Silver,” she said, her American deep south accent always a crowd favourite here, where such things were considered novel. 

“I never am,” he called over his shoulder, making his way to the cluster of colourful skirts and rhinestone pasties, the platter atop one deft hand. It was always easy to spot a closet gay. They didn’t know where to look when it came to the women, and they had even less of a clue what to do with their hands. Draco spotted the first one almost immediately, a moustached older gent with red brown hair and a bloody monocle for Merlin’s sake. He handed him the lavender cocktail (its star had fallen on the walk over but Draco wanted to save the ones still twinkling for a safer bet) with a wink. 

“Ask for Argent ,” he purred. The key would be quantity up front, then he’d make his way back around to see what stuck if no one had purchased him for the evening by then, adding some quality in at that stage. Last resorts were always a disappointment because it generally involved handjobs beneath the tables for which he was rarely, if ever, compensated. 

Draco repeated the process with the cocktails several more times taking note of the languages of each cluster of dignitaries. Polish. French and English, of course, something Baltic (maybe Estonian?), Swedish, Swiss German, Russian, Tagalog, Swahili, and Portuguese it sounded like. Draco had gotten very good at identifying languages. He saw the austere  midnight blue robes from the Department of International Magical Co-operation. Their telltale ‘M’ hurled him bodily back in time to the trials, the war, the way it had all come crashing down around him. Draco swallowed, thickly, clearing his throat. He only had one more cocktail on the platter, but most of the other dignitaries had been snatched up by then. Begrudgingly, he admitted he’d have to try the Brits. If he knew Brits (and oh, he did) he was certain one of these gents was bent as a bloody rainbow. 

There were six in total, all seated in one of Le Rêve ’s lounge areas, robes open in the front or otherwise draped over the red velvet sofas and chairs. Discarded along with their wedding vows, it seemed in some cases. Two gents were standing, smoking cigars that smelled so strongly of pine Draco felt the sharp tingle of the stench sting his eyes. One leaned on the back of a gaudy chair with gold filigree legs, chatting conversationally with the smokers. Three more were nested so deep in a sea of women Draco could only catch glimpses of blue robes through all that crinoline and satin. The three standing were a dead end to be certain, so he’d unfortunately have to ford the river of hungry women to see if there were any fish to be caught here. 

It took coaxing and patience (during which the final cocktail’s star fell, unfortunately, blasted thing), but eventually Draco was able to shoulder through to the group. He eyed the three men, but it wasn’t until he turned to the last of them, seated on a sofa and seemingly uninterested in the goings-on around him, that Draco felt his skeleton dissolve inside of him. His eyes went wide, locking onto that green stare that saw straight into him. That rooted around inside of him and readily dredged up his escape, his choices, his life in the night, all just with a careful glance. His heart pounded in his chest, blood thundering so loudly in his skull it drowned out everything around him like the only thing in the entire world was Harry fucking Potter’s penetrating stare. 

“ Baiser ,” Diamant’s voice carved a path to Draco’s ears with unfortunate alacrity. Draco watched Potter’s eyes shift to Dia, then back to him as though making note of that name he’d used. Draco raised a brow at the woman.

“What can I do for you, Dia?” he asked, sardonically. 

“Oi, you can fuck right off my clients, you can!” Now it was Draco’s eyes that slid to Potter then back to Dia. 

“He’s yours, then?” Draco asked, feeling somehow that that was…unlikely. Draco did not have the most perceptive inkling for these things, but he’d been nearly certain that Potter preferred red wine to white in this regard, if the metaphor held. 

“‘E will be,” Dia asserted, and Potter’s brows raised in alarm. 

“I don’t-” Potter started to say just as Serenade cut into the group. Merlin’s bloody knickers, what now? 

“Argent,” he stated Draco’s name like a soldier chosen for watch. Like an obligation. “You’ve been bought.” Oh. How…he’d almost entirely forgotten that he’d seeded the night with possibility and it seemed something had taken root. Entirely distracted by Potter’s presence, Draco hadn’t gotten a chance to check the ledger for his sale. 

“Oh, um…” he stammered, uncharacteristically. Feeling, even without seeing him, the way Potter’s eyes were following this discourse, the way he was learning Draco just by watching him. Was he going to run back to the Manor and tell his family what he saw here? There was much and more that Draco had simply given up caring about—his friends back in England, his wealth, and certainly his modesty, but the idea of his mum learning what he did here at Le Rêve was a bridge too far. Honestly, he would rather bloody die. Draco cursed inwardly. He’d known this night would be shite, but he didn’t think it would be expensive shite. “For how much?” Serenade scoffed a disgusted sound. 

“Whatever that dandy over there thinks your bleeding worth and not a Knut more, you greedy little shite,” he spat. Draco eyed the moustached man from earlier, surprised. He hadn’t seen that coming. 

“Well, how much is that, Seren?” he snapped, needing to know how much further into debt he’d be plunging himself by buying back his evening from the man. Likely a fucking fortune by the gent’s attire. But it was his mum, and while he could live with her believing he was a failed Ballet dancer, he could not have her knowing this. He felt his heart hammering behind his bloody tonsils. He felt Harry Potter’s judgement at his back like an emerald dagger. 

“Sixty-five hundred,” Serenade replied. So low? Draco thought, a hum of insult rippled through him like static. He scowled. 

“That’s tosh, I wasn’t supposed to go for lower than ten.” But Serenade didn’t care about ‘supposed to’ and ‘should have’, he cared about money in his hand now . 

“You go for whatever the ‘ell I sell you for ,” Serenade growled. The man was much broader than Draco. In fact, most were. He was a slim thing made slimmer by dance and bordering on skinny from how uncertain his meals had become. He’d had to take up learning tailoring Charms to keep his clothes from sliding off during his pirouettes . Serenade’s thick hand reached out to clamp around Draco’s wrist so tightly the bone threatened to splinter, sending his silver platter toppling to the floor. No, fuck , he thought. I can’t—

“Hey, let him go!” A voice from another lifetime called. Draco twisted to see Potter standing, one arm reaching across his waist for his wand. Merlin in his ivory tower, the man was big. Whatever they fed them at the Ministry appeared to be mostly protein and anabolic bloody steroids by the look of things. Potter’s shoulders were built, bulky with muscle, and his waist so trim it accentuated the wide breadth of his chest. His robes were fastened unlike his colleagues with golden buttons bearing the Ministry of Magic ‘M’. He wore the same glasses Draco remembered, but his face was entirely different. Standing under the yellow glow of a floating sconce, Draco saw the thick manicured beard that showed off his ample jawline, his wavy black hair styled on the sides and far more kempt than Draco remembered. 

“You want ‘im? Buy ‘im, then,” Serenade growled, holding up Draco’s wrist like he was a plucked goose at the market. Conflict twisted itself around Draco’s throat like a garrote. On the one hand, Potter was fucking hot. Honestly, that just needed to be said. On that same hand, this could prove a convenient vector by which Draco bargained for Potter’s discretion. On the other…well, actually, Draco was struggling rather hard, looking at Potter, to think of a reason he would not prefer Potter’s name on his ledger that evening. He tried to catch the man’s eyes, but they were fixed on Serenade’s wrist squeezing Draco’s forearm to bruising. 

“Let him go and I will,” he stated, his voice deep and threatening. Serenade made a display of holding up Draco’s wrist then letting it go. Draco pulled it into his chest, rubbing the handprint welt the man had left there. He had always been one to bruise easily. Lily white British skin and all that. Serenade scoffed, turning to leave. 

“Pay before you leave, he’ll tell you what to do,” he said over his shoulder, sending one more glare Draco’s way. The silence that followed was strained to say the least. Draco pulled the silver filigree key from his pocket, holding it up and gesturing for Potter to follow him away from the entropy of Le Rêve ’s main ballroom. It would slide into the waiting keyhole to his room. Rent for it came from his earnings, but he was not allowed to actually sleep or stay in it. It was for one thing, and one thing only. 

“Follow me, then,” he said, and Potter did. They walked in that awkward silence through the dark underbelly of Le Rêve past all manner of derelict dancers plastered to the corridor walls, their skirts hiked up and their soaking wet panties wrenched down over their thighs. Draco stifled a small chuckle that threatened to huff between his lips at the idea of what Saint Potter thought of all this rot. For the first time in five years, Draco actually wanted to write home. Well, to Pansy at least. He could scarcely imagine her squealing delight reading that Draco was an expensive whore who’d just been purchased for the evening by none other than Harry Potter. Draco had vowed not to reach out to any of his old friends, however. He simply could not risk his mum learning of his chosen profession. It would quite literally kill the woman.

He kept his room nice. It was a sort of point of pride, and if someone wanted to spend a small fortune on his body, he wanted them to have it in a nice place. The large bed was meticulously turned-down, the silver satin sheets drenched in his cleaning Charms that smelled of orchids and lavender blossoms. There was a vanity with a very clear mirror in an ornate silver frame and overhead was a silver chandelier that offered a touch of luxury. He couldn’t afford true decadence, but Draco was quite certain he’d done an impressive job of curating a pleasant facsimile of it.

“This is where you live?” Potter asked, looking around the room. Draco let out a mocking lark at the utter naivete. 

“No, Potter,” he answered, closing and locking the door behind them. “This is where I fuck.” Much and more delight and debauchery had occurred in this room, but all of it paled in comparison to the true rapture Draco felt as he watched Potter’s soul leak out his bloody arse at that. 

“W-we don’t have to…” he stuttered, clearly out of his element, and entirely at odds with his surroundings, the lamb. 

“It’s your money, Potter,” Draco stated. “You can do whatever it is you want, but it seems an awful fortune to waste not doing things we don’t have to do,” Draco mused, loving every hitched breath, every quirk of Potter’s tightened expression. Draco ran an arrogant hand through his platinum locks, loving how Potter’s eyes would dart across his body, then flick away. He was so chaste he was almost virginal. Merlin, had he even fucked before? With a body like that, it almost seemed a bloody crime. Potter cleared his throat. 

“Can I have a look at that?” he said, and Draco had to follow his line of sight to the hand in his hair. It was the one Serenade manhandled earlier. Draco looked at the purple welt for a long moment, and in that time Potter stepped forward. “I, um,” he stammered, characteristically, then cleared his throat. “Hermione works at St. Mungo’s,” he explained. “I know decent Healing magic because of her.” Draco scowled and held his arm out. 

“Didn’t take you for the Nurse Play type,” Draco remarked, and could literally see the blood rise beneath Potter’s tanned cheeks, reddening his face so fast the man coughed and staggered. He stepped back, hands up. 

“No, no, I didn’t-” he paused. “I’m not…” 

“What?” Draco said, his bruised arm still out and waiting for Potter’s self-proclaimed brilliant bloody magic. “Oh, you’re not bent?” 

“What?” Potter echoed, and Draco felt his blood heat with annoyance at their cyclical conversation. “No, I—well, actually, yes, I am, but that’s not what I meant. I’m not going to-”

“Not going to what? Fuck me?” Draco asked, the heat chilling to a frigid cold. “Oh, Merlin, you’re not into something truly depraved, are you?” He pulled his arm back into his chest protectively. Draco had been so good at spotting the real nutters. Leave it to Harry fucking Potter to break his streak. “What is it, then? Knives?” Draco asked, cringing while thinking back on how long it had taken him to clean the room after the last man who enjoyed knives. Paid a bloody fortune, though. “Is it piss? Just tell me, it’s all fine, I just don’t do surprises.” 

“ What ?” Harry gaped. “ No! For fuck’s—Malfoy, just-” Draco winced. Not a little, not lightly. He winced like Potter had fucking lashed him. He felt like it, too. Like a burning gash had split his skin neck to navel, and Harry read why so plainly that he felt bloody transparent. “What is it, now? Baiser .” Draco tilted his head back, groaning at the absurdity of this entire ordeal. This was so much bloody worse than just getting railed by some fat old fuck because his wife won’t let him put it in her arse. This was so much more invasive . 

“Merlin, fuck ,” he hissed the curse. “No, please, not that, and not the other thing, either. Just fucking go with ‘Argent’ or ‘Draco’, and end this torture.” 

“Alright, Draco ,” Potter concluded. “Let me have that arm, and no, I’m not going to hurt you or ruddy piss on you, I just want to heal your fucking arm.” He spoke slowly as though Draco was daft which only sharpened his annoyance to a fine edge. “You can sit down if you want,” Harry said, and Draco let out a sardonic scoff. Harry sighed, again, seemingly reading Draco as though he were simpler than Beetle the bloody Bard. “Just sit, for Christ’s sake.” Draco did. He always did as he was told in here. Harry stood in front of him, and his stature became even more evidently imposing. Who could have predicted this person could have grown from the whinging little git Draco once knew?  

Harry drew his wand, and Draco honestly half-expected it to be his own. He’d returned the Hawthorn wand to Draco during the trials, but somehow he still found himself…(was it honestly disappointed?) when Harry pulled a slender Rowan wand from his trouser pocket and held it against Draco’s marred skin. The faded black blur of his Mark seemed so prominent just then. As though knowing its meaning gave it a strength it had lost amongst those who cared little to nothing at all for Wizarding wars. His hand tensed in Harry’s grasp, unexpectedly chagrined. 

“Not my first time seeing one,” Harry murmured through a gruff chuckle that sent a strange hum of sensation across Draco’s skin. Shifting, Draco tried to find a way to request Potter’s discretion, but each small breath before he spoke was halted in some manner by the feeling of Potter’s healing magic on his body. It was like a cool relief sliding beneath his skin, coaxing the pain away, not at all like Martine’s scattershot Charms more designed to trick the mind than mend the flesh. “I won’t say anything about this,” Potter said, and Draco’s eyes snapped up to him wondering if he was using some sort of Legilimency . “Not that I frequently speak with the Ma-” he paused. “With your family.” Draco’s eyes fell away as Harry’s met his surprised expression, unable to hold that stare like an endless ocean under which he would most assuredly drown. 

“I am grateful for your discretion in this manner, Potter,” he said, finding it was a rather shite way to say ‘thank you’, but those words just wouldn’t come. 

“Harry’s fine,” he said, Spelling away the last of the bruises on Draco’s arm. When he was through, Draco rubbed the wrist almost alarmed at the way it felt even better than it had before. Feeling renewed by — Harry’s magic. 

“Alright, then, Harry ,” Draco found it difficult to say the name like a normal person. It wasn’t that he didn’t like it, in fact, he liked it very much. He liked saying Harry’s name almost as much as hearing Harry’s voice or feeling his magic on his body, but contrary to every single experience Draco had had in this room, he suddenly felt…unsure. “You’ve healed my arm, what shall it be next?” Harry’s face tightened to that pained cringe again, and Draco rolled his eyes. It was evident it would be pulling teeth to get what he really wanted out of him. 

“I have Stardust if that will help,” Draco added after a long pause. Harry’s face went a brilliant shade of crimson just then. 

“Christ, Draco, I don’t need bloody Stardust,” he breathed. Stardust was a magic stimulant generally used by older people who struggled to get and maintain an erection. Draco hadn’t thought Harry truly needed it, but he did enjoy the way the mention of such a Potion made the man blush like a maid. “We don’t have to do anything at all, I just couldn’t stand seeing you roughed up by some prick let alone spending the night with Kask.”

“Ah, yes, the gent from which you purchased me.” Harry frowned a bit at Draco’s statement which only served to make Draco smile. “Jealous, perhaps?” Draco asked. Harry scoffed, but it was a poorly acted cover for the truth that now seemed so plain. “Did you know I would be here?”  

“No,” Harry replied, almost too quickly. Draco’s eyes narrowed, and Harry bit his lip, evidently anxious. “Well, I didn’t know for certain,” he amended, and Draco perked a bit. “I work for the Department of International Magic Co-operation, and I’ve known you were here at Le Rêve for a while, actually, but I didn’t know…um…this,” he gestured to Draco. Draco’s mouth fell open. 

“You were-”

“Before you say ‘tracking’, just know this is standard practice for anyone who leaves Britain for over six months and doesn’t apply for an expatriation permit.”

“Were you looking for me?” Draco pried, unable to temper his curiosity.

“Not at first,” Harry replied, scratching his beard, pensively. “Then…maybe, yes. Then tonight, I saw you dance.” Draco’s heart caught in his throat, pumping hard and fast in his airway. “Reckon I just wanted to know how someone that obviously gifted ended up here, doing this.” Draco felt two things just then, a melting sort of warm gratitude for being complimented so thoughtfully, and an immediate biting ire.

“Alright, firstly, thank you, that’s very kind,” he said so quickly it was all sort of one long word. “But secondly, there are incredible dancers, performers, and workers here who are not less than simply because we sell sex.” This was a practised monologue, but Draco would die reciting it. Harry’s lips parted in a bewildered expression before he simply nodded. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. Just like that. Just that…easy. A pained expression pulled at Draco’s face. Why was being near this man so nice? Draco had felt many things in this room, but not like this. He’d never felt safe and wanted and protected in here. It felt like a trap. “Are you hungry? I’m starving. Was in endless meetings all ruddy day, and I didn’t get a chance to grab lunch or dinner.” Draco stared now. He gaped, even, and when Harry turned and met his expression of abject confusion he frowned. “What? I paid for this time, right?” he asked, suddenly, and Draco nodded his reply. Harry clapped his large tanned hands together. “Great, well, I’m starving, and I’m going to get food. Whether or not you eat it is up to you. What is easy to get around here?” Draco continued to feel utterly off-centred by Harry. Tipped completely off his axis and hurtling through space. 

“Well, it’s, um,” he cleared his throat. “Paris, so…anything you could possibly want.” 

“What about fish ‘n chips?” Harry asked, playfully, but with an edge of challenge that Brits always had when asking about their native cuisine as though no one else in the sodding world could possibly figure out a deep fat fryer and some malt vinegar. Draco smiled, entirely enamoured with Harry’s effortless levity. Why had it never been like this before? Where was this ease and light when Draco was barely surviving the darkest moments of his life? Where was Harry then? He bit back the pang of regret that tried to constrict his throat. Thinking back on the past never did anyone any good. 

“Yes, Harry, they have that anywhere, it’s not exactly fine cuisine,” Draco explained, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. Harry’s eyes slid to the back of his shoulder where it met his armpit, a scowl tightening his bright features. 

“That hurt?” he asked. Draco picked his arm up, moving it around to try to see what Harry referred to. “Guess it can’t hurt that badly if you hadn’t even noticed. Just looks a sight.” 

“It’s fine,” Draco lied. In truth, his whole body hurt. Even when his clients were gentle, which they almost never were, he danced every day . Harry’s eyes narrowed with blatant scepticism. 

“If I say ‘you send for fish ‘n chips’ while I heal your banged up body, will you argue?” Harry asked, and Draco shook his head, genuinely wanting to feel Harry’s magic on him again. He could scarcely remember the last client he’d had that he genuinely wanted anything from. Draco had planned for this night to be shite, but it was really beginning to turn around, it seemed. “Brilliant,” he said with a bright smile that Draco felt like a small warm candle in the depths of his soul. He did send for food. It was actually a common enough request at Le Rêve that they had a Charm for putting in orders that the servers or bartenders would fulfil. Harry tried to examine the bruise from their slight distance, but it was in an odd location. 

“Is it alright if you take that off? You don’t have to, it would just be so much easier.” Draco had taken off his clothes for strangers a thousand times, his hands went to the buttons, but then he paused as the first one parted. Draco had never once felt self-conscious in this room. If you could bloody think it, Draco had done it here, but somehow, the fear of Harry finding him unattractive clenched his stomach in a vice grip. 

“Hey,” Harry said, jerking Draco back from his silent conflict. “You don’t have to,” he repeated. “I can try to work around it.” Draco shook his head, trying to rattle loose his lost sense of professionalism, and set to the buttons again, taking a deep breath as the garment slid from his shoulders. Harry reached out and touched Draco’s arm, the contact making him jump slightly.  

“Sorry, it’s just in such a strange spot,” Harry said. “Could you maybe turn a bit?” Draco nodded, turning to face the window that looked out over the city. Harry’s hands brushed the bruised skin of his back, but it didn’t hurt much. Actually, it felt quite nice. His hands were big and warm, and he touched Draco with such tenderness that he found his eyes slid shut while Harry worked in a moment of bliss. “Oh, you’ve got one on the other side too,” Harry noted. “And several across your back. I can get them all, if you like.” Draco turned back over his shoulder, chancing a glance at Harry who looked up and actually blushed somewhat when he met Draco’s gaze. 

“Only if that’s what you want,” Draco said. Harry chuckled, and there was nothing to hide the way it sent goosebumps across the skin of his back. 

“Well, I’m not going to do it unless it’s what you want,” Harry countered, annoyingly, though it was cute how much he wanted Draco to want things. Clients often needed Draco to pretend to want whatever it was they did to or with him, but in this case, he did not need to pretend at all. 

“Then, yes,” he replied. “It is what I want.” Harry proceeded largely in silence at first, the cool relief sliding beneath Draco’s aching muscles and abused skin to gently mend what had been marred. It was slow business, and Draco absently watched the lights of the city in the moonlit night through the window while Harry worked. When the food arrived, Harry paused and they both stood to answer the door, but Harry insisted, gesturing for Draco to sit again. 

The smell of the food was intoxicating, and Harry shifted a heavy container to Draco’s side, sitting back down behind him to continue his work. Merlin, the chips were hot and fatty and delicious and his stomach clenched at the feeling of satisfaction as he swallowed the first few bites. He made an embarrassing noise, a sort of purring sound, but he hadn’t even realised he’d done so until he heard the bassy rumble of Harry’s chuckle. 

“Glad you like it,” Harry said, affectionately, sliding his wand over Draco’s shoulder blade. “Can I ask you a question?” Draco licked a bit of grease from one finger, then wiped it on a napkin before nodding. “What does ‘ Baiser’ mean?” Draco felt his soothed muscles tense at the ugly moniker Diamant had bestowed upon him. “You don’t have to answer.” Draco sighed, almost annoyed by how patient Harry was with him. This was uncharted territory and it would be so much simpler if Harry just slammed him against the bed and fucked him full of come. Merlin . Draco thought as a heat pooled in his thighs at the notion. He cleared his throat, suddenly thick with saliva, and had to think for a moment to recall the question Harry had asked. 

“It’s a rather multi-purposed word. It can mean ‘embrace’ or ‘kiss’,” Draco explained. 

“That doesn’t sound terrible,” Harry mused, and Draco found he wondered what it might feel like to embrace or kiss Harry. 

“Yes, you’re right, those are pleasant words, but Diamant calls me ‘ Baiser ’ because I kept fucking her clients.” Draco winced as Harry’s wand jabbed him at the admission. 

“Sorry,” Harry croaked. It was endlessly novel how uncomfortable Harry was talking about sex or Draco’s job. Precious, even. 

“And ‘Argent’, that’s gold?” He asked, changing the subject. 

“Ah, Silver,” Draco corrected. Another chuckle. Another wave of goosebumps. 

“I see it,” Harry said. “Are you cold?” He asked. 

“No,” Draco replied, honestly. “No, I just like the sound of your voice,” he added, feeling as though Harry might be set at ease by a bit of gentle flirting. “Is it alright for me to say that?” He asked, not wanting to cross any lines. 

“‘Course,” Harry said, a touch of something odd playing with his tone. “I’ve always liked the sound of your voice,” he admitted, and Draco’s face felt momentarily aflame. He huffed a sardonic laugh. 

“That can’t be true,” he argued. They’d spent all their young lives hating each other. How could there be anything about Draco that Harry had ‘always liked’?” 

“Why not?” Harry asked, sounding almost offended. “You have a lovely voice.” Draco laughed, surprised at the direction his gentle prodding had taken them. “You have a nice laugh, too.” 

“You’re having me on,” Draco chuckled. 

“I’m really not,” Harry insisted, his wand sliding down to the waistband of Draco’s trousers beyond which, he knew for a fact, lay all manner of welt and bruise. Their laughter faded to silence. Draco shifted a bit, indulging in more of the delicious food before blurting out,

“You could keep going.” 

“Is that what you want?” Harry asked. The answer was so simple it was almost disturbing. 

“Yes,” he said, after a fashion. “Your magic feels splendid, and I am ashamed to admit how long it has been since I felt this good.” Harry sighed a heavy ragged sound that made Draco want to cave in on himself for being so forward. He heard the windy inhale Harry took and dreaded whatever it was he was about to say. 

“I don’t want to be weird, but I don’t think I am physically capable of seeing you naked and not getting turned on.” There was a sort of ripping sound in Draco’s mind. A kind of grinding as his brain tried in desperate agony to understand the words Harry had just spoken. “I know that’s wildly inappropriate-” Draco let out a loud ‘ ha!’ . Just one loud syllable at the utter absurdity of it all. 

“You think it’s inappropriate to be turned on by the body of a prostitute you paid for ?” Draco asked, hearing the volume of his voice rise but not caring at all to do anything for it. “Such a bloody saint!” he cried. “Won’t even fuck a whore he’d bought.” He heard the soft breath of Harry’s wan laugh behind him. 

“Sounds pretty bang on for me, actually,” Harry remarked. 

“Wouldn’t even do it if I asked you to?” Draco challenged. “Not even if it’s what I wanted ?” Harry’s hands absently stroked his back, tracing along the scars he’d put there in quiet contemplation. 

“Is it?” He asked, finally, his voice low and thickened by desire. Draco waited a long moment before responding. He could hear the way Harry held his breath in silent anticipation. 

“Yes, Harry,” he answered, looking out the window at the twinkling city lights. “It is what I want.” Paris was such a beautiful place. A true wonder of a city made more so by the warmth of Harry’s hands as they slid over Draco’s healed and soothed body. Made more so by the scorch of Harry’s breath mingling in his hair. Draco felt the cool relief of Harry even when he wasn’t healing him with magic, even when he was just caressing him or slotting his tongue over Draco’s, smearing his red lipstick. The tickle of Harry’s combed and trimmed beard against Draco’s soft cheek had him smiling into their kiss. Harry tasted of home, a place Draco had thought could only conjure resentment and regret, but lacing his tongue in Harry’s, he tasted of joy. 

They were naked in an instant, clothes tossed in a careless heap, and Harry sat on the edge of the bed with Draco straddling his lap, his hands skating over kilometres of tanned warm skin and the curled sparse hair that covered his broad chest. Draco feasted on the site of his fair pinked cock pressed against Harry’s flushed and dripping length, and he found a slow rhythm in this tender friction that glazed Draco in a sort of sultry seduction all of its own. He gasped into their kiss, the mounting pleasure coiling between his legs and pressed against Harry’s fat cock punched the air from his chest, and Harry moaned a reply that felt like music on his tongue.

“Harry,” Draco sighed, his hips rocking into Harry’s, letting the pleasure of their erotic contact bathe him in a hot need. “You hunted me,” he purred, whispering into Harry’s temple. “You bought me.” His thumbs flicked over Harry’s hard, dark nipples, and Draco delighted in the way the man jerked slightly under his touch. “What is it you want?” 

“This,” Harry answered, the throaty nature of his gruff voice tugged a small simper from Draco’s lips. 

“There has to be more, darling,” Draco breathed, running his tongue along the shell of Harry’s ear and feeling him shudder beneath him. “What deep fantasies does your mind conjure when you think ‘ Draco ’?” Harry moaned into Draco’s collarbone, and Draco felt the vibrato of his baritone against his chest. “Do you want to come on me, Harry? Or in me?” He suggested in sinful breaths pressing his cheek to Harry’s to whisper in his ear. “Do you want to spank me, darling?” Draco continued to slowly stroke Harry’s dripping cock with his own, trying to urge him to the point where he would give in and say what he wanted. “I am a man of so very many talents,” Draco mused. “Oh,” he exclaimed. “Do you want to watch me touch myself, Harry?”  

“ Fuck ,” Harry moaned, deeply, and Draco smirked by his ear. 

“Is that a yes, then?” 

“ Yes, ” he answered in a pleading, almost desperate tone that made Draco sigh a sweet note of triumph. 

“Come here, darling, get comfortable.” Draco moved to lay down on the bed and gestured for Harry to join him. It was infrequent that clients did not already know exactly what they wanted, so this came with a sense of pride that Draco was able to crack Harry’s chaste shell and get to the sinful meat within. Harry knelt by Draco’s side, running a hand over his chest and down to his stomach, pausing just before he touched his flushed prick. “You can touch me, Harry,” Draco informed. “It’s alright.” One of Harry’s fingers slid over Draco’s swollen head, smearing the bead of white and sending a shiver of anticipation through him that Harry echoed in a breathless moan.
Draco took his cock in one hand, using the other to hold Harry’s wrist so he wouldn’t draw away. He was so unexpectedly tentative, but the more Draco stroked himself, hips rolling up into his fist in slow undulations, the more curious Harry’s fingers became. They ghosted over Draco’s tight grip, down his base to snake among the thatch of white blonde just below his navel. It felt wonderful to have Harry explore him like this, to see him like this. He moaned, titling his head back into the pillows as the pressure beneath his balls increased to a burning heat between his thighs. When he looked up at Harry, his face flushed and panting, eyes fixed on Draco’s hand around his own cock, pleasuring himself while he watched and touched, Draco cried out a sharp note. He wanted to be filthy for Harry. Wanted to carve through the modesty and reluctance to what lay within the Saviour’s darkest heart. 

“Harry,” he breathed, drawing one of Harry’s hands to his face and taking two of his fingers between his lips. Harry whined as his tongue swirled over them, perhaps knowing what Draco had planned for them. When Draco let go of the hand to draw his thigh up to his chest, Harry's mouth gaped open in wonder. “ Mm , do you want to know what I feel like on the inside, darling?” He asked, and Harry shuddered visibly, his thick cock twitching against Draco’s side, dribbling a few white drops that smeared over Draco’s ribs. 

Harry nodded, hastily, his expression one of pure begging, and Draco drank in his excitement like fine wine. “That’s good, darling, I can take it,” he sighed, guiding Harry’s wet fingers to his needy little hole and pressing them against his tight opening. Harry seemed concerned about shoving both digits in at once, but Draco had taken far more far sooner, and he tightened his grip on Harry’s wrist, helping him inside with a firm thrust. Harry’s eyes widened as his fingers traced along Draco’s velvet soft, and he let out a boisterous moan as Draco worked his hand in and out, fucking himself with Harry’s fingers. 

“Oh, that’s good, darling,” Draco keened, arching his back and rolling his hips against Harry’s knuckles. “Do you like that, Harry?” Draco asked, knowing the answer just from the look of utter rapture on Harry’s face and the way his breath barely made it the whole way into his lungs. Harry whined a small ‘yes’, and Draco drew his other hand to the leg hoisted up to his chest, cueing Harry to press him open, handing over the keys to his body. “I can take more if you want,” Draco said, watching Harry’s expression tighten into one of something between concern and amazement. “I told you, darling, I’m very skilled.” 

Let this be advice: there is no such thing as too much lube. Draco kept small phials stashed in every corner of the room he could manage, because often once clients really got going, they were not inclined to stop so he could rummage through a bloody drawer. Draco slid one hand under the pillows behind his head, pulling out a small glass phial. He poured some of its pink contents into his hand then reached down between his legs to smear the slick over the fingers that weren’t already inside of him. A small almost pained sound worked its way out of Harry’s throat, and Draco took his wrist once more, thrusting his fingers harder and deeper into him. 

“Go ahead, Harry,” Draco encouraged, his fingers brushing over Harry’s slicked ring finger. “Fuck me with those strong hands, darling,” he moaned. Harry acted chaste, but every filthy moan and whisper from Draco sent his cock twitching and dripping as he pressed his thigh into his shoulder, spreading him wide in preparation. Draco cried out again as Harry stretched him with his third finger. It felt bloody incredible. Guiding Harry’s hand in and out of his body was a devious and unexpected pleasure, but it was made all the more erotic by the way Harry’s curious fingers worked inside him, thinning his breath to panting. “ Fuck , Harry, that’s good. You’re so good.” Draco reached for Harry’s neglected cock, and Harry keened at the contact. 

“Paint me, Harry,” Draco urged, knowing Harry was close even in the absence of touch. He stroked Harry’s thick throbbing length in slow caresses with one hand while maintaining his grip on the wrist of Harry’s fingers inside of him. Let it not be questioned that he was a bloody professional. Harry’s ragged breath mingled with the pleading whimpers that Draco’s service punched from him, composing a pornographic song. He slid his hand down, finding Harry’s tightening bollocks and cupping their engorged heft in his palm. Merlin , he felt so bloody full . The Charmed liquor they served at Le Rêve was known to sometimes have this effect. Poor thing was near bursting. Draco pressed two fingers into the space just below Harry’s swollen balls and a stream of thick white dribbled against the back of Draco’s thigh. 

“Oh, that’s good Harry, like that,” Draco coaxed, stroking his length again. “I want to feel your hot come on me, darling.” While the better percentage of Harry’s fist in Draco’s arse really did feel divine, he was so in control of his climax at this point, that he was able to hold off his ending until after Harry came. Given the present evidence, Draco imagined that would be rather soon. Harry’s moans ticked up a telltale key, and his hand shot to his cock as his body shuddered and convulsed beside Draco. He pumped himself in rhythm with the hand thrusting into Draco, positively drenching Draco’s cock and balls in his fevered release, the filthy thing. Draco was almost proud of Harry’s impromptu depravity. He seemed to have really gotten into the spirit of Le Rêve . 

“That’s wonderful, Harry,” Draco sighed, smearing the wet white over his length and coating his cock in it as he thrust into his tight fist. “Such a sticky mess.” Harry may have spent himself to empty, but his cock still twitched, hard and flushed against Draco’s thigh each time he spoke. “I want to come for you, darling,” Draco moaned. “Tell me I can. Please, I need it.” Perhaps an exaggeration, but Draco did truly want to hear that hot filth in Harry’s incredible voice. In between heavy breaths, Harry actually cleared his throat as though intent on giving a bloody speech. 

“Yeah,” he croaked, a sheen of sweat dotting his brow and dripping along the raised edge of his scar to his temple. “You can.” Draco turned just a bit to the side to show Harry his debauched masterpiece, the sticky come caked in the fine blonde hair above his reddened cock, stroked with the same wet release. Not to mention the majority of Harry’s big hand pumping into Draco’s stretched arse. 

“Can what, Harry?” Draco whined, perhaps being a bit petulant, but he never could have dreamed Harry Potter could be so demure in bed. It was simply too much fun pushing his buttons and seeing what happened. Harry looked so conflicted. As though he wanted to say it so badly, but he was uncertain of himself. Draco mewled a soft simper. “Please, Harry, I need it,” he repeated. “Darling, please .” The words were right there he could almost see the way they clawed and scraped behind Harry’s teeth, wanting to burst free, wanting what they would bring. I’m yours, Harry . Draco thought. I’m in your hands. Harry licked his lips, barely breathing. 

“I want to see you come, Draco.” Merlin in his crystal palace, that fucking voice was enough to hurl Draco over the edge whether he’d been ready for it or not. That gruff craggy filth from such a man was utterly lascivious. He cried out, arching against Harry’s fist and stroking himself in earnest. “Come for me, Draco,” Harry huffed. It took only a few seconds before Draco was quaking under the man, spilling onto his stomach and up over his chest. His orgasm spread through him like an avalanche down a steep mountain’s face, picking up momentum until he finally had to let go of his overstimulated cock. 

He was glazed in both their creamy loads, panting and looking up at Harry with complete fascination. Draco grit his teeth, whining a sharp note as he helped Harry slowly pull his hand from his stretched arse, and reached for his wand casting a quick Scourgify on it. He went to do the same for his soiled body, but Harry stilled the motion, stopping him. 

“Wait,” he rasped, breath still heavy but slowing back down to a calmer rhythm. “Not yet,” he said. “I want to see you like this a bit longer.” Draco felt a grin twist the corners of his lips upwards at that, and he set his wand down beside him. 

“We have all evening, Harry,” Draco purred. “We have as much time as you want.” 

“As much time as I pay for,” Harry corrected, and Draco let the grin grow broad and beaming. 

“Yes, darling,” he assured. “As much time as your money can buy.” Harry chuckled a low hum. 

“I have a lot of money,” he stated, leaning down to slot himself next to Draco, wrapping one massive arm around his sticky torso. 

“Then I have a lot of time,” Draco murmured, caressing Harry’s arm and finding that he looked forward to spending that time with this man more than he had any other client. Romance was not something that could easily root here at Le Rêve , so when something managed to bloom it was always a special thing.

Chapter Text

“Ninety-three Diagon Alley,” Harry said as the green flames lapped his robes and tousled his already erratic dark hair. He felt the splitting, the folding like the moment just before falling asleep when it mingles too closely with the feeling just before waking up again, and then he was there. He dusted himself off, stepping out of the Floo into the sensory cacophony that was Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. The Amortentia fountain sat only a few metres away, and immediately Harry was assaulted by the scent of orchids and ballpoint pens. 

“Hello, hello, hello, Harry Potter, good to see you, mate,” came the familiar Devon drawl of George Weasley just a moment before he clapped Harry on the back affectionately, tugging him into a warm embrace that squished Harry’s glasses against his red bowtie. George was a good bit taller than Harry, in fact, all the Weasleys were. Even Ginny. They grew them big at the Burrow, evidently. When George pulled away, Harry winced a bit. He wore a three-piece suit, meticulously tailored, with a sort of optical illusion print of swirling yellows, oranges, and pinks that made Harry have to rub his eyes beneath his glasses. 

“Hello, George,” Harry said, and George waved his wand stilling the print on his suit to an only slightly less overwhelming fuschia and mustard yellow stripe pattern.

“You like it?” George asked, holding out his arms to show off the suit. “It’s designed to make people who look at it sick. Great for parties you don’t want to go to, or perhaps dentist appointments that need a bit of drama.” Harry smiled. It was impossible not to smile around George. Linking his arm in Harry’s, George tucked a piece of long brassy hair behind the ear he did not possess and Harry watched it slide back into his face, the rest hanging just past the base of his neck in choppy layers. “Anyway, what brings my favourite brother to this neck of the woods?” Harry smiled again, feeling a warm swell of home in his heart that comes from being near anything and everything Weasley. 

“I was shopping,” Harry explained as they absently strolled through the store, arms linked, shoulder to shoulder as though George were delighting in the simple fact that Harry was alive and breathing beside him. “Or rather, I was attempting to shop.” 

“How does one attempt to shop? Did you forget how it’s done?” George remarked, and Harry laughed, shoving him slightly. 

“No, George, I know how it’s done,” he sighed. “It’s for Draco’s birthday and he’s…frankly, impossible to shop for.” 

“Ah, the Malfoys,” George sang. “Have you considered an act instead of a gift? Perhaps polishing his guillotine or sharpening his mediaeval mace collection?” Harry let out a loud ‘ ha! ’ at that. Largely, the Weasleys had accepted that Harry was a thirty year old man and he could make his own decisions where relationships were concerned, but George would still crack wise regarding his rather sordid past with the Malfoys. “How are the hinges on his Iron Maiden? Squeaky? Maybe give them a good oiling up while you’re re-staining his stocks.” Harry had to pause their stroll as tears welled in his eyes from laughing. 

“George, I’m serious,” Harry barely managed through huffs of laughter. 

“I’m serious, too, Harry, you have no idea how many cases of squeaky hinge Iron Maiden-related deaths there are in a year. You’d be amazed, do your bloody research, for Merlin’s sake.” Harry’s stomach ached from laughing and it had been only a few minutes. Such was the risk of spending time with George. Fortunately, it was also the reward. 

“George,” Harry pleaded, wiping the tears from beneath his glasses. “I honestly haven’t a clue what to get him. It’s like this every year, the man is an enigma.” 

“ You married him,” George replied. “Could have been a Weasley, but you chose to be a Malfoy. Pity.” 

“I’m not a Malfoy, I’m a Potter, and I would have been one anyway had Gin and I not both been ruddy bent,” he remarked, the aftershocks of his heaving laughter still attempting to assail his lungs like hiccoughs.

“You think Ginevra Molly Weasley would have let you keep your name? Don’t know her at all, do you, Potfoy?” Harry snorted. 

“That’s wretched, George,” he said, then sighed. “Though you’re probably right.” 

“I’m always right, Harry,” George stated with a bright smile. “Anyway, have you considered instead of a new stick to shove up his arse, you could perhaps find a gift you both could enjoy?” Harry frowned. 

“Like what?” 

“Harry, I think it is time I show you,” George waved his wand and a dark wooden door with wrought iron hinges appeared on a nondescript wall. “The back room.” Harry leaned to the side, looking out a window not two metres away from the door that looked out the back of the store to the busy cobblestone of Diagon Alley. 

“George, that’s just the exit,” Harry said. 

“Oh, Harry of little faith, maybe listen to ol’ Georgie once in a bleeding while,” he said, pejoratively, wrapping a hand around the giant o-ring knocker and pushing the door open. Harry should have known. He’d lived in the Wizarding World for nearly two decades, he should have known there would be a space roughly twice the size of the joke shop hidden in the walls of the storefront. It was also ruddy packed . Whereas the joke shop had been decently busy with children and families happily shopping and delighting in the joy the shop provided just in its brightly-coloured floors and decorated windows, the Back Room was truly bustling. 

“What the—” Harry stammered. “How long has this been here?” 

“You can’t be serious, Harry,” George said. “You expect me to pay the rent on this place with just a joke shop? In this economy? Harry, really.” Harry looked around. It was not immediately evident what the Back Room was at all, but the first thing Harry noticed was that it smelled strongly of-

“Oi! Someone’s spilled the ruddy Daisyroot again,” George exclaimed. “What do I even pay you for, Longbottom!” He called, and Harry was utterly bewildered to see Neville profusely apologising behind what appeared to be a bright red till. 

“Daisyroot?” Harry asked, and George looked down at him with an almost pitying expression. 

“Oh, Harry, dear sweet, Harry,” he sighed. Harry scowled, trying to piece it all together, but the only thing he had ever used Daisyroot for in the past was—Harry blushed, coughing slightly to himself. 

“Now you got it,” George said, clapping him on the back again. “There are two things in this world that you can never truly get enough of, mate: laughter and sex.” 

“Jesus,” Harry gaped. 

“It’s George,” George joked, and Harry rolled his eyes. “Anyway, as far as magical marital aids goes, I think I may have the thing for you.” 

“George, I don’t-” Harry didn’t even know where to begin expressing how deeply he did not want nor need George to explain the benefits and potential pleasure enhancing qualities of a Charmed expanding buttplug. 

“If it makes you feel better, Malfoy’s been here loads,” George revealed, causing Harry’s eyes to go so wide they threatened to pop right out. “I generally have a strict policy regarding discretion, but given you’re family and Malfoy’s Malfoy, I don’t mind bending my own rules a bit just this once.” 

“ What ?” Harry gaped. 

“Didn’t you question where he was getting all of that orchid-scented Daisyroot lube? Harry, that’s specially ordered from Latvia, you can’t just pop down to ruddy Tesco,” George explained, insulted by Harry’s lack of respect for his trade. Harry was gobsmacked. He’d been married to Draco for six bloody years, and somehow he felt almost hurt that he’d come here without telling Harry. “Cheer up, mate, we’ll find something elegant yet depraved for your broody blonde bride.” 

“Now, tell me, and do be honest,” George began. Harry felt himself tense with dread for what would follow. “Are either of you into Pet Play? I have a new shipment of collars that Charm your voice to any animal sound you’d like.” Harry scowled.

“ Christ , George, no ,” he snapped. George suddenly halted their stroll to move in front of Harry with an austere finger in his face, before pointing to a large blinking sign on the wall that read ‘No Kink-Shaming’ and beneath it ‘Zero Tolerance Policy’. “Sorry,” Harry cringed, chagrined. They carried on, each aisle tagged with a specific kink, some of which Harry had not even heard of before. 

“What is…” Harry squinted, moving his glasses around to read the aisle marker. “Dacryphilia and related paraphernalia?” he asked. 

“Mostly potions that make you cry,” George explained, offhandedly, then raised his red eyebrows. “Oh, is Malfoy into that? That honestly fits, can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.” 

“No,” Harry assured, curtly. “No, he’s blessedly not.” 

“Pity, I bet he’s a pretty crier,” George remarked. “We do have an entire section dedicated to Dracophilia, though.” 

“What on earth is—it’s dragons, isn’t it?” 

“It’s dragons,” George grinned. “If you give me something to work with, I’m sure I can point you in the right direction.” 

“I don’t want to tell you about my ruddy sex life, George, that’s weird!” Harry whinged, though it did feel like he likely already knew more than Harry would have initially guessed given Draco’s apparent frequent patronisation of this place. Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes once more. It wasn’t…that is, it might honestly be…Christ, even internally he couldn’t bring himself to say that getting Draco something sexy for his birthday might actually be…fun. He sighed again, and George patted his back. 

“First times are always awkward,” he mocked, and Harry scoffed a sigh. “Ever tried Incantation Play?” Harry frowned, he hadn’t even heard of it before. 

“What’s that?”

“Pretty self-explanatory actually,” George explained, picking up a small scroll tied with a black ribbon and sealed with black wax stamped with the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes ‘W’ crest. He handed it to Harry. “It’s a one-time use Incantation that’s rather customisable, actually. Most clients use it for your standard Orgasm Control sort of scenarios, but I had this one couple from Bulgaria who got really creative with one and a soup tureen. Bulgarians , am I right?” He waggled an elbow, but Harry was still stuck trying to picture the erotic uses of a soup tureen. “In any case, you use that, choose the magic word, and-” he made a flourish with his hands. Harry considered the scroll for a long moment. If there was one thing Draco liked loads it was teasing, and more than that, control. He was a spoiled prat, but he was Harry’s spoiled prat. The idea of giving him something that allowed him the opportunity to both tease and control Harry was almost too perfect. 

“Given what I know, which is admittedly very little—Malfoy is rather tight-lipped, though I’m sure you’re well aware of that, ey?” George went on, waggling his brows, as Harry rolled the small curl of parchment in his hand. “He’d probably be into making you beg for it.” Harry’s mouth gaped open. 

“What makes you think I’d be the one begging for it?” Harry asked, and George placed a hand on his shoulder with a sigh, shaking his head just slightly, a pitying expression on his face. 

“Oh, Harry,” he said. “My dear baby brother. My own family. Metaphorical blood of my blood.” Harry groaned, seeing where this was going. “Being the owner and operator of the most esteemed sex shop in Britain aside, you are easily the bottomest bottom I have ever known.” Harry rolled his eyes with a long, windy exhale. 

“I’ll take it.”

Chapter Text

“Never?” Harry rolled his eyes, grimacing somewhat, before shifting his pawn up one space. “Like ever? Given or received?” Theodore Nott’s face was contorted in an expression somewhere between disgust and amazement. He brushed a lock of golden blonde poshly out of his face, turning to Malfoy who shrugged, absently, deep in consideration of his next move, hunched over the chess board, a hand over his mouth. 

“Never,” Harry asserted, spelling the play clock to count down Malfoy’s time.

“But-” Theo just would not let it go. “Why?” he asked, as though Harry had never breathed or never eaten before instead of what they were actually discussing. “It’s really good. Like, the best, actually.” 

“You would think that, Teddy,” Malfoy remarked, hovering a hand over his queenside rook then thinking better of it and drawing back to reconsider. Theo scowled, insulted somewhat, and shifted where he sat between the two, legs crossed, to lean towards Malfoy who was so fixed on the chess board he nearly jumped when he saw Theo’s face by his shoulder. “ Merlin , what?” 

“Just seems a shame, really,” Theo mused, and Malfoy’s eyes darted to the corners then back to the board about a dozen times before he scoffed, slid his queenside rook forward three spaces and checked Harry’s king. 

“What are you on about, Teddy?” Malfoy snapped. “Also, check, Potter.”

“I know,” Harry replied, waving a hand.  

“Just making certain you didn’t miss it,” Malfoy added, turning back to Theo as he Spelled the clock to count down Harry’s time. Theo scooted closer to Malfoy, placing a hand on his knee. Harry ignored the two, or at least pretended to. He knew how to un-check his king, but he couldn’t help but hang on Theo’s every word.

“ Draco ,” Theo had an awful whinging voice he utilised when he wanted something from Malfoy, but what was even yet worse was how well it worked. “What if Potter died tomorrow? Then he’d never get to try it ever .” Malfoy scowled, turning to face Theo.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem to solve or yours,” he snipped. Theo shoved Draco’s knee a few times, intent on being as obnoxious as possible, it seemed. 

“We could show him,” he whispered, but not really. It was plenty loud enough for Harry to overhear and the implication alone sent a heat to Harry’s face. The three had become sort of unlikely mates in their Eighth Year. Not simply because all three were bent, plenty of people in their class were, but because they were the least interested in discussing anything that happened the year prior. It had been easy with Malfoy and Theo. They just didn’t bloody care about all that rot, and neither did Harry. It was done. Past. And Harry intended to leave it there. Chancing a glance up, he noted the pink that had formed on Malfoy’s fair cheeks. Their eyes met for a dense moment before Harry looked back down at the board. Staring at the space just left of where his king currently sat, knowing that he’d be moving it there.  

“Bloody hell, Teddy,” Malfoy cursed. Harry slid his king to the left, Spelling the clock, but Draco didn’t turn back to the board. His eyes were darting between Theo’s and Harry’s in an almost panicked back and forth like a hell’s own metronome. “Wait, what do you mean we ?” Theo scoffed, petulantly. He did everything petulantly. That’s just how he was.

“Well, you’ll obviously need someone to demonstrate on, right?” Harry felt his heart beating its way up his throat like so much sick. Malfoy smirked a sort of pitying expression at Theo before brushing a thumb over his lips, sending Theo whining when he finally turned back to the board. 

“Merlin, you are a little slag,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes and considering the game he was nearly certain to win at this stage while Harry’s soul slowly melted to a puddle somewhere deep in his stomach, picturing Theo’s proposition. Malfoy turned back to the board, tipping his king before crossing both his arms and his legs which was never a good sign. He cocked his head to the side, blonde fringe swaying with the motion like so much silk. Harry swallowed thickly. “You know, Potter, Teddy has a point. Something I truly thought I would never say.” 

“I honestly do not think he does,” Harry replied, feeling as though Malfoy and Theo had both evacuated the better part of what little sense either possessed. 

“What are a couple of salads tossed among mates, hm?” Malfoy asked, and Harry felt his heart slide into the pit in his stomach down which his melted soul had leaked. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry breathed. 

“No, honestly, Harry,” Malfoy urged, and Harry groaned. Like Theo’s bloody wretched whinging voice, Draco’s use of Harry’s given name was only reserved for times when he wanted something out of him. “What’s the harm?”

So, essentially, that’s how Harry ended up in Malfoy’s dormitory with Theo Nott naked as a Cornish pixie, arse up, face down on Malfoy’s bed. 

“Teddy’s a bit of an easy win,” Malfoy explained, rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt as though they were about to duel and not…well…this. “So don’t get arrogant.” Theo’s hard, pink cock bobbed between his legs. It was small, but what did that matter when Theo was the absolute most bottom twink there was? He was a thin thing, milky skin stretched taut over ribs and spine, and while Harry did not find Theo attractive normally, the fact he was seeing the man like this had Harry’s own cock swelling in his trousers. He leaned back against the window pane letting the cool of the glass distract him from how fucking hot he suddenly felt. 

“First, and it cannot be overstated,” Draco explained, gesturing as he spoke, his black hawthorn wand in his right hand. “Make sure your partner is clean.” He swished his wand elegantly through the air, casting a precautionary Scourgify that had Theo crying into the dark blue (likely one million thread count) cotton sheets. “Merlin, Teddy, is there anything that doesn’t get you wet?” 

“Fuck off,” Theo replied (petulantly), muffled against the bed, but Harry barely caught a word of any of it because the scent of Malfoy’s cinnamon and nutmeg cleaning Charm had latched onto Harry’s senses and refused to let go. 

“Next,” Malfoy stated, placing his wand down on his writing desk with a clack that startled Harry from his momentary distraction. “I don’t recommend just sort of diving in like a madman. You’ll want to take your time, and if it’s being done to you,” Malfoy met Harry’s eyes with a glinting almost sinful expression that had the breath lodged somewhere high in Harry’s throat where it did his lungs entirely no good. “You’ll enjoy it more if you’ve already come or gotten close to it.” 

“Fuck me first, Draco,” Theo said, pressing his knees into the bed and arching his back to expose more of himself to Malfoy, who only crossed his arms raising one brow. 

“You’re for instructional purposes only, Teddy, don’t be greedy.” Theo whined, his small hands gripping the sheets on either side of his face as he turned slightly over one shoulder. 

“You just said—”

“Theo.” Malfoy’s tone darkened with reprimand, shifting lower and sharpening to a fine edge that Harry felt slide threateningly across his throat, sending his thighs tensing. Malfoy inhaled for a long moment and Harry felt for a second that he was sucking in all the air in the room before he exhaled it all back, sliding a deft and experienced hand between Theo’s thighs. Theo keened into the sheets, biting the cotton then crying out as Malfoy cupped the man’s bollocks and stroked along his short length. He was so gentle, so tender and even though he seemed more focused on demonstrating good technique than pleasuring Theo, Harry found himself wondering what such practised hands would feel like on him. He shifted, crossing one ankle over the other and his arms across his chest drawing Malfoy’s silvered gaze. 

“This isn’t entirely necessary,” he said, much softer, little more than a murmur. “But I find everything feels better afterwards.” Harry watched the slow back and forth of Malfoy’s touch along Theo’s cock, swirling around his swollen pink head then sliding back down over his base to knead his soft flushed balls in a decidedly erotic massage. Harry hadn’t…that is…he knew he was bent and all, and Malfoy knew as well, but he’d never…“That’s good, Teddy,” he purred in a low rumble that Harry felt like a soft hum on the underside of his cock. Theo’s hips rocked greedily back into Malfoy’s hand, rolling into the friction and seeking out pleasure more on instinct than anything. Harry knew the feeling only from touching himself, alone at night in his room, but he’d never done anything like this . He’d never done anything with anyone else at all, admittedly. 

“Come here,” Malfoy said, and for a second Harry was so lost in the sight of his lithe fingers dancing over Theo, that he didn’t realise Malfoy was speaking to him. “I want to show you something.” Harry swallowed though his saliva felt it had turned to paste in his throat. He was so hard, so brutally turned on by all this that the idea of walking even the three steps to Malfoy’s side risked him creaming in his pants. What was worse, and becoming more and more a distinct issue by the second, was how much he wanted to be near Malfoy then. Harry set his jaw, stepping forward and attempting to keep his calm as the sight of Theo’s swollen reddened balls contrasted against Malfoy’s porcelain hand came into perfect view. 

“This spot here,” Malfoy swirled his manicured thumb over the space between Theo’s balls and his tight pink hole, swiping through the golden curly hairs there as Theo cried into the sheets. “It’s rather sensitive,” Malfoy explained. His voice strummed Harry’s body like tuned harp strings and each chord had his hard cock twitching against the flies of his jeans, wanting to escape, wanting Malfoy’s skilled hands skating over his sensitive spots like he did with Theo. “It’s a good place to start.” And that’s what he did. Malfoy put one knee on the edge of the bed to lean forward, his lips parting, mouth open wide and ready, to lave his tongue over the wispy blonde peach fuzz of Theo’s balls. Harry’s stomach clenched as Theo whined a throaty high-pitched note. 

“Goodness,” Malfoy huffed a chuckle against Theo’s arse, using his hands to peel the lad open. He pulled back a moment later, and Harry realised it had been quite a while since the last time he’d breathed. Malfoy turned to Harry, his lips rosy and wet with saliva, fringe in his lidded steely eyes, and Harry felt the unmitigated desire to kiss him like that even if he had just had his mouth on Theo’s (admittedly clean) arse. 

“Give me your hand,” he said, voice barely more than a gruff whisper. Harry could feel his heart pounding so hard against his chest it felt intent to burst through and slam bloody and beating into Malfoy’s beautiful face. After a long beat, Malfoy reached for Harry’s hand, tugging it free of where it had been tightly crossed over his chest and bringing it to the crease of Theo’s thigh. The heat of his balls was scorching and Harry wanted nothing more than to touch him as Malfoy had. To feel Theo’s soft velvet warmth against his skin. “There’s an artery here,” Malfoy explained, pressing Harry’s hand into Theo’s thigh. “Feel his pulse?” Harry felt a lot of things then. He felt how smooth Malfoy’s hands were against his. He felt Theo’s tensing thighs as both of them fondled his naked body. But mostly Harry just felt the burning aching desire coiling to a dense fist in his low belly. 

“Mhm,” he croaked, barely a reply at all, more just noise, a pained sound. He could feel Theo’s racing pulse, but the feeling of Malfoy’s fingers pressing into his was so fucking loud that he couldn’t bloody think of anything else. 

“Ever make a bloke come before, Potter?” Malfoy’s whisper was boiling steam in Harry’s ear, and he had to bite back a small, needy sound that tickled the back of his throat. Harry shook his head, feeling his throat constrict to a pinhole. “That’s alright,” he cooed, and Harry jumped when Malfoy’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “I’ll show you.” Harry felt the hand at his back just before Malfoy drew him in close to his side. He drew Harry’s hand up to his mouth, his piercing gaze coring Harry to hollow as he took Harry’s index finger between his lips. Harry attempted to swallow, but failed, only managing a strained, almost choking sound as Malfoy’s tongue swirled over Harry’s finger, giving him a painfully tactile idea of what it must have felt like for Theo. Malfoy pulled his hand free, and guided it towards Theo’s arse. 

Harry paused, unsure what to do next. Malfoy positioned himself more behind Harry, his hips pressing against Harry’s as he brought Harry’s free hand to Theo’s arsecheek, cueing him to peel the lad open. The firm outline of his hard cock against the thin fabric of his black trousers made it clear to Harry that this was more than just a classroom demonstration for Malfoy as well. Something about that felt satisfying. That Malfoy was enjoying this. Harry followed Malfoy’s instruction using his thumb to open Theo enough to see his flushed opening. Malfoy directed Harry’s spit-slicked finger to Theo’s hole, but Harry resisted a bit. He’d never done this before, not even to himself, and he wasn’t sure how to do it right. 

“It’s alright,” Malfoy breathed into the crook of Harry’s neck, his breath a blazing inferno that sent a heated surge straight through his entire body. This time he could not bite back the pathetic simper that slipped between his lips. “You’re doing good, Harry. Teddy can take it. Isn’t that right, Teddy baby?” Teddy was shaking, pushed to the edge and abandoned there by Harry’s equivocation, he moaned into the sheets. Malfoy pressed his own finger against Harry's, forcing it past the tight muscles of Theo’s arse and into the wet silk of his body. Theo shuddered as Harry’s finger slid inside, and Harry’s body echoed it against Malfoy feeling the unbelievably moist heat there. It was unlike anything Harry had ever felt. 

“ Mm , that’s very good, Harry,” Malfoy purred against the back of his neck, and Harry felt his praise stroke him absent of touch. He felt near bursting. The hand on his back slid down his spine, blazing a trail of sensation even through his clothes before skating around his hip to reach around to the waistband of his jeans. All the while, Malfoy’s hand gripped Harry’s, working his finger slowly in and out of Theo’s body while the boy cried, hips rolling against Harry’s knuckles. Malfoy had the button of Harry’s jeans undone with one agile hand, splitting the flies with an audible zip as Harry jerked against him. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Malfoy whispered, nuzzling his face in Harry’s hair as the fingers at his navel twisted into the dark curled hairs that led to his throbbing captive cock. Harry felt panicked . He didn’t want Malfoy to stop, he couldn’t think of anything in the world he wanted less , but he just didn’t know what to do and he didn’t want to look like a ruddy idiot his first time. “I believe I mentioned this before,” Malfoy spoke into Harry’s hair, his breath heating a small warm spot at the base of Harry’s skull. “Everything is more enjoyable after you come.” Harry tensed, his body going entirely rigid as Malfoy’s hand slid beneath the waistband of his pants and snaked around his aching length. He was already so close that even the little contact had him right at the edge and ready to spill. Harry felt Theo’s arse clench around his finger and saw a thick bead of white drip to the bed, tethered until the last moment by a wet thread that snapped as it dampened the sheets. Theo cried out, his thighs quaking, as he arched into Harry’s fist. 

“Good work,” Malfoy praised, his hand around Harry’s cock did not move, and Harry wondered if he knew how close he was to coming already. “Ever had your prostate massaged when you’re hot and dripping, Potter? It feels like someone’s set off sparklers inside your body.” Harry coughed a weak sound as he clawed to keep himself together when Malfoy worked so hard to split him apart. “Keep going,” Malfoy urged. “He’s close.” Harry worked his finger against the firm muscles inside Theo’s body, and eventually Malfoy slid his hand under Harry’s to stroke the man’s neglected cock again as several more drops pumped onto the sheets. Teddy was moaning and keening into the bed once Malfoy resumed his skilled service. It didn’t take long at all after that for Harry to feel his body clench around his finger, and to see the splash of Theo’s orgasm paint the sheets beneath him wet and white. It was incredible. Feeling the way Theo’s body moved around him, and knowing he’d been (at least partially) responsible for causing it sent a rush of thrill like static through his blood. 

Harry pulled his finger from Theo’s arse even as Theo quivered and cried,  because Malfoy had begun to stroke him in earnest. His hand worked down to Harry’s fat base, then back up to swirl over his dripping flushed tip. Harry arched into Malfoy’s fucking incredible caress that felt nothing at all like it did when Harry touched himself. It was coaxing and firm to the point of demand, and Harry panted as his body surrendered to it. He bit back a cry, feeling the pumping stream of hot come spill against Malfoy’s palm as he stroked him through his orgasm, slicking his cock with his own load. The speed and grip Malfoy used was far more intense than Harry was accustomed to. Normally, he stopped once he came, but Malfoy was intent to milk him ruddy empty. As his orgasm reached fever pitch, Harry could no longer keep quiet. He cried, moaning and bucking his hips into Malfoy’s fist, chasing the overstimulated high he got from this sensory assault.

“Merlin, your cock is big and thick, Harry,” Malfoy whispered in a low, craggy rasp that sent him shivering as his climax dulled to aftershocks. “Such a messy thing. Move, Teddy,” Malfoy urged, and Theo stood from the bed with an unaffected stretch, his arms over his head, accentuating his thin frame in the protrusion of his bottom ribs. Malfoy ran his hands up under Harry’s jumper, sliding it over his head and tossing it to the floor leaving his chest exposed. He and Malfoy were of a height, but their builds were entirely different. Harry was thicker, bulkier with muscle, all tanned topography tracing his fit form. Malfoy, on the other hand, was long lean lines, and Harry had more than once been transfixed by the man’s elegant hands and the slope of his collarbone beneath his collar. “It’s Harry’s turn,” Malfoy informed, brushing featherlight kisses down Harry’s jugular that had him twitching and biting back pathetic noises. 

“But I—” Harry stalled, not wanting to say just came in three seconds . 

“I’ll get you there,” Malfoy assured, breathlessly, then pushed Harry forward onto the bed. He caught himself with his palms, and Malfoy pulled his jeans down to his thighs. Malfoy’s hand between Harry’s legs was smooth and gentle even on his oversensitive sticky prick. He could picture the way his nimble fingers moved against him, having just watched how he’d touched Theo and it made Harry’s heart quicken from its blissful andante . Malfoy had Harry naked with a flick of his wand, his hands skating through the dark hairs on Harry’s thighs as he leaned against him, coaxing him further onto the bed where Theo had just been. Harry was so lost in it all that he didn’t even know if Theo was still there. He just knew he wanted more . His cock was mostly hard again, stroked by Malfoy’s patient hands, and he wanted to feel what Theo had felt. 

“Best if you arch your back a bit,” Malfoy whispered softly into Harry’s low spine making him jolt lightly as his breath misted against his skin. “Like Teddy showed you.” Harry tried to apply what he could remember to his own body. He leaned his shoulders down, hugging a pillow beneath his face, and arched his back somewhat to expose as much of himself as he could to Malfoy. It felt so embarrassing to be like this in front of anyone, let alone Malfoy. Harry felt himself soften a bit as his nerves untied the delicate braids of pleasure that Malfoy had tethered within him. “Merlin, you are so fucking hot, Harry,” Malfoy said. “Cannot believe how much time I spent not doing this.” Harry scowled into the pillow. Was he having him on? 

“Y-you’re - ah -” Harry gasped when he felt Malfoy peeling him open as he had with Theo, his hot breath against Harry’s balls. “You’re not s-serious,” he croaked. Malfoy cast the same quick cleaning spell on Harry that he had on Theo sending a fresh wave of that cinnamon and nutmeg scent up into Harry’s brain and rotting it to filth. Who fucking cared if he was serious? Harry just wanted those pretty pink lips on his arse now . Harry felt Malfoy pause behind him, felt the air in the room chill somewhat. 

“Why would you think that?” Malfoy asked, his breath trailed over Harry’s tailbone, coming to rest in the small of his back. He sounded…hurt? Harry frowned. 

“Because you can’t be,” Harry replied, though even as he spoke the reason sounded entirely stupid and childish. Because you’re Draco Malfoy and I’m Harry Potter. 

“Why?” The featherlight touch of his lips sent a quivering vibrato along Harry’s spine. 

“I dunno, Malfoy,” Harry sighed. 

“Draco,” he corrected. “Just try it.” Harry’s head spun. He didn’t think…I mean he knew how he felt. How he could get lost in Ma-in Draco ’s casual cool. How the way he slid the pieces across the chessboard was so effortlessly elegant. How many nights Harry wondered what his lips tasted like or what it might feel like to have them on his body. Harry knew how he felt about Draco, but he had never expected Draco to feel that way about him . “Or I can stop—”

“No,” Harry huffed. “No, please don’t stop.” He could actually feel the small grin tick up the sharp corners of Draco’s lips against the taut skin of his back at that.

“I like when you say ‘please’,” Draco murmured. “Not normally one for manners, you.” Harry was going to reply with something entirely witty and charming, but the words were forcibly punched from his chest in the form of a guttural wail as Draco’s tongue laved over his arsehole. 

“ Fuck , Draco,” Harry breathed, the heat of his steamy breath mingled with the smoothe wet of his tongue against Harry, igniting his blood and sending it surging through his veins. 

“ Merlin , I like that even more,” Draco purred against Harry, making him keen into the pillow. “Do you want to come like this Harry?” He asked, pressing the tip of his tongue into Harry, stretching him softly with it while Harry felt himself unravel beneath him. He cried into the pillow, the sensation so overwhelming, he could barely think. 

“I don’t - ah, fuck - I don’t know,” he panted. He really didn’t. Harry had gone from never doing anything beyond the sloppy wanks in his bed at night to Draco’s hands tugging him off in his pants before shoving his tongue in his arse. It was like going from zero to the speed of ruddy light, and Harry’s brains had been liquified in his skull by it. 

“That’s ok, Harry,” Draco assured. “That’s okay, I’ll make it good for you.” 

“You can…” Harry trailed off, lost in the bliss and pleasure of Draco’s tongue sliding over him, into him, ravaging him. “You can fuck me if you want.” Draco breathed a sigh that huffed hot and wet against the underside of Harry’s balls, sending him shivering. 

“Maybe we save that for just us,” Draco offered, and Harry realised that Theo must still be in the room. He felt a bloody chorus of emotions just then. First, embarrassment that Theo was watching. Next, a strange sort of arousal at the very same thing. And finally, a warm sort of gooey happiness that Draco wanted Harry’s first time to be special. He whined as Draco ran his hand between Harry’s thighs again, stroking his now aching hard length. “Just enjoy this for now. Relax.” God, his voice was like crystal spring water over smooth river stones and it had Harry crying against the pillow as Draco’s fingers teased his swollen tip. 

It took no time at all then. Once Harry managed one good breath, relaxing against Draco as his tongue slid just inside, stretching him gently open, his deft hands stroking him in rhythm, Harry dissolved. His second orgasm was entirely unlike the first. He did not ride the edge, resisting the fall until he just couldn’t anymore. This time, he dove. Plummeting into the silky heat, Harry panted hot heaving breaths against the satin of the pillow at his face as Draco’s fingers played with the thin strands of white release that pumped from his flushed cock with each racking spasm. 

“That’s good, Harry,” Draco sighed as Harry’s breath slowed and deepened. Harry collapsed into the sheets, and Draco moved to sit beside him, bringing the fingers coated in Harry’s milky end to his lips. Harry’s eyes widened a bit. 

“What are you—” Harry said, his breath halting as Draco ran his tongue along the wet digits, lapping up Harry’s come like so much honey. 

“I eat arse, Harry, it’s fine.”

Chapter Text

“Can you cover it?” 

“You know I can, that’s why you’re here.” 

“Can you get rid of it?” 

“No.”

***

Harry sets his station. It’s a bit of a process, and magic doesn’t change much at all besides the actual tattooing. All the sanitary steps are the same. His black non-latex gloves come to his wrists, the shifting petals of his rose tattoos blowing in the wind are visible up his arms until they fade into the snowy owl that sits on one shoulder and the dark-furred dog on the other. He rips about a hundred paper towels before covering his ink tray in wrap. His client today was a surprise. Harry doesn’t book his own appointments, Luna does, and she apparently hadn’t felt this was worth mentioning. 

The crinkling of plastic is the soundtrack to his life as Harry bags his green soap, his machine, his power supply, his arm rest. Clients always think everything he does is to protect them, and while it does do that, the biggest risk is getting their biohazardous material on him. He’s the one in danger, but Harry doesn’t generally view it that way. He knows what he’s doing, he’s done it for nearly ten years. It’s all just background noise now. 

“Hello, Harry,” Luna says, smiling cheerfully as her happy otter tattoo swims up and down her left arm. She keeps her mane of white blonde hair piled in a sort of half-bun half-ponytail on the top of her head. “I’m owl-ing the supply order in tonight, do you need anything that’s not already on there?” She’s the shop manager, but she’s always treated Harry like more than a sack of meat who inks. She gets him the gloves he likes, the best inks from the best Alchemists, his Enchanted machine has been replaced half a dozen times in the past year and she never complains. Harry could not ask for a better boss. 

“I have everything on there, Luna, thanks for asking,” he tells her, tearing off a piece of cling film and letting it hang over the edge of his arm rest. It’s so important to make sure any casual touch is just plastic. Any cross-contamination of one client risks both him and the next, but again, this whole process is done entirely by rote at this point. The shop is open, so she sits down at her desk which serves both as a reception counter and as her office. A shop snake named Harold sits in a large tank beside her, and yes, it is very confusing to have two Harrys in the shop even if one is a snake. It’s non-negotiable as well, because Harry spoke to the snake and that was the name he’d said. 

“Need anything? I imagine this will be a long session,” Luna asked from her desk, inking her quill to finish up her supply orders. 

“Think I’m alright, thank you, Luna,” Harry replied, pouring his ink cups. The ink is one of the most notable differences between Muggle tattoos and magic ones. Harry’s ink comes from an Alchemist in Estonia. It always appears black, but the Spell determines its colour once it's in the skin. The door to the shop opens, chiming lightly as Harry’s next client walks in. He looks…good. Silver blonde hair tied up in a long ponytail behind his head, he wears a tight black long-sleeved shirt that has holes his thumbs poke through, equally tight black slacks, and shiny black chelsea boots that add a few centimetres to his already tall height. Harry couldn’t help the trill of hurt seeing Malfoy cover up all of his work so completely, but he swallows back the bitter note, summoning his professionalism. That iron gaze skates over Harry quickly, expression unreadable, before he turns to Luna. 

“Hello, Draco,” she says, kindly. “Just there,” she gestures to Harry’s station. He is the only artist in the shop that day, not to mention Malfoy booked the appointment with Harry, but Luna keeps polite kindness in surplus. Malfoy nods to Luna, he smells strongly of fags and Harry wonders if he arrived early and just stood outside the shop smoking until it was exactly half fourteen. How very Malfoy that was. Harry waves a gloved hand, gesturing to the black leather chair set next to the wrapped armrest. Malfoy stays standing.

“Malfoy,” Harry says. Not…like he did in school, just…somehow the air is always thicker between them. Even when they haven’t spoken in over four years. Even when they used to ugly fuck in pub loos when musical artists who played loud enough to drown out their nightmares came to London. 

“Can you cover it?” Malfoy asks, his cheeks are pink from the cold and now Harry knows he was waiting outside for his appointment. 

“You know I can, that’s why you’re here,” Harry replies. He doesn’t know why he’s like this with Malfoy. Why he gets combative. Malfoy sighs, and it smells of cloves, hurling Harry eight years into the past when that smell had mingled with sex and shots of absinthe. He coughs into the crook of his elbow, clearing away the history, focusing his mind. 

“Can you remove it?” Malfoy asks, and Harry wonders how it is Malfoy always makes him feel so small? He could do what no other artist could, what no other wizard could, and Malfoy was one of over two dozen who had already used Harry’s skills to alter their past. He wishes he could say what Malfoy wanted to hear. Something twists in his stomach and he fears Malfoy will leave. He fears what this fear means even more. 

“No,” Harry answers. “It’s more a rearrangement than a cover, as is. You can’t get rid of it.” Harry sees the disappointment on Malfoy’s face despite how truly skilled he is at masking his emotions. Something utterly depraved in him conjures the memory of Malfoy’s arse around Harry’s cock, the bundle of thistles tattoo swaying gently over his low spine, and Harry has to shoo it away. That’s how it started every time. A memory of what it felt like to touch him, then the desire to do it again. Harry sets his focus on his job, pointing it away from the way Malfoy’s hips have a slightly feminine curve that makes holding them in his hands feel so good. Get it together, Harry.  

“Alright,” Malfoy says, sitting down in the chair, and Harry can’t help but indulge in the way he moves. In fairness, people pay a lot of money to see Draco Malfoy move, being a professional Ballet dancer and all. He crosses his arms over his chest, watching Harry run his machine to set the voltage. They use so much Muggle technology, but Harry knows Malfoy already knows how this works. Eventually, there is no more prep. There is only the rest. 

“Do you know what you’d like it to look like?” Harry asks.

“No,” Malfoy says. He’s never once known. Harry wonders if he prefers it this way or if he simply doesn’t care. All at once Malfoy pulls his shirt off over his head, tossing it over Harry’s unused bench. Harry glimpses the past in the myriad shifting tattoos that skate over the surface of Malfoy’s milky skin. So many flowers: orchids, hydrangeas, peonies. Harry was always inspired by beautiful things when Malfoy sat for him. 

“Could have just rolled up your sleeve,” Harry says, but his heart swells seeing his beautiful work on Malfoy’s body again. Something needy and small within him loves those tattoos. Loves how permanently Harry has marked Draco, not out of a desire to own or control, but out of love. His mind carries him to running his hands over the orchids over the man’s ribs as they fucked for bloody hours, and he busies himself shifting the green soap bottle attempting to find his way back from that memory. 

“More comfortable like this,” Malfoy sighs, pulling a clove fag from his pocket and lighting it with a snap of his fingers. Harry remembers them working tirelessly to learn that little wandless evocation in his Eighth Year dorm. He remembers Malfoy’s clove breath then, too, when they laced their tongues together and just tasted each other. When it was love and not…But there’s no sense in dredging up all that. 

“You look good,” Harry says before he can stop himself, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he pushes his glasses up with the back of his wrist. His collar-length wavy hair is tied mostly up in a bun, but some pieces aren’t long enough and they hang over his shoulders. Harry knows it is likely driving Malfoy mad.

“You would too if you cut that hair,” Malfoy snips, and again, Harry feels the air thin a bit. Clear somewhat in this familiar banter. He smiles down at his tray, and Malfoy places his arm, wrist up, on the rest. It’s a mess. All scarred skin and old burns and Harry knows how many terrible things Malfoy has attempted to rid himself of the black stain of his past, but seeing it again has his blood freezing to ice. It’s worse than the last time he saw it. 

“Can you cover it?” Malfoy asks again, but nothing has changed. The ink is there, and Harry is the only person alive who can manipulate it, but there’s simply nothing he can do about the skin. 

“Yes, but-”

“I know,” Malfoy cuts him off. Harry sighs.

“I wish you came to me before doing this, Malfoy,” Harry admits. A dense cloud of clove smoke puffs in his face as Malfoy exhales. 

“So odd to hear you call me that,” he remarks. 

“‘S your name, right?” Harry snips, defensively, and again he does not know why he’s like this around the man.

“Yes,” he answers, solemnly. “But I was ‘Draco’ to you once.” The breath stalls in Harry’s throat. He swallows though it suddenly feels like swallowing nails. “More than once,” Draco says, twisting the knife still lodged in Harry’s heart. Harry nods, the air has thickened to fucking paste now, and he feels he can barely breathe in it. “Theo says it will hurt, but none of the other ones did.” 

“It’s going to fucking hurt,” Harry states, and Draco’s silver eyes meet his as though looking for a jest he would not find. “It’s going to fucking hurt like hell, Draco,” Harry repeats, imparting how earnest he was. Draco nods, thinly, he has never once been one for pain. Simply not designed for it, he was a man of art and grace. 

“I’m out for the night,” Luna says. “Goodnight, Harry,” she calls, cordially, and Harry waits, skilled enough in this ritual to know she’s speaking to the snake. “Be well, Harry, Draco,” she adds just before she leaves with a sweet wave goodbye, but Draco’s eyes have not left Harry’s and behind them he can see the swirling misty fear there. 

“It’ll be better than this,” Harry says, gesturing with his machine to the mess of flesh on Draco’s arm. Draco nods, but Harry knows he’s dreading the agony. “You’ll be okay,” Harry assures, putting his gloved hand over Draco’s arm, and hating how much he loved to touch this man yet still. “If Theo can do it-” Draco barks a quick laugh at that as another thick cloud of clove huffs in Harry’s face. 

“That’s a very good point, Harry,” he chuckles, and Harry’s heart hangs on his name as it dances from Draco’s lips because he’s a ruddy idiot. There’s a pause, and then Harry takes a deep breath. He worked so long to find a way to do this, and while he still couldn’t get rid of the Dark Marks, this had been his first major breakthrough. The only one. Still, it is taxing and painful, and Harry wishes there was another way. 

It begins slowly. There’s no ink involved at the start because it’s already in the Mark. He whispers the quiet Incantation, sliding the unicorn hair needle into place as Draco squeezes his hand shut and relaxes it open several times. The vasculature in his forearm swells with his racing heartbeat, and he takes a long drag off what remains of the clove cigarette between his lips. Harry presses the needle against Draco’s arm and listens. 

At first, he cannot hear it. Sometimes Death Eaters are so detached from their pasts, so resolute in their regret that the magic has waned too much to be manipulated, but this is Draco and he has to try harder . He listens, feeling the magic within him slide into his hand, into the needle, hum through the unicorn hair and call out. When Draco winces, Harry knows he’s got something, and he tugs on it like threads through time. Draco’s hand tightens to a fist, but this time it stays that way. Harry knows it’s awful, stirring that wretched black magic inside Draco’s body, ill-designed for hate or malice, and coaxing it back to life. Stoking it from cinders to inferno. 

Harry hears it more clearly now. A little hum of something low and ominous. Something tainted and malignant. Eventually, it will sing to him. Its lilting melody will vibrate and resonate with the magic inside Harry’s body. It will hurt for him, too. The Mark shifts and Draco hisses, feeling it move for the first time in a decade. Harry tightens the grip of his free hand on the man’s arm, but he hears the song now, and he needs to keep focused. I’ve got you . He thinks. I hear you now . 

The needle slides across Draco’s arm and the first bit of the Mark slides with it. Harry can feel the sorrow and hopelessness in this song like a dirge, he hears the pain as fresh now as it was then. The magic in Draco’s Mark had been quite dormant, but it is strong and loud now. Awakened, and Harry knows he is torturing Draco. Even through the discordant cacophony he can hear Draco grit his teeth, and the hitching gasps of his pain. It’s awful, and every time Harry has done it he feels what it was to be intrinsically connected to this magic. To the man who possessed it. He remembers the dark ugliness that was able to root within him.

The song’s pitch slides up and down keys as Harry works it like smearing the notes up and down the staff. It’s music in its own way, it’s composing, and Harry conducts this symphony from discord to perfect melody. Draco cries out as the ink shifts in his arm, and Harry knows he is already at his limit. Harry is already at his, too. The magic is in him now as much as it is in Draco, and he can feel it’s cold tendrils slithery through his veins like snakes of ice. He can feel Tom Riddle’s breath on his neck, hear his voice as clearly as he hears the god forsaken song. 

“ Harry ,” Draco gasps, jolting him back to the shop. To the present where Voldemort is dead and Harry is alive. He takes his foot off the pedal and the machine stops buzzing. Draco leans forward, and runs his thumb across Harry’s face. It’s smeared with red, and Harry isn’t surprised. This process was never meant to exist. Voldemort had never designed these Marks to be anything less than permanent. But the more Harry thought about that, the more determined he was to perfect it. No matter the cost. 

“‘S fine,” he croaks, his voice raspy, and he can feel a bead of sweat slide under his glasses and down his cheek. He’s gotten through little more than a couple of millimetres, but that’s better than nothing at all. The head of the snake is smeared slightly. Harry pulls his gloves off to wipe the blood from his nose. 

“How is it fine?” Draco demands, breathlessly. 

“This is how it works,” Harry explains blotting his nose. He is trying to keep his voice level because if there’s one thing he knows, it’s that they both cannot be upset at the same time. It rapidly becomes a gasoline on the fire scenario. Draco looks down at his arm, and Harry sees what makes it all worth it every time. His eyes skate over the image he likely has so memorised he knows it better than he knows his own face, and sees, for the first time it is different. The right bit of the snake’s face is feathered out from the thick black outline. Something designed to be permanent has been changed. Draco’s cheeks are reddened from pain already, but Harry knows the man well enough to see the emotion coating his eyes in a glassy film. 

Harry snaps on a new pair of gloves, holding his hands up so he doesn’t touch something not covered in plastic. Draco stands, and grabs a box of tissues from Luna’s desk. Harry assumes they are for him. He’s done this enough times that he knows what these clients go through for this process, but when Draco sits in front of Harry, he pulls one tissue free and blots it under Harry’s nose. Their eyes meet and it feels like time has played a great joke on Harry because he is twenty-one and foolish again. He waits for Draco to pull away knowing in his heart he will not be the one to end this moment. Draco tosses the bloodied tissue into the biohazard waste, and nods. They continue. 

Harry is able to work the entire head of the snake into its new form: a rose, because as hard as Harry tries he still can only think of beautiful things when he works on Draco. It takes two boxes of tissues and almost twenty pairs of gloves to get through, but they do it. Draco is the one that asks for a short break this time. Chest heaving, face drenched in sweat he shakily mutters the evocation to light his fag and can’t, cursing softly to himself. 

“Here, come here,” Harry says, but he can see the near panic on Draco’s face. This process is horrible and it hurts like fucking hell. Physically and emotionally. Harry stands, peeling off his gloves and snapping his fingers in front of Draco’s face to light the cigarette. Draco inhales a breath that stutters, and coughs out a fat white cloud as tears slide over his cheeks.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” he admits as he holds the cigarette in one hand and catches his face in the other. Shoulders shaking, Draco falls apart, and Harry feels his heart splinter and crack with each gasping inhale. He wishes there was another way. That he had been able to figure out anything else. He wishes he had even one bloody ounce of restraint where Draco was concerned, but time continues to toy with him, and he finds his hand meets Draco’s quaking shoulders, pulling the man into him as though he did not rip out Harry’s heart and leave it beating and bloody on the floor. 

“I know,” Harry consoles because he’s fucking weak , because he’s always been weak for Draco Malfoy and nothing at all has changed. “I know, but you’re getting through it, and then it will be done, Draco.” Draco cries against Harry’s bare shoulder and he can feel the man’s hot tears like acid on his skin. Harry reaches up to take the fag from Draco’s hand, tapping off the precarious ash before bringing it to his lips and tasting only Draco. Breathing him in. His body is as rote in Harry’s mind as setting his station, and the way it conforms to Harry’s arms feels like harmony. It always does. Draco draws away with a wet breath, using several tissues to wipe his face. 

“Alright,” he says, more to himself than to Harry. “Alright, I’m fine. Let’s keep going.” They do, and it is just as wretched. Draco blots Harry’s nose, wipes the sweat from his forehead, busies himself with Harry so he can distract himself from the hell. He lights another cigarette and leans forward to hold it between Harry’s lips. Harry breathes in, and Draco takes it back as Harry turns to exhale a white cloud. It’s mocking in its familiarity. It’s a mundane torture to be so near, to fit into each other so easily, and yet stay apart. To leave the final piece of the puzzle savagely removed from its rightful place. 

When Harry is done they are both exhausted, sweaty, and weak . Draco looks at his arm for a long, silent moment as Harry peels off the plastic, throwing everything in the biohazard bin and cleaning his station. It takes nearly the entire process for Draco to finally make a noise. It’s a choked sort of desperate sound, but Harry knows it for what it is: relief. This time when Draco cries, it’s not because of the pain, it’s because of the joy. Harry tosses his final pair of black gloves into the bin before he ties off the bag, ready to close up for the night and throw the trash out in the dump. 

“Thank you,” Draco whispers, his voice a wet mess. “It’s better than I could have ever hoped.” Harry nods a silent accord. “What do I owe y-”

“No charge,” Harry interrupts. 

“Harry, please, let me-”

“It’s no charge, Draco,” he insists. He’s exhausted, and has absolutely no energy to argue, but on this he is resolute. Harry will not accept money for this. He sees Draco nod before staggering slightly, the bag falling from his hand the short distance to crinkle to the floor. 

“Harry?” Draco calls, stepping forward to wrap his arms around him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, just…” but he’s so exhausted, he can’t even get out the word ‘exhausted’. 

“You can’t go home alone like this,” Draco says, and Harry’s heart twists in his chest trying not to drown in how good it feels to brush against Draco’s devotion once more. He could twist the old dark magic of a sorcerer long dead, but he cannot control how much he still loves this man. How deeply he needs him. How empty he is without him. 

“Come with me then,” Harry says because he is weak. He loves Draco Malfoy more than reason or sense. 

“Yeah,” Draco replies, because Harry knows in his soul he is weak, too. He knows that they fit together , but Draco is far better at denying what should be an undeniable truth . “Same place?” Harry nods, and feels the crack as Draco Apparates them to Harry’s flat. The wards let him in because hope has always been Harry’s greatest flaw. Draco manages to sit Harry down on his tatty old couch. He goes to put the tea on or some other such rot, but Harry snatches the man’s arm, pulling him back to sit beside him. He’s so tired, and his body is vibrating with horrible magic that feels like it will choke him to death. The loneliness screams in his ears and Harry can’t stop himself from pulling Draco into him and crashing his lips to his. 

The kiss is hungry, urgent and desperate because it’s been four years but it feels like four seconds. It feels like four millenia. Harry tastes the cloves just as he used to when they were younger and thought there was more to the world than each other. Draco’s hands pull Harry’s vest off of him, and run over the stag tattoo on his chest, leaning against Harry until he lays back against the arm of the sofa. Until Draco is on top of him, their bare chests pressing together, breathing into each other, and Harry cannot possibly resist wanting him. 

“Don’t leave me,” Harry whispers into their kiss. It’s pathetic. A foolish wish of a broken man. He pulls Draco’s hair free letting liquid silver spill over his slender shoulders as the man’s steel gaze drills into Harry. Penetrates him like a knife through parchment. His head shakes just slightly, and Harry hears his soul’s quiet song. A hymn of hope.  

“I don’t think I’m strong enough to leave you twice.”

Chapter Text

“Just don’t do anything stupid, Harry,” Hermione sighed, organising her billion tinctures, Potions, brews and concoctions. 

“I never intentionally do stupid things,” Harry replied, offhandedly, pocketing the small silver phial. 

“I realise that, but there will be a lot of people.” He heard the words she didn’t say as clear as the tinkling of her little bottles on the shelf. A lot of Alphas. “I just…” 

“I’ll be fine , Hermione,” Harry insisted, turning towards her Floo and placing his hand in the powder bowl. “It’s just one night.” 

***

Harry tossed back the silver phial’s contents before flattening his deep red tie. The Ministry Ball was only held once every half decade, and would commemorate all those who received Orders of Merlin over the past five years. Harry had, in his time with the Department of Magic Law Enforcement, earned three, one of which was Second Class, a distinction very few would ever know. He would not miss this. He made a face. The inhibitor Hermione had given him tasted of spoons and paper, but it was all worth it. 

He stood before a mirror, checking his wardrobe one final time. Harry had gone with a three piece suit in a dark sapphire blue with little golden threads throughout just for a hint of luxury. The lady at the shop had been lovely in helping him choose it, and he’d hung it on his wardrobe door for the last three months, looking at it daily in anticipation of wearing it. Harry was never one for formal events, but receiving the commendation for all of his hard work was truly the pot of gold at the rainbow’s end. This was all his. He’d barely been let into the Auror Program out of Hogwarts, but determined to earn what he’d been given, Harry worked long hours, took tough cases, and often slept and showered at the office. His life was his job, and to be rewarded so highly felt…well, it felt bloody good. Stepping into his tan oxfords, Harry straightened his tie one last time, letting out a steadying breath, and stepped into the Floo. 

***

“I don’t understand,” Harry sat in a white hospital dress on the edge of an ice cold examination table. Hermione hugged her clipboard to her chest, the bright red St. Mungo’s patch seemed the only colour in the world. “I’m not…”

“Yes, you are, Harry,” she said, her voice tight with pity. With grief. “But it’s okay. Modern medicine has come really far. It’s not like…it isn’t like it used to be.” Harry felt his world collapsing around him. He felt the frigid table sucking out every last bit of warmth within him. He’d lose his job if anyone found out. They’d take him and no one would stop them. The Species Preservation Statutes let them do whatever they fucking wanted. He’d lose everything.

“You can’t—”

“I won’t.” 

***

The ballroom was like something straight out of a storybook. Actually, Harry was near certain it was out of a storybook because the walls smelled faintly of printed book pages. He handed his red robes off to the coat check, and made his way in. He felt fine, honestly, and as the confidence set in he smiled to himself. Hermione was always worrying over nothing. 

Harry had expected the Departments to be in their small cliques like they usually were at these Ministry-wide events, but it seemed the Ball had brought out the inter-departmental spirit. He saw Luna, who worked in the Department of Mysteries (having said she felt her first visit there was both alarming and inspiring). She was dressed in a long bubblegum pink gown that looked somehow cake-like, her mane of white blonde tied in a swirling up-do that evoked whipped cream and Harry wondered if it was on purpose or if he was just hungry.  

Over by the bar, Harry spotted Neville with the Department of Magical Co-operation and Cho who took a rather unique role with the Department of Magical Transportation. She worked primarily with Portkeys, and many times Harry had scheduled his travel for cases through her. 

“Oi!” A familiar voice called, only a second before a big hand clapped Harry on the back. “Anything to drink, mate?” Harry chuckled, cordially, as Ron gave him a familiar one-armed hug. They both worked for the DMLE, and saw each other on occasion outside of work, but they didn’t cross paths much at the office. Ron wore a burgundy two piece suit with a creme-coloured waistcoat that all really went together smashingly. 

“Hey, you actually look good, Ron,” Harry said, tugging at the burgundy notched lapels of his suit coat. Ron twisted away from Harry with a scoff.

“What you mean actually, you bastard, I always look good,” he snapped, amicably, both of them laughing as they made their way to the bar. 

***

“It’s awful,” Harry croaked, his face buried in Hermione’s lap. “I feel like I’m dying.” 

“I know, Harry,” she said in that way people spoke when they were trying to act like they were calm, but they were really panicking. “I know, I’m sorry, but it’s the best I could do for now. These are banned substances, and if I got caught I could—”

“I know,” Harry said through gritted teeth. He was drenched in sweat, and his body felt as though it was attempting to melt himself from the inside. “I know, thank you, thank you for doing this.” He let out a guttural wail, feeling his guts wrenching inside of him, confused and torn between his biology and the Potion’s chemical effects. 

“I will make something better for you,” she promised. “I just need some time.” 

***

“One Firebird, no feathers,” Ron ordered. The bartender nodded, obligatorily, then turned to Harry.

“Oh, um,” Harry said, scanning the abbreviated event menu. “I guess I’ll do the red?” 

“Good choice,” the bartender said with a sly smile that Harry didn't entirely understand. “It’s a good one.”

“For me as well, then.” Harry turned around, hearing the familiar Wiltshire drawl. “Evening,” Malfoy said, his usual arrogant apathy remaining entirely intact. He wore a three-piece as well though his jacket had tails and the fabric was such a deep shade of green it bordered on black. He looked bloody perfect as usual, and Harry had to resist rolling his eyes at the utter spectacle that was Draco Malfoy. Another Unspeakable like Luna, Malfoy pondered space, watched stars all ruddy day, and just loved that the Department of Mysteries was not under the governance and jurisdiction of the DMLE. 

“They let the ruddy stargazers in?” Ron whinged. Malfoy swirled his wine by sliding the stem between his index and middle finger and wiping a circular motion against the varnish oak of the bar top. Red dripped down the sides of his glass, and Harry watched the man tilt it back and forth as if enthralled by the substance. 

“Yes, Weasley,” he said abruptly, startling Harry somewhat. “The stargazers, the lovemakers, the clockwatchers, the dreamweavers, and even the reapers.” Ron cringed a bit at Malfoy’s use of all the pejorative names the other departments used to describe the Unspeakables. “Somehow we managed to make the list.” He smirked against the rim of the wine glass, and Harry’s eyes caught on the way his throat worked as he swallowed an elegant sip of wine. Harry could smell the Alpha all over him. He reeked of cinnamon and star anise, of fuck and take it . Harry felt the heat rise in his face and he swigged a large gulp of the wine in an attempt to calm himself. He was fine. He was entirely fine. 

***

“I have no idea how well it will work,” Hermione warned, but Harry could not take his eyes off the small silver phial that contained his brightest hope. “It may not work at all.”

“It’s you, Hermione,” Harry assured. “It’ll work.” 

“I also have no idea what the side effects will be or if there’s anything that reduces its efficacy,” she added, handing it over but not letting it go just yet. “It could be awful.” 

“Better than a real heat,” Harry said. “At least from what I imagine.”

***

Harry spoke with several coworkers he didn’t see too frequently, old friends, and even met new coworkers he’d simply not yet run into. Being on cases as frequently as Harry was, he often did not get a chance to meet new hires for a long while. The conversation was cordial, light-hearted, and the storybook ballroom felt a dream. All aided in part by the bloody fantastic wine. Rich and thick, it had his body tingling with a contented hum. He found, however, that his casual gaze kept getting hitched on Malfoy’s silver stare. It was like the man was everywhere, brushing elbows as they conversed in adjacent groups or shouldering past each other on the dance floor. Like the planets Malfoy loved so much, the man just seemed to be orbiting Harry all ruddy night.

“Going to the loo, be back,” Harry called to his group of Neville, Luna, Ron, and Cho. He pushed his chair from the table they’d commandeered and wobbled slightly as he stood. Neville reached out a concerned hand, a strange expression on his face, but Harry waved him off. “‘M fine, mate,” he assured. And he was fine. A little tipsy, it seemed, though he felt entirely sober, mentally. He did have to piss something remarkable though. 

After Harry relieved himself, he didn’t feel…well, relieved at all. He still felt this heavy pressure in his low belly, but now it was almost as though his bollocks were aching, not to mention the temperature in the ballroom had grown stuffy and uncomfortable with the dense crowd of Ministry workers, talking and dancing. He washed his hands, splashing icy water on his face. Maybe the wine was off? He shook his head, pushing the door open, and making his way back to the ballroom. He was fine, just a bit drunk is all. 

***

“Harry, you need to find a way to get back here, you’re overdue,” Hermione urged, her tone was mortal and Harry felt the dread of what it meant like an icy pit in his stomach. 

“I’m on a case, Hermione, I can’t just pop back to England from bloody Kosovo.” The firecall popped and cracked when Hermione scoffed. 

“Harry, it’s been four years, I don’t even know what a real heat would do to your body at this point.” 

“Maybe it’s not so bad,” Harry said, but even as he did he knew it would be wretched. “Maybe it’s been so long I won’t even have them anymore.” 

“You’d be surprised by the resilience and demand of biology, Harry. It’s not likely to go down without a fight,” she sighed, and in it Harry heard the truth. This is forever . “I’ll try to catch a Portkey to you tomorrow.” 

***

  After Harry received his awards, he sat down to dinner surrounded by friends and coworkers alike. Luna brought over her group of coworkers, all of which were endearingly odd like her. Well, except Malfoy who was now openly glaring at Harry as though he’d killed the man’s cat. Several times Harry frowned, shaking his head slightly as if to say ‘what’s your ruddy issue, Malfoy’, but it seemed to do little at all. Harry had to remove his suit coat, entirely too warm in the ballroom and felt loads better when he did. It hadn’t done much for the ache between his thighs, but Harry figured that was likely just his fancy trousers chafing his balls.

“Jasper works in the Time Room,” Luna explained, gesturing to a slight man with a curled moustache who looked exactly like someone who worked in the Time Room.

“Oi, a clockwatcher, never met one of you lot before,” Ron said, affectionately shaking the man’s hand. 

“It is a pleasure,” Jasper said, in a tight sort of nervous tone. They conversed, but Malfoy would not stop staring at Harry. Sighing, Harry excused himself to the loo once more just to have a reason to get away from that penetrating gaze. He leaned his head against his forearm, not having to pee but feeling as though he was going to ruddy burst. After a long, disappointing moment, he zipped himself up and washed his hands. He splashed the cold water against his face again, but this time when he looked up he saw the argent transfixation of Malfoy right behind him. Harry frowned. 

“Can I help y—”

“What are you?” Malfoy demanded, shoving Harry back against the counter. He looked distraught. Angry. His eyes skated over Harry’s face, his mouth, his neck, then darted back up to his eyes with a look of bewildered ire. “You smell like…” but he trailed off, sniffing the air above Harry’s head and Harry could not help but stare at the way Malfoy swallowed thickly as though salivating. The man was a good bit taller than Harry, and like most Alphas he was thick with muscle design for subdual and domination. He huffed an unsteady breath, licking his lips, his lithe hands clawing at Harry’s shoulders, digging into his flesh even through his white dress shirt. “What are you?” 

“Nothing,” Harry croaked, but it sounded every bit the lie it was. He cleared his throat and Malfoy’s wide sterling eyes darted over his face as though there were some hidden meaning to this action. “Just a Beta.” But Malfoy was shaking his head, his lip curled into an uncomfortable snarl and twitching. 

“No,” he stated. A fact. “No, you’re not just …” his breath caught and for a moment Harry thought he was shivering, but he wasn’t. He was shaking . He was a coil pulled to its absolute extreme ready to snap back down on itself. Harry’s heart raced uncomfortably in his chest. The cinnamon and anise scent was overwhelming and it made Harry feel sluggish and drunk. He jerked under Malfoy, but his grip was as iron as his glare. 

“Let me go, M—”

“No,” he hissed, eyes wild and burning their gaze into Harry’s skin. Harry scowled, feigning annoyance as his heart rate hit fever pitch, as the blood surged into his skull, threatening to drown his brain.

“Come off it, Malfoy, let me—”

“ No .” There was a long tense moment where Harry was genuinely uncertain what to do or say. Did Malfoy know? He couldn’t, Harry had taken a full dose of Hermione’s hormone suppressants, but even as he thought it he felt the tight ache in his belly constrict to a vice around his insides. He felt the effort it took to feel panic when his body felt only lax and pliant. Even as he thought he couldn't, Harry knew the truth: he did . Or his body knew, and his mind was, at this very moment, putting together the pieces that would be Harry’s undoing.

“— Oh .” Malfoy breathed the realisation in a heated huff that smelled of wine and you are mine . "Merlin's bloody taint, you cannot stay here like this," he cursed, his pupils blown to inky black voids that Harry saw his own panicked expression within. The last thing Harry felt was Malfoy's arms around him and the splitting, tearing, folding of Apparition magic. Harry looked around at his unfamiliar surroundings and assumed he was in Malfoy's flat. It was very...Malfoy. The furniture seemed like it belonged in a 'how to decorate like a posh prat' catalogue, and the walls were tastefully decorated with nebulous yet meaningless abstract wall art. Tugging at his shirt collar, Harry realised he left his suit coat and robes back at the ball. He pondered for a moment the annoyance of retrieving both items, but his pondering was viciously and suddenly interrupted when his eyes landed on Malfoy, chest rising and falling with the heavy breaths puffing from his nose.  

"How?" Was the only thing he could manage between steadying breaths that seemed to keep him only as steady as a porcelain plate balance atop a needle. 

"How wha—"

" Don't, " Malfoy hissed, his silver eyes burning with obvious and urgent desire. "I smelled you at the bar and thought I was going bloody mad," he explained. "But it only got worse, only got stronger." He brought a hand to his face as though in utter shock, and maybe Harry should be, too but he just felt hazy and fogged with drink. Blonde fringe fell into his face and, uncharacteristically, Malfoy left it there. "I've never smelled such a thing before, but I knew that soul-crushing, life-altering aroma the second it touched my nose, Potter." Harry could not look away. The man's feral glare had Harry tethered, hooked like cattle for slaughter, and all Harry could think was I'm going to lose my job if he talks. I'm going to lose everything. 

"What, um," Harry stammered, trying to keep Malfoy talking until he could figure out how to keep him fucking quiet. "What does it smell like?" Malfoy's transfixed glare tightened to a look of unmitigated need . 

"Omega,' he growled, so low in his throat that Harry heard the rumble of his chest more than the words from his lips. "You smell like Omega," his voice was a blade over stone. A scraping, clanking thing. "You smell like breed me, fuck me, take me, and it is so loud I can scarcely hear my own bloody thoughts over it." Malfoy tangled his hand in his platinum hair as though intent to rip it the fuck out. "So while I must know how, I also have to know why?" Harry scowled at that, sobered somewhat by a hot lashing fury that ripped through him.

" Why ?" Harry demanded, rhetorically. "Because I would rather fucking die than be hunted down by the S.P.A. enforcers and taken away from my life only to be fucked and used to breed like a bloody brood mare." Harry's voice faltered. He wanted to yell but it came out breathless and thick. He needed to sit down. Needed to—

"Harry." His name cut through the unconscious, aided by the absolutely debilitating ache like his skeleton were burning in acid. Harry winced with the effort of opening his eyes. He was lying down. Was he in a bed? Christ, it smelled so fucking good. Like…cinnamon…and… fuck. The lights were set mercifully low casting the room in an antique golden glow, but all Harry could see or smell or think was how much his body fucking hurt . How completely he throbbed as though he'd been crushed and pieced back together poorly. 

" Fuck, " was the next thing he heard, and while he knew it was Malfoy he did not know where the man was. "Merlin, you are driving be bloody insane ." Harry pressed his face into the soft pillow on which it rested, realising it was damp with sweat. Not damp... wet. And that wasn't the only thing. Harry barely moved one millimetre before he halted, feeling the viscous hot wet , glazing his thighs, soaking through his trousers to the bed below. He felt drenched. 

"Christ," he huffed. "What is this?" 

"It's slick, Harry," Malfoy croaked, his voice a craggy rasp. "Bloody hell, have you never been in heat before?" 

"No," Harry groaned. As much as he'd love to say something witty and scathing, his mind felt as though it had been churned to paste along with his body. "Took potions to stop it the moment I found out." 

"Leave it to the sodding Golden Boy to spit on arguably the Wizarding World's greatest honour," Malfoy said, sardonically insofar as he could, sounding as though his throat were coated in ash. 

"Fuck you," Harry replied, for lack of an alternative. "God, it fucking hurts." 

"Harry," Malfoy said, his voice nearer now, though it sounded all wrong. When did he start calling him 'Harry'? "There is no plane of existence, heaven or hell, where I can control myself around you smelling like sex and slick." Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hearing his own pain echoed in Malfoy's bassy growl. Their bodies were screaming with instinct and biology and need , and Harry knew his resolve to deny that demand was waning with each heavy panting breath that huffed from Malfoy's lips. "So," he continued. Harry felt the shift of the bed as Malfoy sat down behind him. "You have two options. I can go." Harry felt his chest wrench at the idea, the fear and panic of being alone was a far crueller fate than the certainty of what would happen should Malfoy stay. "Or I can—"

"Stay," Harry croaked. "Just stay." 

"You smell like fear," Malfoy said in a taut whisper. "I didn't think you could even feel fear." 

"Fuck you," Harry spat. 

"I'm sorry, it wasn't meant so…callously," Malfoy explained, and Harry could hear how he'd turned to face him by how clear his voice became. "More that I can't imagine what it feels like, but it must be truly wretched if it has you scared."  It was clear that he was trying to keep talking, and for some reason Harry was grateful he did. While things like the cars passing outside, the slight breeze from the ceiling fan, and Harry's own fucking breath were deafening cacophonies, Malfoy's voice felt a soothing balm to his scorched soul. 

"You seem like you know," Harry managed through gritted teeth. 

"No, never," Malfoy whispered, keeping his voice as quiet as possible for Harry, and Harry hated how much he appreciated that. How much Malfoy calmed him while his sanity dissolved to nothing. "You have to be chosen. I just...I know what I've learned over the years." 

"Consider yourself chosen, then," Harry hissed. He was so uncomfortable. Drenched in sweat and whatever the fuck 'slick' was, his body felt it was burning itself to ash. 

"Can I take those clothes off?" Malfoy asked. "They seem far from comfortable." Harry had been wanting to take them off for quite a while, but feeling as though his blood was filled with shards of broken glass and his muscles had been replaced with barbed wire, it hadn't been possible. 

“Yes,” Harry sighed. He wasn’t used to…this. He wasn’t used to weak and needy. He was Harry fucking Potter for fuck’s sake. Draco Vanished his clothes with a deft spell, and it honestly did feel better. 

For a moment. 

Harry closed his eyes just before he was hit with a surge of burning, aching, brutality. It tore through him like bestial claws through so much fine silk that he gasped, feeling at once as though he was on fire and that he was already burned to a shadow. Draco was still as the bloody dead beside him, and Harry could hear the clap of the man’s hand to his face, the small gasp as his resolve crumbled, and he could even smell Malfoy’s urgent and animalistic desire. Harry could smell it.

And he could feel it. 

“Malfoy—”

“Draco, or I will lose my bloody mind,” Draco corrected.

“Draco, for fuck’s sake ,” Harry growled, his jaw clamped so tightly his teeth threatened to split. “Stay or go, but if you stay you bloody stay , you hear me?” The gasp Harry sucked in as Draco’s cool hand pressed against his scalding back seemed to suck all the air from the room. From the world. In that split second, the pain was eased, the agony quelled, and Harry knew more than he knew his own ruddy name, what he needed.

What he wanted . 

“Draco,” he growled, his hand squeezing his face so hard he felt he may very well dislocate his jaw. “I need you.” The stillness in the air felt like death as Draco held his breath, and Harry’s heart pounded waiting for the man to fucking breathe again. When he finally did, it was a tight thing. Draco sipped a thin stream of air as though through a tiny straw. 

“I don’t think I can stop…if we—”

“Then don’t. Fucking. Stop.” The speed at which Draco had him on his back, lips crashing together, tongues laced like Victorian corsets, was almost heart-stopping, but fuck did it feel good. Harry’s mind blurred as he tasted Draco, as he put an olfactory onslaught to the scent he had been smelling all night. That cinnamon and anise. That Alpha was all his body wanted. All he fucking needed in this world, and he would die before he’d deny it. Draco still wore his clothes and Harry cursed under his breath, his mind glazing to melted butter trying to manage the one thousand buttons of the man’s suit coat. Mercifully, Draco Vanished his own clothes before tossing his wand clacking to the floor, and pressing himself into Harry as though intent to consume him, as though intent to fuse them to one. 

“God, you taste like mine ,” Draco snarled. “I can’t fucking stand it, Harry.” Their kiss was urgent and rough, all teeth clacking and bitten lips. Harry’s hands found Draco’s hair like silk and he tangled his fingers in it all, feeling if the kiss ended so would his entire life . Harry felt the seemingly endless wet between his legs dampen with a fresh heated splash like he’d bloody pissed himself, and Draco slid his hand in between Harry’s thighs drenching his hand in the stuff. Harry felt his throat constrict. It seemed so fated, so by design because when Draco’s scent mingled with Harry’s he felt himself fade to background noise in his own mind. 

“Fuck, you smell so good drenched in…whatever you said that is,” Harry gasped into their kiss, his hands sliding over Draco’s broad shoulders, tracing the lines of the white scars that banded his torso. The scars that Harry put there as his mind repeated mine. Mine. Mine . Over and bloody over again. Draco gripped Harry’s chin, twisting his face to the side so he could press his nose against Harry’s throat, breathing him in as though he was the very air. Draco’s soaked hand skated over Harry’s hip, clamping down on his side as he nipped at Harry’s collarbone.

“Slick,” Draco spoke into Harry’s sternum. “It’s so I can fuck you easier,” Draco explained, bluntly, his usual eloquence Vanished like his clothes in light of this situation. “Even if I don’t intend to fuck you easy.” Harry chuckled and it felt good to laugh. It felt good to feel good with Draco. “Here,” he growled, sliding his index and middle finger down Harry’s inner thigh before smearing their sultry wet over his lips. “Taste it.” He did. He’d have tasted fucking poison if Draco told him to. Licking his lips, Harry let the saccharine decadence of himself wash over his tongue. 

“It’s sweet,” Harry breathed.

“Just like you,” Draco replied, and Harry let himself drown in this. He let himself be rain on the ocean as Draco's lips traced over his chest, his nose brushing the curled hairs there. “ Mm , can I mark you? I want to.” As though Harry could deny Draco anything, as though his mind contained anything other than yes and please and more . 

“God, yes,” Harry breathed, letting his head loll back, exposing his throat which had Draco’s face against it again in half a heartbeat. “I’m yours.” 

“ Mine ,” Draco huffed, his mouth open wide, swollen canines sharp with the desire to claim as his heated breath scorched Harry’s skin. He bit down on Harry’s shoulder, but it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. Harry couldn’t even remember the agony. Washed away like a breath on the breeze, he let out a cry that seemed to break over Draco, sending him moaning against Harry. It was matter. It was pure energy, and Harry felt inspired by it. He needed more. Needed that rush of existence like every whine and moan and cry from Draco’s lips was the stuff of constellations . Draco’s body was Fiendfyre against him, it was entropy, and Harry wanted to dissolve into the stars with him. He felt he held the universe itself in his arms. He wrapped his legs around Draco’s thighs as though intent to swallow the universe whole. Harry was a god here. He was everything with Draco.

“Harry, I could drown in you,” Draco breathed, his lips smeared with red from the mark that bubbled just slightly before Draco lapped it away. “I could die here, and it would feel bloody triumphant .” Harry keened, his voice ragged from abuse, but soothed by the hot, thick saliva that slid down his throat. Draco pushed his arm over his head, pressing his face against Harry’s armpit and breathing deeply as though he were a summer’s day. “I don’t remember who I was before you.” Harry whimpered and cried, feeling the heated moisture between his legs and wondering if it was possible to slick himself to death. Their hard cocks pressed together with a heat Harry did not think a human body capable of producing, and he could smell how Draco’s thick prick was glazed in his slick. He needed it. Needed to taste it and feel it as though there was no sense strong enough to integrate all that was Draco’s cock into him. 

“Let me taste you,” Harry huffed, pushing himself up, collarbone dribbling a few more drops of scarlet as Draco sat up on his knees, showing himself to Harry. He brought one hand to his fat girth, cupping a fist around his base to emphasise his massive heft, and Harry felt his heart stutter a beat just knowing that perfect cock would be inside of him soon. “God, you’re ruddy huge,” he whined, voice thick with want and bliss. Harry crawled forward, leaning down so Draco’s fat cock brushed his face and sent his glasses askew. He lapped at its dripping, enlarged tip, and felt his vision go white at the flawless majesty that was Draco’s taste. Fingers and toes tingling as his body directed his blood elsewhere. As it conducted an aria to Draco’s body with Harry’s living soul.    

Mind fogging to static again, Harry shoved Draco back so he could turn over. He wanted to show himself to Draco, to show him what he did to him, what he’d taken and awakened in him. Kneeling on the bed, Harry pressed his face down into the pillow still soaked with his sweat, arching his back and quivering with each sweltering drop of slick that slid down his thighs to pool in the sheets by his knees.   

“Merlin in his white tower, you are a bloody marvel,” Draco sighed, his strong hands squeezing Harry’s arse, thumbs peeling him apart as more sweet wet dribbled from his readied hole. Harry felt he was spread so thin. That he was just a smear of atoms dusted over Draco’s sheets. That there was so little of him left, but he was wrong. Because when Draco bared his teeth, breathing against Harry’s slicked and swollen balls, and laving his tongue over him like he was made of candy, Harry felt himself breaking apart. He screamed and he didn’t stop. Draco suckled the soft skin of his balls, pressing his face into Harry’s arse, sopping with slick as though intent to consume him. Each lapping stroke of Draco’s tongue against him was a sledgehammer to Harry’s glass soul. He felt he died with every breath. He felt he lived again with every moan like a low hum rumbling across his most sensitive skin.

Draco leaned over him pressing his broad chest to Harry’s back, using one hand to tug his face to the side so he could ravage Harry’s mouth with his own. Harry cried into him, whined and simpered down Draco’s throat because he tasted like him . He tasted like them , and Harry’s addled brain revelled in that. It feasted on their mingled flavours like syrup. Like honeycomb and sex. Harry felt Draco’s lithe fingers slide into him, but he was so wet, so slicked , that it didn’t hurt at all. It was just the sweet and perfect bliss of fucking. He let his head fall against his arm, his forehead so wet with sweat it pasted his hair in his face and fogged his glasses. 

“ Fuck , Harry,” Draco whispered, his fingers sliding in and out of Harry’s willing entrance, feeling around inside of him as though learning him from within. 

“ Ah , Draco,” Harry moaned. “Don’t stop.”

“I don’t think I know how to stop,” Draco whimpered, pressing his face into Harry’s spine. Coating Harry in his scent as though they both didn’t already smell like this. Like sex and them and mates . The word sprang into Harry’s mind like a bullet through his skull yet he didn’t shy from it. He welcomed it. He urged it forward. Mate me, Draco . He thought, and for once his brain allowed it. For once, he could think as though he was more than just fuck and take it . The reward for this surrender was as immediate as it was victorious. Harry’s thighs tensed, his body squeezing Draco’s fingers tight inside him as a stream of hot, wet come pumped between his thighs. God, it felt like transcendence. Harry felt tears prick his eyes as he came for what felt aeons. 

“That’s so good, Harry,” Draco encouraged, pressing into his swollen insides to milk him fucking empty and running a greedy hand over the pumping tip of his aching cock to catch Harry’s orgasm in his palm. “More, keep going,” he urged. Harry’s side squeezed, his balls clenched with each wave of climax that split him like logs for the fire. “Merlin, you are a treasure, you are perfect, Harry.” Harry turned, indulging in the sight of Draco flicking his tongue over his soaked palm, laving it between his fingers, and shivering with delight at the taste of Harry’s release. “Harry, I need—”

“Yes,” he said, breathless, and wanting. “Yes, Draco, please.” He was so wet . He was so fucking wet for Draco, and it felt like divine intervention that his body would finally get what it so hunted for. What it so craved . Draco pressed into Harry, running his hands soaked with come and slick and sweat and even some of Harry’s blood over Harry’s back, sighing sweet simpers of pleasure and praise that made Harry wail as he mourned the loss of himself in Draco, as he celebrated his reincarnation as something entirely new. Draco’s thick Alpha cock drove into him, stretching Harry beyond anything he ever thought he could take, aided by his buckets of slick and how loose and lax his muscles had become. As soon as Draco bottomed out, balls to balls, in Harry, he felt a sense of serendipitous relief as though the world had purpose and meaning. As though this made sense. 

“ Yes ,” he whispered against his arm, biting the pillow and pressing himself back against Draco, arching to let the gentle curve of Draco’s girth fit perfectly into him like a key for its mated lock. “God, Draco, fuck me,” Harry moaned. “Fill me.” Draco’s hands seated on his hips, and he thrusted into him, as the friction punched small sounds of rapture from his chest. Each one a song. Each one a perfect melody to Harry’s mind that at first, wanted Alpha , but now would only feel satisfied with Draco . 

“So good, you’re so good, Harry,” Draco moaned, his thumbs peeling Harry’s arse open and Harry knew the man was watching the way his huge cock slid in and out of Harry’s stretched opening. Watching the way they melded into one. “Merlin, I can’t stand it, I can’t imagine life without this.” Harry’s heart tripped in his chest, tumbling over itself with stupid joy at how much he wanted Draco to want him, at how much he needed Draco to love him. 

“Don’t,” Harry hissed. “Don’t even think of it.” Draco’s hips bucked into Harry, slamming his colossal dick into Harry’s tight arse, his hands clamped around Harry’s slender hips. Harry’s hard cock bobbed between his thighs, throbbing with need even after his explosive orgasm. Leaning heavily on one shoulder he brought a hand to his length, far smaller than Draco’s gargantuan size, stroking himself with each seismic thrust of Draco inside him. 

“Fuck, Harry, yes,” Draco keened. “I want to see you empty yourself,” he sighed, then leaned forward pressing himself against Harry to bring a strong hand around his cock. “Darling, I want to feel you come as I fuck you open and raw.” Harry whined, stroked by himself, Draco and the term of endearment that seemed to caress his body like ghostly hands. Draco’s fingers worked over Harry’s hand, feeling the way he masturbated, learning how he touched himself. Harry felt Draco’s breath on his back like a desert heat, like the rays of the sun, and his body drew taut once more just before he drenched them both in his hot release. Draco nearly screamed as Harry’s arse tightened and shivered around his cock with each pumping spurt of come into their mingled fingers. Harry’s arse choked on Draco’s cock, stretched to its maximum and tensing with his orgasm. 

“Harry - ah -,” Draco cried, and they both knew it the moment they felt it. That swell, that gorging, filling, spreading of Draco’s thick knot pooling at the base of his cock. Instinctively, Draco slid back just slightly, wanting more than pleasure, to keep Harry safe, but Harry did not want to be safe, he wanted to be knotted . He arched back into Draco, closing the distance the man had unwittingly created as his cock thickened to a firm bulb at the base. Harry grit his teeth. It was so much, so much, so much, but every molecule in his body screamed for it. Even if it broke him, he needed it. Even if it fucking killed him. He cried out and Draco moaned a low rumbling note as Harry stretched around him. Stretched beyond anything any body should be capable of, and so amazingly full . “Darling, you are utter perfection,” Draco whispered, his voice thick with strain and wonder in equal measure. “You have no idea how good you look.” 

“Douse me, Draco,” Harry whined. “I want to drown in your come.” Draco could barely thrust much at all, tethered by his biological ability to bind them, but what little friction he created made Harry feel as though fireworks had been set off inside of him. The knot worked against his sensitive entrance, pressing all of the nerves and muscles there. Harry could smell how near Draco’s climax was, and his body cherished that scent, memorising it. 

“Fuck,” he cursed, overwhelmed by it all, entirely consumed by this lust, this heat . “Mate me, Draco.” Harry heard the soft gasp behind him, but half a second later, his body quaked and spasmed as Draco’s scorching orgasm worked into him, through him. Harry felt the wet surge of come fill him to the brim, just as he felt himself spill over for the third time, a white puddle wetting the sheets beneath him. Draco’s fingers dug bruises into Harry’s hips as he squirmed and jolted behind him with each convulsive eruption. Harry should have known a cock that massive would come an ocean, but he was still shocked at the splash of Draco’s release inside of him. It was so much, so much, so much. It was perfect. 

Even after Draco finally stilled, the knot kept them bound. Harry felt Draco’s tight embrace draw him down to his side and tug him against Draco’s chest. He chuckled an enervated breath as Draco nuzzled his face into Harry’s damp hair, pressing sweet and tender kisses to his head. The bed was vulgar. Saturated with the stench of sex, but to Harry it felt a calming hand to his brow. 

Draco whimpered a precious sound against Harry as his knot softened, loosening itself from Harry’s hole. Some of his impressive load dripped out and Harry shivered as it trickled over his balls, pooling in the crease of his thigh. He sighed an amused sound, feeling Draco’s fingers smearing the sticky wet over his arsecheeks and up onto his lower back, anointing Harry in them . The bliss and relief and calm tangled into a braid of rapture that tugged Harry towards sleep’s waiting arms. Before he went, willingly, into that quiet embrace, Harry reached over his shoulder to touch Draco’s hair, feeling the man’s chin resting in the crook of his neck. 

“Mate,” he whispered, because it was the only word his mind allowed passage to his lips. 

“Mate.”

Chapter Text

“Show me,” I say, kneeling between your silky fair thighs, our breath a heated fog between us. You do, but all I see are your hands. Your hands as you stroke yourself. Your hands as they conform in the shape of pleasure only for you, and I can’t help myself. I wonder ‘will I ever feel those hands like that?’. 

 

“ Ngh— Touch me,” I growl, my back slamming into the wall of the ill-lit closet, and those lithe fingers split my flies as easily as you split my soul to tatters. “Touch me like you touch yourself.” I am demanding it now, and even in the dim I see the coy smirk twisting your thin lips into a bow, blonde framing your face like you’ve been drenched in silver. 

No,” you say, even as those hands slide between my legs. 

“I will touch you so much better than that.”  

Chapter Text

“Scared, Potter?” Harry rolled his eyes as they stepped up to the duelling platform. The Annual Ministry of Magic charity duelling tournament was something Harry looked forward to all year, every year. The rush of magic through his wand, the thrill of competition, the strategy of the duel plaited together to a perfect bow. Harry drew his arm across his chest, stretching out his shoulder before rolling them back. He’d won every year since he joined the Auror force. Every. Year. And that was not about to change just because this was the first time in eight bloody years that Malfoy had decided to enter. 

“You wish,” Harry spat, stepping from one foot to the other, white button up shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and Auror robes discarded over a nearby chair. Harry would rather die (again) than let Malfoy or any other DoM nutter win the duelling tournament. Even before Harry, the duelling champion was always an Auror, and Harry intended to keep it that way. The Department of Mysteries workers strode around like they were, each of them, the Minister of Magic. They were completely self-governed and fell outside of the jurisdiction of the DMLE (a fact Malfoy just loved to throw in Harry’s face whenever they chatted in the corridors). “ Stargazer ,” Harry added, hearing the rest of the Auror force behind him yell and cheer at his harmless competitive bin talk. 

‘Stargazer’, ‘clockwatcher’, ‘lovemaker’, ‘dreamweaver’, and ‘reaper’ were all names used to describe the oddball DoM employees. Malfoy worked in the Space Room, pondering the stars or some other such rot while the rest of the Ministry worked to keep the Wizarding World from ripping itself apart (again). While Harry was out on cases, apprehending Dark Magic cell leaders or busting underground Potions smuggling rings, Malfoy was drawing ruddy star charts. 

Harry squeezed the Rowan wood of his wand, feeling the way his magic, always so controlled, always so restrained, slid like river water over rocks into the Nundu spine core. He’d gotten the wand as a replacement for the temporary pine twig he’d been requisitioned from the DMLE on a case in East Africa. Nothing, not even his Phoenix feather holly, compared to this work of true Wizarding art. 

Malfoy turned down the cuff of his lilac dress shirt. The familiar Hawthorn strand balanced in one lithe hand, and Harry wondered how loyal that wand could be when it had so easily bent to his will eight years prior. He huffed a cocky chuckle, a smirk curling one corner of his mouth. 

This will be easy .

“ Incarcerous !” Harry heard the incantation only a split second before the thin silver ropes wrapped themselves around his neck like thick hands intent to strangle. Harry staggered, fingers uselessly clawing at the enchanted binds as the breath in his lungs dissipated, the air around him sealed off from his aching chest. He choked. Awful gagging, sputtering sounds coughed from his constricted throat as Malfoy lunged forward, wand out. He could feel the thunder of adrenaline as his body injected it into his bloodstream. Harry could also feel the tingling almost hypersensitive awareness of that adrenaline-riddled blood as it began plumping his cock between his legs.

“ Touché ,” Malfoy called, stopping the duelling clock for assessment even as Harry’s vision popped and fogged. “Not so cocky now are you, Potter? Finite .” The Curse broke, and Harry gasped, his body reacting on instinct and instinct alone as his oxygen-deprived brain struggled to think of anything other than breathe and air. He stumbled, tripping one awkward step and then he was in Malfoy’s arms. His alarmingly strong arms for a man who sits around staring at bloody planets all day. Cock twitching and half-hard for god only knew what reason, Harry’s heart stuttered a beat as though faltering from its rhythm. He felt overwhelmed by the rush of sensation he felt having been just inches from unconscious. Malfoy helped him stand, holding him upright as the official called for his victory. Harry barely heard it, too preoccupied with how closely Malfoy’s hips had come to brushing Harry’s ill-timed hard-on.  

“Merlin, you alright, Potter?” Malfoy asked, breathless with the demands of duelling, his words scorching against Harry’s face. He sounded concerned, sounded genuine, but the smirk on Malfoy’s lips was as obvious as his gossamer charade, even if no one else seemed to see it. Then he added, “let’s get you cleaned up,” loudly. Too loudly. Almost dramatically as though acting it out in a stage play though no one seemed to notice or care how razor thin it all was. No one seemed to care that Malfoy’s hands softened to a knowing caress, a pejorative stroke ghosting over his captive erection. “I’ve got you,” he called, as he led Harry from the duelling room floor, the door slammed shut behind them a tolling bell of Harry’s future. 

“I’ve got you,” he repeated, a gruff murmur now, and this time Harry felt the loose hand featherlight over his throat, and saw the argent glint in Malfoy’s eyes, hinting at something sinister. Harry swallowed thickly, his saliva thickened to paste, feeling the gentle and knowing pressure of Malfoy’s hand gentle on his throat. “Don’t think I didn’t see that, Auror Potter,” Malfoy almost purred, leaning over Harry, pressing him harshly against the cool corridor wall of the DMLE Administrative corridor. There was no one around. Not a soul to experience the quaking almost earth-shattering way Malfoy’s low rumble of a chuckle ignited the space between them. “How predictable that the Chosen One is such a sodding slag for punishment.”

“That’s not — ”

“Incredible that all it took was your childhood rival roughing you up a bit to bring your arrogant arse back down to earth,” Malfoy remarked, caging Harry against the wall with one hand on either side of his face, one knee grinding against the length of Harry’s noticeable erection. Harry let out an aggrieved sigh that bordered too closely to a moan, and felt the way Malfoy’s smirk glinted with a near devilish gleam. “Was it the Spell that did you in?” 

“Fuck off,” Harry cursed, even as his hips rolled into Malfoy’s thigh, even as the man’s chest pressed him scandalously against the wall. “Fuck,” he sighed, the feeling of Malfoy driving against him playing tricks with his senses, choking off his reason as easily as he’d barricaded the air from his lungs. 

“Shall we try it again?” Malfoy asked, and Harry, still dazed by the panic — relief — pleasure spiral he simply could not escape, was unable to bite back the small whimper that worked itself free of his lips. “Look at you,” Malfoy breathed, pejoratively, his knee on Harry’s confused erection pressing, kneading, stroking him to the edge all while his heart pounded, and his mind whirred in a fevered plea for more. Leaning down, Malfoy sighed against Harry’s throat, the blood pumping through his jugular with such intensity that the soft skin there thrummed with his pulse. “Completely undone.”

“Malfoy — ”

“ Incarcerous .” Harry felt the argent tendrils of magic wrap around his throat as Malfoy traded his knee for his hand, his demanding fingers stroking over the firm bulge between Harry's quivering thighs. Harry’s lungs burned as they squeezed and worked to suck in air past the constriction around his neck, the hand on his cock sending wave after crashing wave of storm-force pleasure ripping through his body. Malfoy sighed almost mockingly against Harry's temple, his fingers toying with the spreading damp spot at the front of his trousers as Harry shuddered. Only the faintest moan passed over Harry's lips, purpling to a lilac that matched Malfoy's dress shirt, his vision dimming at the edges just to pop with white when Malfoy Finite 'd the spell away. 

"Fuck," Harry gasped, the rush of oxygen threatening to land him on the ground, but Malfoy kept him upright, shoved against the wall, panting, his trousers sticky with come like a ruddy teenager. “I swear if you say anything about this to — ”

“I won’t,” Malfoy huffed, and Harry could still hear that coy smirk tugging at the corners of his words. “But feel free to stop by my office sometime.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean am I sure, of course, I’m sure,” Draco hissed, kneeling beneath Harry on the white tile of their shower floor, naked, looking up at Harry with an annoyed expression that glinted with a devilish anticipation. Harry sighed, feeling the pressure in his low belly burning behind his soft cock. He made an aggrieved face, furrowing his brows and biting the inside of his cheek. 

“But are you sure you’re sure?” Draco’s expression twisted to mirror Harry’s pained cringe, and he paused a long moment as though thinking so hard it hurt.

“I…think so,” he said, finally, and Harry’s eyes went wide. 

“You think so?” He wailed, the raised octave of his frantic tone bouncing off the tiled shower walls. 

“Don’t start with me, Harry, you wanted to do this just as much as I did!” Draco snapped, scandalised by Harry’s vacillation. 

“Yeah, but…” Harry’s cringe contorted even tighter and he rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses with a sigh. “Yeah, okay,” he stated, gathering up his courage and spirit of sexual adventure. “Yeah, let’s do it. Worst case we don’t like it, right?” 

“Precisely,” Draco affirmed, both of them finding their earlier nerve and steeling it with a fortified resolve. “I think I’m…” Draco sighed an annoyed scoff letting his head fall against the crease of Harry’s hip. “Sorry, I’m not sure why I’m so nervous.”

“It’s alright,” Harry consoled, running a hand through Draco’s silky strands and finding himself calmed by the familiar contact. 

“I’m going to touch myself a bit,” Draco stated. “I think it will help the nerves and I want to feel it on my hard cock,” he explained into Harry’s hip, his breath near Harry’s soft prick, sent a thrum of excitement through him and he felt his cock plump slightly. Draco pulled back as though sensing Harry’s arousal, and looked up at him, alarmed. 

“Don’t get hard, for Merlin’s sake,” Draco snapped. 

“My gorgeous boyfriend is sat naked on the floor in front of me, having a wank,” Harry retorted. “I’m going to get fucking hard.” 

“Well don’t!” Draco replied, very helpfully. Taking his soft cock in one hand, Draco began to stroke himself in long, even caresses, his pretty pink prick plumping and swelling with each pass. He hummed a low moan, and Harry felt his body’s response to the whole situation in a tight coiling of pleasure just behind his balls. He closed his eyes, trying to think of anything other than Draco’s beautifully fit body kneeling in front of him, stroking himself hard, and simpering small sounds that seemed to huff against Harry’s cock like little torturous touches. Shite. He thought. Shite, I have to think of something unsexy. Harry urged a brain rapidly dissolving into the haze and fog of pleasure to think for fuck’s sake. Neville’s gran. He thought. Harry attempted to put all of his focus into naming cities, the most mundane and unsexy task he could conjure. Neville’s gran and…Dean Thomas…shagging. Christ, that’s foul. 

“Alright, Harry,” Draco purred. “Do it.” Harry took a deep steadying breath, taking his tip between his fingers. He had to piss so fucking badly, but now it seemed his body had forgotten how. “What are you waiting for?” 

“Just give me a second,” he blurted, frustrated with the paradox of trying not to get turned on doing something that was supposed to be for their pleasure. He took another breath, letting his muscles grow lax and calm, trying to think only about trickling rivers, babbling brooks, and how good it was all going to feel. His bladder ached, wanting this release more than anything else, but his mind stubbornly refused it. 

“Harry, what’s the pr—” but just as Draco started talking, everything seemed to let go and Harry felt the burning in his belly break as a few drops slid from his cock, dotting Draco’s chest. “O-oh,” Draco stammered, looking down at the small trail of piss running over his abdomen and down to his, now erect, cock. “Oh no,” Draco scrambled to move, slipping on the piss-slicked tiles as he reached up to block Harry’s warm stream. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Harry yelled in alarm watching Draco put his hands up in front of the spray, then attempt to redirect it entirely, sending piss splashing over the tiles and down the walls of their shower in a sort of deranged panic. “What’s wrong?”

“I was wrong, I don’t like it,” Draco explained, frantically. “Can you stop?” 

“No, I can’t ruddy stop!” Harry cried, the strong flow of Harry’s desperate relief spilling out with entirely no way to stop until he was done. He squeezed his muscles trying to stall the stream, but it was a lost cause, all while Draco slipped and slid, trying to get away. 

“Merlin, it’s absolutely awful, what were we thinking?” He wailed, shoving Harry out of the way to turn on the water which only served to send Harry sliding to his arse piss arching up into the air like a garden fixture. “This was a terrible idea!”

“It was your idea!” 

“You said you wanted to do it, too!” The water mercifully washed away the evidence of their failed sexual escapade as the last few drops trickled from Harry’s dick. They sat on the floor of the shower for a long moment, letting the hot water run over them, unable to make eye contact. Harry felt the heat burning in his face, mortified.

“Let’s agree to never discuss this again, yeah?” Draco muttered, finally, hugging his knees to his chest under the purifying mist of the shower. 

“No argument from me.”

Chapter Text

“Don’t forget my birthday tomorrow, lovey, you’ll break my heart,” was the last thing Pansy said to Draco the day before.

“Harry birthday, Pans,” was what Draco had just said to her now, which would have been fine had he not just looked Pansy dead in her eyes and then gestured to his bleeding boyfriend, Harry Potter. 

“You got me your boyfriend, Draco, how sweet, though I do hope you included a gift receipt.” Harry sat back on his palms at the edge of Pansy’s bed as though he bloody lived there, wearing a mangy black t-shirt and just the most dreadful Muggle jeans. He smirked a cocky little number at her, all smouldering green eyes that glinted with an infuriating I-know-something-you-don’t arrogance ill-fitting of one who dressed like a Dickensian street urchin. She scowled back at him. Draco stepped between their heated staring contest, taking up Pansy’s hands in his as though pleading her to listen.

“Think with that beautiful brain of yours, Pansy. Of what use, that we’ve at length discussed, could Harry possibly be?” He spoke slowly as though she were dim, and that only served to further annoy her. She crossed her arms indignantly across her chest, rumpling her aubergine silk chiffon blouse with the big loose bow around her collar, and shifting her hips to one side. Pansy tilted her chin down, pursing her lips and eyeing up at Draco’s expression like the cocky wicked thing he was. Merlin, those two were a bloody pair. Not an ounce of humility between them. There was a long pause, but eventually Pansy rolled her eyes, scoffing in annoyance that Draco would deign to turn her birthday (Pansy’s favourite holiday) into a stupid joke. 

“Pansy, we’re going to fuck you,” Harry called from behind Draco, and Pansy felt her face crack, her facade of iron irritation dripping to molten realisation. Her eyes met Draco’s argent gaze, glinting with cheshire anticipation. 

“Oh,” she said, stiffly, attempting to conceal that her heartbeat had ticked up as though leaping to a canter. “— Oh .” 

“Now, you’ve got it,” Draco purred, the smirk on his lips softening to a gleeful grin. Look, here’s what you need to know about Pansy and Draco and furthermore what you’ve likely already sussed out regarding Harry bleeding Potter. Pansy and Draco grew up together, they lived as though family, but they weren’t . So all those baths together as children, all those sleepovers on holiday, all those nights drunk on bloodwine they’d snuck from their parents, frustrated, horny, and hormonal, all sort of collected into this rather unique identity for them both. Pansy vastly preferred women but also Draco, while Draco preferred men and Pansy. Does that make an ounce of sense? 

Now, Harry on the other hand, Harry would fuck anything. Harry would fuck a bloody mincemeat pie if it looked at him right. Harry once fucked an enchanted fleshlight hard enough he blacked out for twenty-nine seconds (quite the firecall to receive, Pansy can attest). Harry’s list of sexual encounters was longer than his fat cock and that was, indeed, saying something. Pansy felt a featherlight vibration in her abdomen like butterflies in her belly just thinking of Harry’s mincemeat inside her pie. 

Truly, and let Pansy be the one to tell you this first because it cannot be overstated, there’s little in this world better than fucking women. They’re soft, they taste good, they make just the most wonderful noises, but every sapphic queen this side of their bishop will tell you straight to your face, that the feeling of getting pegged and stretched and fucked is just the tits. So, factor that in with what you now know of Pansy and Draco and what you’ve deftly deduced of Harry, and you get quite the lovely little present, don’t you? 

“Alright, then,” Pansy replied, her voice more breath than sound. “Where to begin?” Perhaps it’s worth noting that, at this point, seven years since the war, seven years since Hogwarts and all that rot, Pansy and Draco lived together. This was Draco’s flat they were sat in, presently, and Pansy’s room within it. Harry was a relatively new piece on the board. Well, if you consider two years to be new which Pansy did because she’d been playing this particular chess match with Draco going on twenty. These two fucking had become the undesired soundtrack to Pansy’s life. And she was still Draco’s closest mate, more than that, she was still his Pansy, so she knew all about them. She knew Harry was hung like a bloody Centaur, that he topped Draco as though intent to split the man in two, and that he just loved a good threesome. Pansy could recall word for absolute word the conversation that followed. Tentatively, they’d both danced around the idea, each not wanting to be the first to say ‘let’s all fuck’, but that was months ago and Draco had not revisited the conversation since. 

“Could start by taking off that birthday present bow you’re wearing,” Harry remarked, legs lolling open to show the just massive bulge between his thighs. Insatiable. Pansy tsk ed at him, feigning annoyance as a wave of heat coursed through her, tightening her thighs. Merlin, she was already damp inside her panties. It all felt so depraved, so utterly mad, so heterosexual . There was something to be said for forbidden lust, and while Pansy could not stand the idea of falling in love with something as wretched as a man , the idea of fucking one was almost novel. Course she’d fucked Draco enough, but he was Draco, and Harry was decidedly not Draco. Harry was something all to his own. 

“She’s the birthday girl, darling, don’t order her around like she’s…well, like she’s me,” Draco remarked, a lilt of amusement to his tone as his hands tugged the expensive fabric of her blouse from the waistband of her black pleated trousers, sliding it up over her head and mussing her manicured black bob in the process. In fairness, he took a moment after to tame the stray hairs back into place, knowing her. His lithe hands skated over the milky skin of her abdomen before sliding back to unhook her black lace bra, letting it fall to the floor, exposing her small, teardrop breasts. “Come here, then, love,” Draco said, scooping Pansy up and nearly tossing her small frame to the bed behind Harry. 

“Take this rot off,” she snapped, tugging at the hem of his white dress shirt. “You too, Harry,” she added. Harry huffed a low chuckle that Pansy felt send a heated drop of moisture pooling in her panties. Draco’s hands unbuttoned each pearl button with a nimble grace only he could demonstrate, letting it slide from his shoulders. He kept his sterling gaze on her the entire time, putting her first, and Pansy truly felt this was all for her. That he was bringing Harry into their world and not Pansy into he and Harry’s. She was home, and Harry was the guest. 

“Dibs on her tight arse,” Harry said like an absolute heathen, and Pansy scowled despite the clenching sensation she felt burn in her low belly. Draco’s lidded eyes flicked to Harry. 

“It’s her birthday, Harry, for Merlin’s sake, don’t be selfish,” Draco remonstrated, though Pansy could easily hear the delight in his tone. The way the sharp corners of his thin lips ticked up at the idea of Harry Potter balls deep in Pansy’s arse. If she was completely honest, the idea was growing on her with each passing moment. 

“I think that’s a lovely idea, Harry,” Pansy said, indulging in the way Draco’s Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat as his breath caught and his saliva thickened to paste. “Draco can take my pussy, a place to which he’s well-acquainted.” Oh, did she mention that before? That was sort of the crux of that rather debauched conversation they’d had. Harry loved threesomes, and Pansy loved being stuffed like a Christmas goose. How delightfully perfect?

Harry did not fuck around, and next Pansy saw of him he was naked as a Cornish pixie, absolutely massive cock defying all known laws of gravity as he strode to glaze his large hands over Draco’s slender, fit torso. They did look good together. Pansy was not too proud to note that. Harry was all man . Tanned and thick and hairy. She felt another heated wet sensation between her legs watching the way Draco breathed soft moans under Harry’s touch, and the hard outline of his lovely cock inside his grey trousers. Harry split Draco’s flies pulling his trousers and pants down over his slim hips, exposing Pansy’s favourite part of the man: his hip bones. They had this almost womanly curve that made her go absolutely mental, and the way Harry’s big thumbs brushed over them had her thighs almost quivering in anticipation of it all. Once Draco was naked as well, the two men turned to Pansy, still half-clothed and resting on her elbows on her bed. The pink satin sheets really contrasted their naughty plans in a delightfully depraved manner. 

“Come here, birthday girl,” Draco murmured, coming to his knees gracefully, and dragging her to the edge of her bed while Harry crawled next to her, as though intent to watch. Draco slid Pansy’s trousers and, now sopping, panties off of her before parting her knees and placing his hands on her curved hips. Let it be known that Draco could eat pussy better than half the lasses Pansy had fucked. The man ate pussy as though it was a competition he could win. When his lips crashed against her sultry centre, slicked with readied excitement her head tipped back as she let out a high-pitched moan. He was indelicate with her clit, laving the tip of his tongue over it, swirling around it, or altogether sucking it between his sweet lips, blonde fringe sliding into his face as he unlaced Pansy like a Victorian corset. 

“Harry,” she huffed, feeling him jump slightly at his name, his attention so focused on watching Draco swallow her whole. He was lounging beside her on his side as though they were old chums, his huge cock brushing her thigh as he propped himself up on one elbow, the lazy prat. “Make yourself useful, you bastard.” It would have sounded so much more authoritative if her voice hadn’t split to air. Draco chuckled against her, his nose toying with her clit while his tongue urged her open gently. Pansy’s body tensed and tightened with each cresting surge of pleasure Draco sent coursing through her veins. Pussies were incredible things. None of this ‘stretch me slowly’ nonsense, a wet pussy could take on the fucking world.

“Hmm?” Harry replied, stupidly. 

“Darling,” Draco said, his voice muffled in Pansy’s…well, muff. “If you’re going to fuck Pansy’s tiny arsehole, you’re going to want to give her a head start.” 

“Top drawer - oh, Draco, Merlin, yes - on the left,” she moaned, and directed in a simply remarkable display of multi-tasking. Harry stood reluctantly, absolutely feasting on the sight and Pansy could hardly blame him. He pulled the drawer open, rummaging around in her intimate paraphernalia, before pulling out a pretty chrome arse plug. She’d always considered the thing big, but now seeing the act that would follow it, she was growing right sceptical that Harry would even fit. Draco pulled back, his face shiny with her feminine glaze, lips pinked and cheeks flushed, before crawling up onto the bed as Harry rejoined them. 

“On your knees for me, love,” Draco advised, his voice low with pleasure. She did as he said, and Draco handed her a fluffy pink pillow to hug. He affectionately brushed a stray lock from her face, meeting her fevered gaze with eyes that swirled with the delights of their rather unconventional relationship. Arse in the air, back arched and knees spread a bit, she felt Harry behind her. His hands on the backs of her thighs were so big , and she felt an electric sort of hum tingle within her as he cupped fat handfuls of her small arse in them. 

“Draco, my love,” she breathed, lidded eyes drawing Draco’s attention. “I don’t recall saying you could stop.” He grinned a coy little thing before nodding down to her, and it wasn’t long before Draco was on his back between her thighs, Harry straddling his chest. He brought his mouth to her again, arms hooking around her thighs to pull her down onto his face. Pansy let out a near scream as he ravaged her, tongue dancing along her labia and flicking against her clit as her pulse surged in a quickened tempo through her veins. She felt ignited. Her pussy throbbed between her legs as Draco worked over it, and she could feel her wet drenching him at this angle as it mixed with his saliva, one stray drop sliding down the inside of her thigh. She whined above him as Harry’s thumbs parted her arse. 

There was a slick sensation around her tight hole as Harry’s lubricated fingers teased her entrance. Distracted by Draco’s sinful tongue, Harry was easily able to work one finger into her. The sensation was explosive and Pansy mewled soft sounds of pleasure as he slowly thrust in and out of her arse. 

“Christ, you’re better at this than Draco,” Harry mused. 

“You will find, sweet, there is little to which that statement does not apply,” Pansy sighed, as Harry chuckled behind her. Draco scoffed, his breath puffing against her wet clit and Pansy jerked slightly at the spark of arousal that sent up her spine. Draco slowed a bit as Harry teased his second finger against her, easing it in as Pansy bit down on her pink pillow. Draco’s hands brushed the insides of her thighs and then moved up to pinch her firm nipples. 

“That’s good, love,” Draco encouraged. “You really are bloody brilliant.” 

“Do you want to come with the plug in?” Harry asked, twisting his two fingers to stretch her open in preparation. 

“ Mm , yes,” she purred. “Full of good ideas, you are.” He removed his fingers and it took some work to ease the bulb of the plug past her tight entrance. Once it was seated within her Pansy felt her body instinctively work around it. Draco lapped at her clit once more and each bolt of erotic sensation had her body clenching around the plug and amplifying her pleasure. Harry cast a quick cleaning Charm on his hand just before she felt it between her thighs once more. 

“Sorry,” Harry said, using one hand to push Draco’s face out of the way so he could shove two fingers unceremoniously inside her dripping pussy. Pansy keened a soprano bay at the sensory onslaught. He swirled his fingers into her, pressing deep inside until his knuckles drove against her opening, even as Draco’s devilish tongue worked over her clit and the plug ground up against her stimulated insides. Pansy wailed into the pillow as she was driven to the brink. 

Harry’s fingers were so thick and unlike Draco, he was not tender with her as he thrust them inside of her, curling them against her curves. It felt bloody brilliant, actually, and Pansy could scarcely control how her thighs ached and trembled while they serviced her. She felt her groyne muscles relax, her legs seeking to open wider, and felt Harry’s free hand pressing her arse down as though attempting to smother Draco with her pussy. He moaned beneath her, into her, and she let out a cry as the two tore her orgasm from her body. A ripple of sweet decadence fluttered through her, cresting between her thighs as her insides squeezed Harry’s fingers, the plug, as she felt the sweet wet spill of her milky release. 

“God, you feel good,” Harry rumbled a gruff sound behind her, driving his fingers up against the walls of her even as she whined and keened into the pillow, drawing out her climax until she just couldn’t stand it. “Draco was right, your pussy is ruddy fantastic.”

“High praise from a man who fucked a fleshlight nearly to death,” Pansy managed around cries and whines. 

“Fucked enough girls to know a good pussy,” he replied, his voice harbouring a thin thread of wonder and Pansy likely would have felt a small swell of pride had her body not been entirely occupied with her electric orgasm still humming and thrumming through her like so much summer lightning. “And yours is right excellent,” he added, humming a bassy moan as her body constricted and relaxed, spasming around his hand. “You’re soaking.” Pansy did scream at that, her back arching into his fist as every nerve between her thighs felt stroked to detonating. 

“Tastes divine,” Draco said with a soft gasp. 

“Bet it does,” Harry said, sliding his fingers out as Pansy panted, her breath heaving as the aftershocks of her release split her along her seams. There was a wet sound before Harry moaned again, the sound muffled by what sounded like his fingers in his mouth. Even in her post-climax bliss, Pansy felt the wave of erotic heat work through her at the sound of Harry lapping up her creamy wet. 

“ Merlin , fuck me, boys,” she sighed. “I want it, now .” The boys shifted behind her, and a moment later she felt Harry’s thick bicep around her waist, tugging her over, manhandling her atop him to lay with her back against his chest. 

“How very dare you,” she cried as Harry pulled her legs apart like she was his play doll. 

“I know you’re loving this,” Harry replied. He was right, but Pansy had enough sense never to say as such to a man. Draco moved between their tangle of legs, wrapping a hand around Harry’s thick cock and dousing it with her strawberry scented Daisyroot for as much lubrication as they could manage. When Draco eased the plug back out of her, Pansy yelped and Harry pressed an encouraging kiss to her head. “You can take it, you little champion,” he assured, his praise stroking her ego to its own climax. “You can take it.” She moaned as he pressed kisses to her temple, nuzzling his nose into her hair, his glasses mussing it all up. Not that she cared anymore, not that she could focus on anything other than Draco tenderly guiding Harry’s massive cock to her readied arse. 

“That’s a good girl, love,” Draco encouraged, his praise mingling with Harry’s to send small, needy sounds spilling from her lips. “That’s my good girl.” She could feel the swollen head of Harry’s cock pressing against her and Pansy wriggled slightly feeling as though there was just no way it would fit. How could it? Maybe she should have had Draco fuck her arse. His cock was long but far more slender and didn’t threaten to split her like a log for firewood. “Breathe, love,” Draco advised, easing Harry’s beast of a cock past the tight ring of muscles. Pansy screamed, and Harry continued to kiss her encouragingly, whispering into her hair. 

“You like that?” Harry said. “You like my fat prick, Pansy?” She did. Honestly, she fucking did. Pansy cried out, wailing and whining with every millimetre. She felt as though she were fucking a bloody Beater bat. Each small jump of Harry’s rock hard cock sent her yelping and jerking against him. Harry held her thighs fast, his hands clamped around them to keep her spread as wide open as possible. 

“Bloody fantastic, love.” Draco pressed a kiss to her inner thigh and she jolted beneath him. Pansy could feel the sweat on her brow as Harry occupied her body, invading her so fully she felt he pushed her soul out to the surface of her skin, as though there simply wasn’t enough room. Draco’s hands caressed her stomach, her breasts, and ran back down over her hips. Pansy reached for them urgently, needing something to hold onto. He laced his fingers in hers, leaning forward to press a kiss to her sternum, then trailing them up to her throat. His mouth crashed against hers, the taste of him mingled with her had her body clenching around Harry’s cock with heated pleasure, the three of them moaning together. Draco was straddling Harry, but he was between Pansy’s legs, his stunning lithe cock resting against her spread pussy.

“Fuck me, Draco,” Pansy breathed into their kiss, their skilled tongues lacing into and over each other. 

“Anything for the birthday girl,” Draco replied. He stole one of his hands back from her vice grip to guide his own cock as he’d done with Harry’s, teasing her clit with its dripping head before the scent of strawberry Daisyroot filled Pansy’s nose once more. After Harry, taking Draco in her wet and supple pussy was nothing, but the feeling of their two cocks sliding over one another separated by so little was not of this world. Draco moaned above her, Harry groaning below her, and between them Pansy howled. “Merlin, I will not last like this, princess,” he admitted. “You are a marvel.” 

“Look at you,” Harry breathed against her skull. Draco pressed sweet kisses to the corner of her mouth as she wailed, then trailed them along her cheek to her ear before nudging her to the side to crash his lips against Harry’s. The sounds of their urgent kiss right next to her face felt bloody lascivious. Harry stayed still inside of her, mercifully, but Draco’s hips thrust into her until she felt his balls pressed between him and Harry’s base. 

“ Merlin’s Ben Wa balls ,” Pansy cursed. “This feels fucking incredible.” Draco turned to kiss her forehead, his hips punching heated waves of building pleasure through her until her second orgasm breathed down her neck. She was in a haze of stimulus, and it felt there was no clear way to know where Draco or Harry ended and Pansy began. They fucked into her, frotted each other inside of her with only a small bit between them and Pansy felt her mind fog with its effort to manage all of the sensations she felt. Her heart pounded, and she could not at all remember the last time she’d inhaled. 

“I’m close, princess,” Draco huffed through gritted teeth against her chin. 

“Paint my insides, boys,” she rasped, her voice ragged from abuse. Draco moaned at that and she felt his balls tense against her just before the heated spill of his orgasm splashed inside her. Pansy whined as he fucked through his climax, the squelching wet sounds of his come were a perverse melody. 

“ Fuck, yes,” Harry growled, and his cock pulsed, pumping and spurting his hot load inside of her as they both quaked. Pansy felt they would grind her to paste, that she would be little more than a pink mist when they were through. Draco pulled a hand free from her crushing grip to slide it between him and her, kneading her firm clit. Pansy whined, crying out high-pitched sounds as her thoughts dissolved like spritzed perfume in a tornado. Her orgasm felt as though it had nowhere to go, that there was simply no room for it. For a moment as she trembled between the two, feeling she would simply implode.

“That’s good, Pansy, that’s my good girl,” Draco murmured by her cheek. When Draco pulled out Pansy felt his dribbling come slide towards Harry’s softening cock. Even as he waned within her, she knew it would be precarious sliding free of her. Harry let her thighs relax on either side of him, bringing his arms around Pansy in a stilling embrace. 

“Deep breath,” he huffed, and Pansy sucked in, preparing herself. Harry tilted his hips to pull out of her and the emptiness he left behind was almost more overwhelming than the shift of his cock inside of her. Harry held her, and she found she was in no hurry to move from this position at all. The room smelled so heavily of sex and them , and something about that was entirely peaceful. Draco traced her nose and over her brow with one sweet finger, smiling down at her.

“Happy birthday, Pans,” Draco whispered, kissing her forehead. 

“Thank you, lovey,” she sighed.

Chapter Text

“And what is it that you do again?”

“I tend the flowers.”

“Ah, how delightful. You know, when I was in Wiradjuri, contending with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, the locals used to make flower crowns for me. Said it was a mark of my distinguished heroism, generally only reserved for deities, how charming, mm?” Professor Lockhart crossed his arms leaning one shoulder against the door frame. Lars mostly tuned out any tosh he’d just spouted to static as he repotted the Mandrakes and spritzed the Asphodel. The Professor came around more often than Pomona most days, and chattered on like a caffeinated woodpecker about utter and complete nonsense. Lars let him carry on uninterrupted. His absurd claims of heroism that Lars no more believed than tales of Babbity Rabbity were a sort of pleasant background noise perhaps like the summer rain or a bird song. 

“Refresh my memory,” the Professor remarked, holding out a hand towards Lars as though meeting him for the first time despite this being the second month during which the man had happened by at least once daily. “What is it you do?” Lars cocked his head to the side, his tousled white blonde curls brushing over his forehead as he raised an incredulous dark brow at the ornately dressed man. 

“I,” he said slowly as though the Professor were daft then gestured to the spritzing bottle in one hand and the Aconite currently being spritzed with the other before gesturing back to the man. 

“Ah, yes, tend the flowers,” the Professor said in a tone that implied he was recalling this from years prior and not ten seconds ago. “Right, yes, of course.” He paused, the spritz of the spray bottle hissed with each squeeze of Lars’s large hand, almost comically sized around the small handle. “And you…” the Professor loosened the collar on his lilac doublet, embroidered with a swooping swirling silver pattern and cleared his throat. “Enjoy this work?” Lars smiled to himself, turning away to check the Baneberries. In truth, he loved this work. It was not easy for his kind to find such employment and even this was a special contract he’d worked out with Dumbledore himself wanting desperately to get away from the Forest and the rest of his herd. The clop of his hooves on the stone greenhouse floor echoed in the silence that passed between them before the Centaur finally answered.

“I do, yes. Quite a bit,” he replied, his long white tail swishing behind him. “Do you like flowers, Professor?” Lars was not the fool Gilderoy Lockhart believed him to be. He knew why the man returned day after day, and he knew why he seemed obsessed with proving himself. He just also loved so deeply toying with the cocky bastard. The Professor stepped into the greenhouse, swatting a stray Hymnfly as it sang a sweet note by his manicured golden curls, and Lars bit back a small chuckle at how off centre the man seemed around him. 

“Oh, well…that is to say–” he cleared his throat, but his powder blue eyes were fixed on Lars’s dapple grey flank, his fur was manicured, a deep blue grey with small white spots flecked along his sides. Lars knew what the man wanted as his eyes cast over his broad shoulders and formidable lower half with a glint that said please and a shimmer of something at its edges that added now . He pruned the failed sprigs of the Baneberry bushes to coax new growth from the old shrubs. “Well, yes, certainly.” 

“That must be why I see you so frequently,” Lars mused. “Because you are such a gardening enthusiast.” The flush on the Professor’s face was as brilliant red as the Baneberries. “I’m sure there’s much you could teach me.” 

“Oh, absolutely,” he answered, scratching at his chin even though he had not one strand of facial hair. “Quite right, I’m sure I could author another award-winning novel on the subject.” Lars stifled a chuckle. He placed the pruning shears to the side, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. The humidity in the greenhouse was always a force to contend with, but Lars found the slight glisten it cast over his taut muscled torso to feel rather nice. He could tell the Professor enjoyed it, too. The deep grey of his lower half faded to a light heather grey on his torso that accentuated his bulky muscles and fit form. The Professor swallowed and Lars watched the way the muscles in his throat fought to get his batter-thick saliva down his throat, his Adam’s Apple bobbing with the effort. Lars knew what the man wanted. There was a long pause during which the Professor shifted awkwardly. Lars met the man’s expectant blue eyes.  

It did not take long after that for Lars to have the small and slender form of the Professor pressed between him and the greenhouse wall, the squeak of the humid glass behind him heralding each writhing spasm of the man against Lars’s massive body. He crashed his lips against the Professor’s, tasting the human tang of his slightly acidic saliva, and sliding his tongue so deep in the man’s mouth he nearly choked around it. How precious. The Professor’s chest rose and fell with a fevered tempo, and his hands ran over Lars’s broad chest as though searching for a raindrop in the sand. 

“Fuck me with your thick pony cock, horse daddy? Pwease ?” The Professor whined, his voice taking on a high-pitched breathless quality that sounded almost feminine. Lars frowned into their kiss, drawing back a moment. 

“Pardon me?” he said, feeling as though he certainly misheard. The Professor’s cheeks flushed rosy, and his expression tightened to an abashed frown. 

“Widdle Gildie wants horse daddy’s big pony cock.” Lars cringed at the truly abysmal format of human dirty talk he was currently experiencing. 

“Must you?” he said, his tone sharp enough to cause the Professor to wince. He cleared his throat, evidently (and understandably) embarrassed. 

“I can refrain,” the professor explained, but not a bloody moment later, Lars was thumbing at the bulge between his thighs when the Professor cried out, “oh, Merlin, yes . Yes, I am your good little filly.” He used an absolutely wretched baby voice, and Lars just could not believe the sexual practices of humans sometimes. “I am big horse daddy’s good widdle pony baby.” Lars stifled a groan. “Pwease give me your big horse daddy cock!” For Sagittarius' sake, Lars was beginning to question this decision, but he was so pent up from not having mounted anything in months since taking this job on the grounds, he was bloody close to mounting the fucking Baneberry bush at this stage. 

“Let us see how things progress,” Lars growled, reaching down to slide two thick fingers over the noticeable ridge beneath the Professor’s tailored grey trousers. The man shivered beneath his touch, crooning and sighing at the gentle friction, his cheeks rosy, eyes lidded and fogged with the haze of cathartic pleasure. When he didn’t talk it was easy to enjoy the soft and sweet sounds humans made when aroused. Lars split the flies of his trousers with one deft hand, skilled to nimble by years in the greenhouse, coaxing delicate blooms to thriving, sliding the thin fabric to the floor. The Professor’s human genitals were almost precious, like something of a child though even Centaur colts would not be so small, so slender, not so flushed and pinked. 

Lars latched his hands under the Professor’s armpits, lifting the man as though he were little more than a daisy to be plucked. He pressed the Professor against the greenhouse wall such that his legs easily rested on Lars’s broad shoulders. Centaurs did not get to taste other Centaurs much at all, and the idea was so novel he could scarcely help himself. Pressing the Professor’s small frame against his face, Lars swallowed the man’s tiny member nearly whole, sucking down his sweet salty readiness like so much Baneberry juice. The Hymnflies, attracted to their sweat and heated breath, hummed a sweet melody around them as the Professor gasped, his fingers tangling in Lars’s white blonde curls with urgent desperation. 

“Oh, my sweet Merlin,” the Professor breathed. The taste of the Professor sparked Lars’s instincts to a blazing fire. His body responded imminently to the rush of human hormones, and he could feel the throbbing, lengthening, thickening of his cock between his hind legs. His tongue slid over the Professor’s little prick, laving over it, sucking it as though seeking out the nectar from deep within a Foxglove plant. The Professor’s bare thighs squeezed the sides of his face, and it took little time at all for the sweet of his liquid ready to transfigure into the savoury salt of his frenzied climax that pumped over Lars’ tongue. 

Lars lapped up the peculiar byproduct until the Professor squirmed and whined, letting out shallow gasps that signalled for Lars to let him down. He turned, placing the Professor on the teaching table in the middle of the greenhouse, panting, his cock twitching and softening between his legs. Lars’s own rigid cock was a firm contrast to the Professor’s satisfied flaccidity, and with each step he could feel the weight of it bobbing between his hind thighs. 

“Now?” The Professor rasped. “Can I see it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lars chuckled. The Professor’s eyes went wide as perhaps a child in a room of sweets, and he lept strangely from the table, crawling on the floor until he was beneath Lars’s lower half. The sound that followed was one of pure and rapturous wonder, and a moment later Lars felt the Professor’s ridiculously small hands as they wrapped around his girth, needing both to make it the whole way around, and drawing back his thick foreskin to reveal the fat and dripping purple-grey head. The Professor whimpered a pathetic sound of unworthiness. How quickly this man of pride and arrogance had withered like Vervain in the winter when faced with Lars’s endowment. 

Lars scraped his hind hooves against the stone of the greenhouse floor, absently, the Professor’s hands little more than a minor inconvenience on his cock which demanded one thing and one thing only. When humans fucked, they played games and could get off from the most alarming practices, but Centaurs fucked for need. Centaurs fucked because if they didn’t, their massive balls would ache or bruise with the effort of holding all of the fertile sperm their bodies produced. He’d long-considered what it might do to the man, but he also just wanted to feel his tight human arse stretched over his huge cock. He wanted to drown the Professor in his come.
“Utterly magnificent,” the Professor sighed. “Even more remarkable than I expected, though I am, of course, schooled in Centaur anatomy. You must be fifteen -no- sixteen inches, sweet Merlin. Truly an incredible stallion speci-”

“Professor,” Lars interjected, his hooves clopping absently at the stone. Now that the Professor had worked him to arousal, his body did not have the human capacity for faffing about like idiots. His balls ached, muscles in his thick belly clenching and demanding to deposit his pent up load into a willing receptacle. The Professor cleared his throat, and Lars scented in the air a hint of human fear. Their hormones were as pungent as Valerian, and Lars smelled the Professor’s desire from the start. 

“How…” the Professor began, trailing off. “How do I…” Lars chuckled to himself, the feeling of the Professor’s small hands on his cock becoming more of an annoyance than a pleasure. His hind legs quaked wanting to thrust, wanting to fuck . Lars shifted, kicking out one of his legs to dislodge himself from the Professor’s curious grasp, and pointed to the table. 

“Bend over,” he said, his mind fogging with need and urge. “Now.” 

“Oh, yes,” the Professor shivered. “Ohhh, yes, my big strong horse daddy, yes.” He splayed himself over the table, arse out, legs spread slightly and his soft little prick hardening again between his thin legs. Lars brought a frustrated hand to his face behind the man, but he was so far beyond the point where he could care. He needed to fuck this strange little man and he needed to fuck him now. Lars slid a hand between the man’s legs, letting his tiny length slip in between two of his fingers and enjoying the way his legs quaked and trembled at the touch. Lars turned, pulling an entire litre jar of Daisyroot oil from the shelf. The smell alone had him shifting where he stood, hooves scraping in fevered anticipation. He stuffed a hand into the jar, coating his fingers in the substance before slotting them between the human’s soft arsecheeks. The Professor cried out a sharp almost womanly note at the first finger entering his tight hole and Lars began to wonder if it were even physically possible to take all of his massive length. 

“Oh, Merlin, yes,” the Professor moaned, his cock bobbing and hardening with each thrust of Lars’s grey finger. “Put your massive cock inside my wittle baby arse.” Great Sagittarius, humans were so fucking bizarre. “Pwease, horse daddy, pwetty pwease,” he cooed. Lars didn’t give an honest fuck what the man needed to get himself prepared to take his fat cock at this stage. His vision swam and feathered to glow at the edges, and he plunged a second finger in, dumping the Daisyroot oil over his fist in an effort to speed up the process. The Professor’s arse clenched around his fist but he pumped through it, stretching the man with each undulating shove. To the Professor’s credit, he was small but he stretched to an extreme degree alarmingly quickly. He seemed…practised. 

“Have you taken a Centaur before, Professor?” Lars asked. 

“Oooh, no horse daddy, you’re the only big pony cock for me.” The baby voice was an atrocity Lars would not normally be able to stand, but hazed by urgent necessity, he bit back how wretched it was and let the smooth silk of the Professor’s insides be the reward to make it all worth it. 

“That’s good, Professor,” Lars encouraged, watching the man’s thighs tense and spasm with arousal at even the most razor thin praise. “You’re a very good little boy.” The Professor howled at that, a thick drop sliding from the swollen head of his prick, clinging by one gossamer strand until it dotted the stone beneath him. Lars felt his fingers slide more easily into the man after that and realised in a moment of chagrin what he’d need to do to get the Professor to take his whole cock. Lars sighed. 

He’d need to play along. 

Teasing a third finger, the Professor tensed up again, and Lars cringed to himself before squeezing the man’s thigh to thumb small encouraging circles there. 

“That’s a good little filly,” he croaked. Sagittarius help him if any of his herd learned of this. “That’s my good little pony baby.” The Professor keened, and Lars felt the resistance against his finger break as the third was able to slide in as well. He thrust his fist into the man, fucking him open until Lars could almost see inside of him with little effort. There was so little time, his body screamed for release, his cock hung heavily between his legs wanting to be enveloped in the tiny many. 

“Are you ready for my huge horse cock, Professor?” Lars asked, kneeling his front legs onto the table to line himself up with the Professor’s stretched arse. It took a fair bit of manoeuvring, but eventually he felt his tip rest against the man’s opened entrance. The contact made the Professor whimper and whine beneath him, completely obscured below Lars’s body. 

“Yes, Daddy, fuck me big horse daddy,” the Professor cried. Lars bit back the offence he felt being referred to as a ‘horse’ reminding himself how warm and soft and tight the man would feel around his cock. “Fuck me, horse daddy,” the Professor begged, his voice thick and needy. “Pwease, horsie daddy.” Wretched. Just fucking wretched. But worth it, Lars reminded himself. He eased forward, even his three fingers not enough to truly prepare the man for his massive length. Being a Centaur had many upsides, but the anatomy of their lower halves was ill-designed for any level of self-relief or pleasure. If Lars wanted to fuck, he fucked other Centaurs or they fucked him. He was so ready for that sweet relief, the splash of his wet load, the relaxing of the muscles around his swollen balls. 

He thrust into the Professor unable to wait a second longer. The man screamed a throaty, choking, awful sound, but Lars didn’t care. His body moved of its own accord, fucking into the man as his hooves scuffed the grey stone and his tail lifted, swishing with each strong thrust. He could hear the Professor beneath him grunting, whining, crying, yelling, but he couldn’t tell if the man was hurt or not. Even if he was, the warm silk of the man’s insides stretched around Lars’s huge cock was too good to turn away from. He needed this. 

“Oh, god, yes, horse daddy, ride me like a mare in heat!” The Professor yelled, allaying Lars’s concerns that he might be dead. “My little belly is bulging with your huge horse cock.” The feeling of the Professor’s tight human form on Lars was otherworldly in its sultry decadence and it mercifully drowned out the man’s heinous dirty talk. “I’m your little pony, ride me, daddy, ride your little pony boy.” Well, most of it. Lars grit his teeth, feeling his body ready itself for the deluge of his orgasm. The ridges and curves of the human arsehole were truly beyond compare. Even if it meant dealing with the Professor’s strange brand of human roleplay, it would be worth it to fuck him again. No Centaur felt this good, and they fucked like they fought. Rough and contentiously. The Professor was a willing little bottom bitch and it was a far greater pleasure to fuck something that wasn’t fighting to fuck him first. 

“You feel so good, my little pony,” Lars said, letting himself give in to the Professor’s scene. “Such a good pony, taking my whole stallion cock. You are such a good little filly.” At that the Professor wailed, his arse clenching tightly around Lars’s cock, sending a bolt of pleasure through him so intensely his balls jerked and tensed. His orgasm slammed into him with a force so strong he could not even warn the Professor before the hot spill of his pent up end flooded inside the man’s tight corridor. 

“Oooooooooh,” the man crooned one long strangled note. Lars felt his come filled the Professor so fully it pushed back against him, squelching with each small movement as he fucked through his explosive orgasm. The Professor heaved croaking breaths beneath him, and as his body stilled and the aftershocks faded, Lars carefully slid from the man, his cock softening and retracting with blessed relief. There was so much come. Lars watched it drenching the inside of the Professor’s thighs and pooling on the stone floor. It bubbled out from the man’s clenching hole like someone had popped his cork and upended him. His legs shook, trembling with each dripping trail that slid down his legs and each panting breath. Lars placed a gentle hand on the small man’s back, damp with sweat. 

“Are you alright, Professor?” he asked, fearing he had done irreparable harm to the man. There was a long silence, but eventually the Professor brought his arm to his brow to wipe away a sheen of sweat. 

“I daresay I may never be the same,” he gasped. “Oh, my sweet Merlin, that was divine.” 

“I can’t disagree,” Lars purred, rubbing small encouraging circles over his back. 

“Perhaps we could do it again sometime,” the Professor said, turning over his shoulder, eyes lidded with the post-climax bliss. “Horse daddy.” Lars rolled his eyes, but perhaps this strange form of roleplay had begun to grow on him.