Chapter Text
—
They’d hiked a billion miles at the crack of dawn for a crumbling ruin.
A castle, their head coach had called it. The pile of stones that sat at the edge of a ghostly lake, surrounded by dense forests and enveloped by an otherworldly fog. And maybe it had been once, but nearly half of it is destroyed now while the other is barely holding on for dear life and completely overrun by flora.
At first, Draco had thought it one of those illusions to deter trespassers but the further they got to the heart of it, skipping over debris and dodging rainwater falling from holes in the ceiling, the more he realised that this was all real. Masondo had trapped them in a haunted castle for the next two days and he’d taken their wands, blocking off all avenues of escape.
Perhaps Draco should count himself lucky. At least he was assigned one of the nicer rooms — all four stone walls intact, a non-rotted four poster bed, and an only slightly freezing draft coming from the window cracks. Draco should feel some gratitude, however slim, except the only reason he’d gotten it is because he’s bound to Potter.
In the literal sense. An honest to god red rope is tied to his and Potter’s wrist, magically binding them to not go past three feet of each other. Because apparently the two of them needed to learn to ‘work together’ and ‘be good teammates’ and ‘to at least not be at each other’s necks every fucking minute’ (Masondo’s words).
The other members of the team had also been paired off with people they were at odds with, but Draco feels no sympathy for their moaning. He doubts any of them are involved in a strange, secret sexual relationship with each other.
Alright, maybe McLaggen and Davies are. Something suspicious in the air about those two for sure. But Draco has no time to sift through that curious drawer of bizarre sexual tension.
At the moment, he’s more occupied with trying his damnedest not to look at his and Potter’s bound hands and exactly what Potter is doing at the other end.
“This has to be illegal,” Draco mutters to the painting on the wall. The blushing maiden had ducked behind a tall hedge upon seeing them approach and didn’t seem inclined to leave. Draco can’t blame her. If he’d had a choice, he would rather not have a front row seat to Potter taking a piss in a chamber pot either.
An ancient castle with all of an ancient castle’s amenities and no indoor plumbing. Wonderful.
There’s a tug on the rope, the rustle of fabric, then Potter coming out from behind the shabby folding screen.
“All yours,” he says casually.
“I think I would rather die, thank you.”
Potter’s lips twitch. “You really might if you’re planning on holding it in for the whole weekend.”
“You think I’ll be that lucky?”
“It’s just a pot, Malfoy.”
“Exactly!” Draco exclaims. “It’s a bloody pot!”
“Made of gold, I think,” Potter adds, as if that helps. “It self-cleans too.” Which does help. A little.
But still.
“That’s — That’s not the point!”
“Suit yourself then.” Potter stuffs his hands in the pocket of his black hoodie and shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the first person to stumble into a functional toilet in the woods.”
Draco curls his hands into fists. He’d been perfectly fine before Potter started going on and on about pissing, the bloody weirdo. Now Draco’s bladder is all bright-eyed and screaming at him to go as well.
“Fine,” he grits out. “But you talk of this to anyone and you die. Are we clear?”
Potter snorts. “Right. Because your pissing habits come up in conversation so often.”
Draco does not dignify that with a response, merely giving Potter a side-eye as he shuffles past him and behind the folding screen. Morgana’s tits, the damned pot is made of gold, which somehow makes it worse. They couldn’t sell this for indoor plumbing? Draco takes a deep breath and pulls down his pants. The faster this is over with, the faster he can forget it ever hap—
“Hey, Potter! Where’s, um, where’s Draco?”
Draco’s hand had stilled on his dick at the sound of the heavy door swinging open and now his eyes bug out at the voice. Quentin?
“Why do you want to know?” Potter asks, tone bordering on rude.
“Ah, Masondo wants us in the Great Hall in ten minutes so…uh, you haven’t gotten rid of him, have you?”
There’s a long pause. “And why would I do that?”
“Well, um, he’s not here and everyone knows you and him don’t — wait, why are you answering my questions with questions?”
“That’s actually a fair question,” another voice joins, heavy with suspicion. Santiago’s probably. He’d been matched with Quentin. Merciful Merlin, is the entire team waiting outside while his cock hovers over a chamber pot? “Where is Malfoy?”
“I haven’t thrown him off the ramparts if that’s what you’re thinking.” Draco’s certain he’s not imagining the amusement in Potter’s voice. “He’s just taking a —”
“Nap!” Draco rushes out, making sure to knock Potter’s shoulder on his way. “I was taking a nap.”
“Behind the screen?” asks Quentin.
“I’m sorry. Have I been summoned to the bloody Inquisition without my knowledge?”
Quentin blinks and opens his mouth.
“We’ll see you there,” Potter cuts in, dropping a hand on Draco’s shoulder and squeezing it. “As you can see, he’s not his best if you interrupt his nap. Give us five minutes, yeah?”
Something in Draco’s face must have enforced Potter’s statement because Quentin and Santiago couldn’t have left faster. Draco shakes off the hand on his shoulder and whirls on Potter once they’re alone again.
“I told you I’d kill you.”
Potter smirks. “Go piss in the pot, Malfoy.”
Draco shoots him the finger on his way to the pot.
—
The idea of flinging himself off a steep cliff in the hopes of getting carted back to England for treatment grows more appealing by the second. But then again, why should Draco have to suffer anymore than he’s had to? Masondo’s the one who has to sleep with one eye open now.
He has no idea what hours of games and trust exercises have to do with developing partnership and camaraderie, but he feels neither for Potter at the moment which means it’s not working obviously.
How is it possible to lose at every single game when they’re, well…them?
Draco stops his furious pacing to look up at the thick branches where Potter had disappeared to. For this challenge, a scavenger hunt in what can only be the Forbidden Forest’s spookier, more treacherous cousin, Masondo had allowed them more distance. Not much to make a break for it, but enough for Potter to climb a tree while Draco sits in relative safety, giving him the opportunity to grouse to his heart’s content. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at everything or is that all Ministry propaganda?”
There’s some rustling, a curtain of leaves falling, and finally, a voice from above: “Didn’t peg you for the type to buy their bullshit about me.”
“Fucking Quentin and Santiago, Potter?” Draco cries. “How can they be ahead of us?”
“Maybe because during the race, Quentin wasn’t yelling in Santiago’s ear not to drop him every other second?”
“And yet you dropped me anyway!”
Potter swings from a branch and lands in a crouch in front of him with all the grace of a panther. The rope between them instantly shortens to adjust to their proximity. “Will this make up for it?” He holds up three slightly crushed blue-speckled feathers. Joberknoll feathers to be exact, the last item on their miserable list.
Nothing can make up for getting dropped in the freezing lake, but this has a chance of coming close. Especially since winning this game will earn them a hundred points, enough to put them in the lead and earn back their wands for the night. But Draco refuses to give Potter the approval he clearly needs to survive.
They haven’t won yet.
Draco snatches the feathers and puts it in their rucksack. “Took you long enough. Now come on, we’re losing daylight.”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
Draco halts, then turns back, begrudgingly allowing Potter to lead the way. On the topic of navigation, he can’t deny that Potter is better. Much better. He’s like a bloodhound, almost. It’d be impressive if only he isn’t so bloody smug about it.
Potter is still smirking when the ground beneath him crumbles and he disappears into a pit.
It all happened so fast that Draco barely has time to rejoice at this fantastic turn of events before he realises they’re bound together and he’s getting dragged along for the ride. Without much thought, he flings the rucksack to god knows where and latches onto a huge boulder along the way, heels digging into the soft earth for purchase. Somehow, Draco manages to hold on, though the weight of Potter on the other end of his wrist nearly pulls his entire arm out of its socket.
He cries out in pain, fingers scrambling to hold onto the rope. “Potter! For fuck’s sake, do something!” All he sees through the tears is dirt, grass, and a huge, dark hole in the ground. Merlin, what if Potter’s unconscious down there? Or worse — Draco’s heart seizes in his chest — what if he’s dead?
“Potter!” he yells desperately. “Potter, answer me or I swear to Circe I’ll kill you! I’ll — I’ll find your address and publish it in the paper! All of your fans will come in droves and you’ll never know a moment’s peace ever a —”
“Bloody hell, will you stop yelling and help me?”
A tanned forearm pops out of the hole first, closely followed by Potter’s unkempt nest of hair and a familiar furrowed brow. Draco had never been more ecstatic to see it. The relief nearly knocks him to his knees.
“Malfoy!”
Draco snaps into action, half running, half stumbling over to where Potter is hanging off the jagged edge of the pit. He’s only just realising that the heavy weight tugging on his wrist has been gone for a while.
“Did you make yourself weightless?” Draco pants as he helps Potter up and onto solid ground. “Without a wand?”
Potter rolls on his back, gasping and blinking up at Draco, looking exactly as though he’d fallen in a pit. Face streaked with dirt, twigs and leaves everywhere. “I - I guess? I don’t —”
“You and your wandless magic!” Draco cries. “Why the hell haven’t you used it before?”
“That’s not how it works,” Potter snaps, “I can do a few simple spells only and this one was…well, it was accidental. I was just thinking I had to get up here and then it…happened. I’m not —” Potter pauses, taking a deep breath. His eyes are flinty. “I’m not bloody Merlin, Malfoy. I’m not even at Dumbledore’s level and I’m not fucking good at everything, alright? So will you just stop — stop expecting anything from me!”
Their eyes hold for a charged second before Draco sighs. He’s clearly made Potter upset — not a difficult task, usually, but this time, it makes something uneasy simmer in his belly. “Fine. Whatever, Not Bloody Merlin. You can at least walk, right? We’ve already wasted enough time.”
Potter shifts guiltily. “About that…”
Draco follows Potter’s eyes as they drift down to his ankle, exposed by the long rip in his joggers and looking both twisted and swollen.
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve lost the rucksack,” Draco admits dully. Might as well start taking account of all their losses while they’re at it. Their things were in that rucksack — compass, first aid kit, signal flare, their scavenger hunt items, everything.
Potter’s mouth falls open. “Can’t you look for it?”
“I’m pretty sure it fell in the pit.” And a quick glance over shows that the bottom of the pit isn’t even visible.
“How could you let it f —” Draco casts him a glare and Potter stops.
“I suppose basic healing charms aren’t part of your wandless magic arsenal?” Draco asks and Potter’s sullen stare is answer enough. “Of course not. But conjuring lube is. Just brilliant, Potter.”
“I haven’t heard you complain before.”
His face heats up. “Shut up. I’m trying to think.”
A minute passes. “I’m sure they’ll come looking for us if we don’t turn up.”
“And when do you think that will be?” Draco shoots back. “Before or after the sweet acromantulas eat us?” He sighs and taps Potter’s knee. “Come on. If you’re weightless, I can carry you back.”
Draco isn’t sure if it’s simply the light of the setting sun or if Potter really has turned entirely red. “I’m not,” he coughs. “Weightless, that is. The spell’s gone.”
For several seconds, only the distant song of the birds and the swaying leaves disturb the heavy silence.
“Fuck,” Draco says, finally.
“Yeah,” Potter concurs.
—
Aside from lube, it turns out Potter is also capable of conjuring fire from the pile of dry wood Draco was able to collect from around the tree he’d dragged Potter to. Hopefully, the smoke will be a beacon to their companions and the fire, a deterrent to any wild creature interested in having them for dinner.
“How’d you learn this one?” Draco asks as he settles against the rough bark.
“Auror training.”
“Oh.” Draco slides him a glance. Potter’s face is tilted to the dimming sky, the firelight giving his skin a soft golden glow. “I forgot you did that.”
It had been all over the papers back then. The Boy Who Lived dedicating his life to protecting the masses. Predictable. Boring. When Potter had mysteriously dropped out and been announced as a rookie for the 2000-2001 season a few weeks later to much furor and confusion, Draco had actually been impressed.
Potter turns to him with a wry smile. “Well, you did it too.”
Draco bristles, his face warm. In a shortsighted attempt to ‘fix his reputation’ and ‘make amends’ after the war, Draco had, in fact, entered the force. For all of two minutes, really. He didn’t even make it out of training. He’s shocked Potter even remembers, given that they’d barely acknowledged each other back then. Potter was always swarmed by dozens of fawning trainees while Draco was swarmed with…
“Fucking Death Eater.”
Draco stares at the shiny glob of spit slowly sinking into his porridge, the third one this past week, and makes a decision. He might be a shit excuse for a person, but no one had any right to treat him like this. Especially not greasy overgrown brutes, for whom, a bar of soap is merely an abstract concept. One day, Draco is going to rise so high to the top, nobody will be able to touch him.
But he won’t be able to do it if he stays here.
There’s nothing for it.
He takes a deep breath, stands, and punches Terrence in the mouth. Thirty minutes later, he’s handing in his resignation with bruised, bloodstained hands, and writing an Owl to Blaise whose uncle owned the Arrows.
Draco startles at Potter’s sudden laugh.
“Merlin, that Terrence guy was such an arse,” he says, eyes shining with amusement. “Did you know he walked around without front teeth for days? Robards thought it would be a good punishment.”
Draco snorts. “Good. Wish I could have seen it.”
“Yeah.” His smile falls. “I went looking for you, but you were gone so fast.”
Draco frowns. “What? Why?”
“Well, I…I wanted to see if you were alright.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Draco rolls his eyes. “Didn’t you see the other bloke’s face? And to be honest with you, I’m actually thankful I met that sad sack of dicks. He helped me come to my senses.” His lips curl into a smirk. “A lot sooner than you did at least, but well done anyway, Potter. I’ll admit I didn’t expect you to be anything but the Ministry’s shiniest, most precious Auror.”
Potter flushes, eyes dropping to his lap. “Well, actually, if it weren’t for Ali, I probably would be. He scouted me, did you know? Saw me in one of the Ministry’s pick-up games.”
Draco freezes at the expectant look on Potter’s face. Who didn’t know the story of Potter’s rise to Quidditch legend? Maybe someone who lives under a rock at the bottom of the ocean.
On the moon.
But Draco chooses to make a noncommittal sound. So far, the topic of Potter’s ex has become the equivalent of throwing an angry Blast-Ended Skrewt at a powder keg and Draco worries that anything he says will tip Potter off the edge.
His choice is affirmed when Potter continues calmly, and without prompting. “He was relentless. Convinced me to just give it a try — that I would love it. Excel at it. And he was right.”
“There’s that famous humility I keep hearing about.”
“Prick.” Potter knocks him with his shoulder. “Anyway, it was refreshing. Out of everyone around me back then, he was the only one to see that I could be something different.”
“That’s not the only thing he saw, I assure you,” Draco says, unable to help himself. At Potter’s blank look, he expounds, “Your arse, Potter. Your precious coach and number one fan saw it and wanted a piece.”
Potter chokes out a laugh.
“What?” Draco flicks a few pieces of grass he’d been absently shredding at him. “You know it’s true. He’d have his paws all over it at every gala.”
“Why, Malfoy —” Potter presses a palm to his chest in mock surprise. “Didn’t know you’ve been keeping tabs on my arse all this time.”
Draco jabs him with his elbow. “Oh shut up. It was vulgar, was what it was. As a coach, he should have been more professional.”
“Right.” Potter leans close, lips twitching. “It was so tasteless that you…kept on looking at it?”
Draco shoves him. Potter shoves him back, but not without grimacing in pain.
“You stupid idiot! Have you just been suffering there the entire time?”
“Didn’t know I had another choice,” Potter mutters, “and those two words mean the same, you know.”
“Because you’re twice the idiot!” Draco nearly shoves him again, but decides to embody the spirit of selfless compassion instead, and crawls to a kneel next to Potter’s injured ankle.
“What are you doing?”
“Shut up! Can’t you see I’m concentrating?” Draco presses his palms gently on the ankle and closes his eyes.
After a few seconds, Potter speaks, “Are you…trying to heal me?”
Draco ignores him and starts murmuring the spell under his breath. Maybe that will help. He tries to reach into the deep well of magic he knows is swimming under his skin. Inside his very veins. Come on, magic. If Potter can do it, why can’t I?
“Ah!”
Draco whirls on Potter. “Did you feel something?”
“Yes.” Potter’s eyes are wide and awestruck. “Your hands, they’re…”
“Yes? What is it? They’re what?”
“They’re really sweaty.”
This time, Draco doesn’t hesitate to push him into the dirt.
“Ow, ow! That really hurts.”
“Serves you right,” Draco says, though he helps sit him up anyway. He tries dusting off some of the loose twigs and muck, but it’s a hopeless endeavour. “You’re such a dick.”
Potter leans the majority of his weight against him, his face too close and his skin too warm despite the layers of clothing between them. “I know.” Potter smiles. “But thank you for trying to heal me anyway.”
Draco quickly averts his eyes. “Well, I can’t very well have our starting Seeker getting hurt on my watch when we’re so close to winning. I mean, I suppose you’re already hurt…and on my watch. So that means Masondo will kill me and then you’ll have to start Santiago who —”
“Malfoy?” Potter’s palm falls on his thigh and…stays there.
Then it starts stroking and Draco has to work through a suddenly dry throat to ask, “What?”
“We’re going to crush them.” Potter grins. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Draco feels a corresponding surge of adrenaline at the fire in Potter’s eyes. He knows there’s more on the line for Potter — it’s not just the title, but revenge on an ex he — maybe? — still cares for. Loves? Draco swallows down the nausea at the thought.
Ali is not just a smarmy bastard, but an idiot as well. He didn’t deserve Potter and he certainly doesn’t deserve to win. Draco is going to crush him too.
Well, his team, at least.
“Good,” Draco says.
Potter’s eyes drop to his lips. “Good.”
It takes a surprising amount of effort to push Potter back gently when he leans in for a kiss. “You’re injured.”
“And?” Potter cocks his head. “So what?”
So what? As if they kissed all the time or touched each other with casual familiarity whenever and wherever they wanted. As if it’s a simple matter of wanting and then having.
“Don’t you hear that?” Draco means the sound of footsteps and distant voices coming through the trees, but it can just as easily be his pounding heart.
Potter stares at his lips for a moment longer before he sighs and sits back. “I do.”
Sure enough, their teammates, headed by Masondo, burst through the clearing a couple minutes later whereupon they’re treated to a fuming Draco.
“And what took you so long?”
Luckily for everyone within casting range, Masondo admitted that he was simply fucking with them. He ended up Flooing them from the castle to a fancy Bed & Breakfast.
“You earned it,” he’d said, surveying them with something like tearful pride which was, frankly, a terrifying look on him. “My last task is that you continue to nurture the bonds you’ve built today. Then nothing — nothing can stop us.”
Tough luck. The moment the ropes disappeared, Draco disappeared into his suite’s bathroom as well. Nurturing bonds is well and good, but Draco’s had his fill of it for the rest of the year.
He assumes the others feel the same way too (unless they’re secretly psychopaths) which is why he’s surprised to find Potter (who definitely could be a secret psychopath) on the other side of his door when he answers the knock.
“What are you doing here?”
Potter looks like he’s just stepped off the shower. His dark hair is damp, curling at the ends, skin flushed a rosy red and smelling of the sweet lemon scent of the inn’s shampoo. He’s wearing a white t-shirt, grey joggers, and an unfamiliar expression, almost sheepish.
“They fixed me up.” He lifts one foot and gives it a wiggle as if to prove the fact.
“Right. So” — Draco arches a brow — “you came here to…what? Show off your foot?”
“A little. But I also brought some food.” He holds up a plate of cheese toasties, the smell of which instantly makes Draco’s mouth water. “You didn’t come down for dinner.”
“And you took my absence as an invitation to barge into my room?”
Potter peeks over his shoulder. “Well, your room is nicer.”
“It’s exactly the same as yours!”
“My telly’s not working.”
“How is that my problem?”
“It’s actually a solution to both our problems.” Potter takes a step closer and Draco folds his arms across his chest to maintain some semblance of space.
“How do you figure?”
As if summoned, Draco’s traitorous stomach grumbles.
Potter says nothing, simply giving him a meaningful look.
“Fine!” Draco bursts out. “But you’re leaving right after I finish the toasties.”
“Wouldn’t dream of overstaying,” Potter says with a breezy smile before shouldering his way through the door.
The toasties are long gone by the time Potter leaves Draco that night. Sated, fucked-out, and already drifting off to sleep.
—
Maybe Masondo was onto something with his convoluted trust exercises. Potter remains an annoying prick, of course, but Draco finds himself minding it less and less when Potter lets himself in without warning, bringing bags of take away with him. Or when he settles on the sofa, hogging Draco’s favourite quilt, and asks if they can watch a movie first and has Draco ever heard of Star Wars?
And then there’s the talking.
Not arguing. Not griping. Not complaining.
Just the simple, mundane novelty of a conversation.
“So they’re like space wizards, aren’t they?”
“In a way, I guess.”
“Then that would make him Space Voldemort.” Draco points at the screen. “And that’s Space Potter with better hair.”
“Malfoy —”
“Salazar, that can’t be Space Dumbledore.”
“Will you stop doing that?”
Much later, Draco says, “So you kissed your sister,” and has to rely on his quick reflexes to dodge several well-aimed throw pillows chucked at his head.
Potter is the equivalent of a hurricane, barrelling into Draco’s house all noisy and obnoxious, overturning everything that isn’t bolted down in his wake. It’s the chaos, Draco thinks, that makes his absence ring even louder.
It’s a Thursday night and instead of Floo-calling Pansy or marinating in the bath with a good book, Draco is flipping through different channels on the telly, unable to settle on anything because it’s all so terribly dull. Once in a while, his eyes flick to his armchair where Potter’s denim jacket hangs comfortably from the last time he was here.
He must be insane for even considering returning it at this late an hour. Not to mention he doesn’t even know where Potter lives and likely never will. And if Potter really wanted it back, he’d had all week to tell Draco so. But, no. All their conversations had revolved around Quidditch.
It was either “You need to work on your swerves more.” or “Your shoulders seem stiff.” or “You wouldn’t be so stiff if you’ve been doing your stretches.” or “That’s it. I’m helping you stretch.”
At that last one, the entire training room had become as quiet as a tomb, looking equal parts eager and terrified at Draco’s response. Meanwhile, Draco ignored their nosy stares, accepting Potter’s unsolicited but ultimately useful offer. Honestly, it’s like they think of him and Potter as feral or something. They are perfectly capable of playing nice. There’s been precedents. Not a lot, but still.
Anyway, Potter will be back in his house tomorrow for their usual pre-match arrangement and then he can be gone with his jacket forever.
Because it’ll be their last one.
It’s a relief, really, to have it all be over soon. Draco can feel his sanity slipping by the day. Despite his best efforts, every hard boundary he’d set for himself has blurred to a point where he isn’t certain of what’s real and what’s not anymore. Thankfully, it’s highly likely that they won’t need to do this again next season. Draco’s still going to be with the Falcons, of course, but he has no idea if Potter will. He’s probably drowning in offers from other clubs. Then there’s the matter of Ali. If he has any sense, he’d be begging Potter to come back.
Draco wants to think Potter has the spine to say no, but he’s fallen for him before, hasn’t he? Still talks about him fondly. What did he call the guy? Relentless? A total twat — no, that was Draco’s opinion.
Draco shuts off the telly and heads to his quiet bedroom. All of this rumination is irrelevant anyway, because after tomorrow, Potter won’t be his problem anymore.
—
Draco has only had nerves like this during a match.
And even then, it doesn’t happen often. There was his first match as a pro player, and that time they played in Berlin against Krum, and then when they’d tied with the Harpies after a grueling five hours in the pouring rain last season. There’s also every match he’d had against Gryffindor.
Against Potter.
Excitement is pounding in his veins, but there’s fear too. Fear that a single wrong move on his part will send everything to the shitter. This is their last night, the one to propel them to the top of the League tomorrow. The least it could be is perfect. Memorable.
Perhaps that’s why Draco lets Potter lead that night. Lets himself be pushed against the doorway and to be kissed so thoroughly, he forgets how to stay upright afterwards. He lays on the bed like Potter asks him to, helping remove his clothes along the way, allowing access to every bit of his naked flesh.
Potter sucks his cock like he has all the time in the world. Slow and sweet and exquisite. Draco runs his fingers through Potter’s hair in frustration and calls his name.
Potter pulls off his dick after a slow, excruciating drag. “Close?” he asks in a hoarse voice.
Are you kidding me? Draco wants to scream, but instead lifts his arse and says, “Yes. Fuck. Please.”
Potter crawls up his body, bare skin sliding against each other, until they’re flush. Draco has a moment to catch a complicated expression on Potter’s face before they’re kissing again, so deep and overwhelming that it pushes all thoughts aside. Draco moans in Potter’s mouth and rolls his hips, grinding their cocks against each other with every motion. Tension builds again, searing in its intensity, but then Potter pulls back, eyes dark and dilated, and says, “I want you to fuck me.”
Every drop of blood left in Draco’s brain at that moment quickly rushes south in the aftermath of Potter’s words. He tries to say something — yes, yes, fucking yes — but it comes out as garbled noise, failing to relay his thoughts successfully because next thing he knows, Potter is ducking his head and saying, “It’s alright if you don’t want to. I just thought…”, sounding so disappointed and so very, very wrong.
“Yes.” Draco sits up, forcing Potter to adjust his position on his lap. “Yes,” he says again, breathless with want. “I do — I want to.”
Potter doesn’t mock him for his inability to string words together. Instead, he looks up, bright green eyes searching Draco’s face. Draco doesn’t know what he finds there, but he nods and smiles. “Okay,” Potter exhales. “Okay.”
It’s like a dream, having Potter splayed out on his bed, naked and pliant and so, so willing.
“Malfoy,” he groans. Sometimes roughly. Sometimes soft. Always with an undercurrent of desperation.
But Draco takes his time. He savours every inch of Potter with his mouth and his hands, drawing a map of all the parts of Potter that drive him insane. His full lips, his stubborn jaw, his sweet neck. The hard planes of his stomach, his giant cock and the sensitive divot beneath the tip. His balls — drawn so tightly, all it takes is a gentle lick for Potter to start cursing. Music to Draco’s ears. And then there’s his hole — tight, dusky. Perfect. Draco lavishes it with his tongue, thrusts his fingers into it until Potter is begging to be fucked by him and only him.
“Shhh.” His fingers make a wet, sloppy sound as they slip out. “I’ve got you.” He strokes Potter’s shaking thigh and uses his other hand to rub more lube onto his dick. Potter’s as open as he can be, Draco’s made sure of it, but he can’t be too careful. He doubts Potter does this often, if he’s even done it at all the entire time they’ve been…entangled. Draco shakes off the possibility that he might have, and instead focuses on the now.
Potter beneath him, offering himself like a gift.
Draco has to make this good for him. No, even good is not good enough. It has to be the best he’ll ever have. Draco would rather not think as to why, only that it has to be.
“Spread your legs.” When Potter rushes to obey, arms hooked under his thighs to spread himself wide, he has to squeeze his cock and close his eyes for a few moments. Draco is not a spiritual person by any definition of the word, nor is he a particularly grateful person either, but in this instance — Dear Merlin, thank you so fucking much.
“How much longer,” Potter pants, glaring at him. “are you going to fuck around?”
Draco would have laughed if he was capable. “Not much longer,” he vows softly. He settles between Potter’s legs, eyes on every minute reaction of his face as he pushes his cock inside of him. He watches with rapt attention as Potter goes tight from the intrusion then, slowly, loose and flushed with pleasure. His eyes flutter close and his lips part on a broken moan when Draco’s groin finally meets his arse.
Draco leans down, one palm braced next to Potter’s side. “You okay?”
Potter opens his eyes, so misty from desire that Draco can’t help himself from kissing him. It’s surreal — to take Potter’s mouth while his luscious heat surrounds his cock, arse clenching around him as their kiss grows deeper, wetter. More hungry.
Potter starts to cant his hips. His words are filthy and incoherent. “Fuck. Malfoy, Draco. Please. Need you. Please.”
Draco releases him with a lingering bite and leans back a little. He rolls his hips, dragging his dick nearly to the rim before sliding back home. This wins a harsh groan from Potter, and then another, and another, until it becomes impossible to keep count or do anything beyond fucking Potter so deep and hard, he’ll still feel traces of Draco long after it’s all over.
Eventually, Potter loses his hold on his thighs and Draco takes the opportunity to grip them so he can bend Potter in half. The change in angle allows him to go deeper and to press against Potter’s prostate with every thrust. It doesn’t take long until he has Potter grasping at his shoulders, moaning wildly, nails digging into his skin.
“That’s right.” Draco barely feels the sting, delirious as he is with pleasure. “Hold onto me.”
Potter’s face is luminous, impossible to look away from even if he tried. “Shit. Malfoy, I’m — ah, ah.”
Draco bears down, increasing the rhythm of his thrusts, while Potter takes his dick in his hand and pumps. He’s close, Draco knows, and so he licks at the salt of Potter’s neck, sucks at his earlobe, and whispers into his ear: “You feel so good, Potter. I could fuck you forever.”
He feels Potter’s breath hitch, hears him cry, and then he’s coming all around Draco like a storm. He comes with hot spurts that paint their skin and fierce spasms that overtake his entire body. Draco takes Potter in as he rides the high of his orgasm, and only when he’s loose-limbed and fucked-out, does Draco permit himself to lose control. There’s a fire spreading in his veins, simmering in his belly, and he doesn’t stop pounding into Potter until it catches and consumes them both.
A million stars explode, die, and re-form while Draco drowns in the waves of his earth-shattering climax. Everything ceases to exist, but for one. Potter, who holds him through it, who takes his broken thrusts and murmurs words he can barely understand.
“...Malfoy, I —”
“Hold that thought.” Draco groans and heaves himself onto his back next to Potter. His limp cock slaps his belly, leaving it wet with come. “Gods, I think you’ve killed me.”
Potter laughs and it’s hard to fight the urge to keep him like this. Carefree, well-fucked, and glowing. “Killed you? What about me? I don’t think I can sit a broom for a week.”
“That’s what pain potions are for, genius.” Draco sits up with much effort. His hips scream at him the entire time. “Now that you mention it, let me go get one now.”
He feels a hand on his wrist when he turns. “It’s alright. I, um, have some at home.”
Draco stiffens. “Oh…well,” he clears his throat. “Actually, it might be better if you stayed here. You need to rest” — He glances at the clock — “an hour ago.”
Potter’s lips twitch. “All thanks to someone who kept dicking around.”
“Should have fucked you dry then?”
Potter turns red from the top of his head down to his toes. “Piss off.” He looks away. “Anyway, what about your precious rules?”
Draco snorts. “Bit late for you to start upholding the sanctity of rules, Potter. Anyway, there’s not much use for them after this, is there?”
Draco doesn’t know what he was expecting from Potter — probably exactly what he got, which was a tight nod and a flippant, “Yeah, I guess it doesn’t matter if I sleep here.” He shoves the pang of disappointment to the dark recesses of his heart where it belongs.
As they both settle in bed, neither of them mention the presence of a perfectly usable guest bedroom down the hall.
—
Draco doesn’t get much of a chance to speak with Potter the next day. Like a thief, he’s already gone when Draco wakes up, leaving the shortest, blandest note in the history of notes on the pillow next to him.
Went home to get stuff. Thanks for See you later.
And while Draco does see him later as he so eloquently put, the whirlwind of pre-match preparations doesn’t really offer much of an opportunity for a private conversation. Altogether, there was too much to do and disproportionately panic over. It doesn’t help that Potter, as the Seeker, is a more solitary player while Draco spends most of his time talking with the other Chasers and going over strategies.
And once the match starts, well, nothing else matters but winning.
The team operates like a well-oiled machine, zipping in and out of positions and adopting plays with practised ease. More than once, he’d heard the opposing team accuse them of Legilimency, but if they didn’t have wool for brains, they’d realise there are wards in place for magical interference. No, this is all them, teamwork forged through Masondo’s special brand of shared suffering and misery.
They take the lead in the first half and keep it for most of the match. When the entire stadium gets to their feet to a loud chorus of gasps, Draco already knows what will happen next. Sure enough, a moment later, the crowd erupts in deafening cheers and their team colours flood the sky.
At the centre of it all, high in the air and backlit against the sun, is Potter, the winning Snitch held above his head.
“You’re coming to the party, right?”
Draco shuts his locker and rolls his eyes at Quentin. “I told you I would, didn’t I?”
“We could go together. Maybe if I —”
“No.” Draco turns around and gives his chest a gentle push. “Santiago’s looking for you.”
“What? Where?”
With Quentin occupied, Draco takes the opportunity to dash outside. Finally, some peace and quiet. As amazing as it was to win, all the fanfare had depleted his energy. There were far too many people wanting a piece of them. Staff, reporters, fans, even his bloody teammates. Potter had borne the brunt of it. He’d been whisked away to suffer multiple interviews the instant he stepped off the pitch. No chance of Draco ever seeing him again, unless he shows up at the party.
Draco halts as he’s about to turn a corner, the sound of a familiar voice stopping him in his tracks.
“...were far better, as much as it pains me to say it.”
“Ah, well, it was down to the wire,” Potter says. “Williams is a decent Seeker.”
“Nothing like you, though.”
Silence follows the proclamation, which Draco doesn’t dare break by breathing.
“Come on. You don’t have to act like a stranger.”
“Ali…”
“Please, Harry. You just won. Can’t I congratulate you properly?”
“I…fine. Alright.”
Potter’s words are followed by the sound of shifting fabric, some footsteps, and then ominous silence. Draco risks a peek and quickly retreats, wishing deeply that he hadn’t. At least then he wouldn’t have the sight of Potter in Ali’s embrace seared into his brain.
“I missed you,” he hears Ali sigh and Draco leaves before he can hear Potter’s response, knowing with heart-shattering certainty that he won’t like whatever it turns out to be.
—
Draco manages to avoid Potter during the party, an easy enough task with Quentin on his heels the entire night, asking for attention, bringing him drinks, and begging him to dance.
For once, Draco indulges him.
He isn’t drunk enough to enjoy the meat grinder that is the club dance floor, but he’s adept enough to perform the motions. Sway his arse like so. Touch his partner every so often. Close his eyes and pretend he’s somewhere else. Before he knows it, they’ve burned through several songs together, enough that Quentin starts getting ideas.
His lips are sticky where they’re pressed against Draco’s jaw and his breath is hot when he asks Draco to take him home.
On any other day, Draco may have pushed him away, promptly and decisively, but this time he hesitates. He looks up, already knowing who he’ll find. His forehead had been prickling for half an hour so it could only be Potter, surveying them from the VIP section like some benevolent god.
Draco has half a mind to throw him the finger. Where’s your boyfriend, you spineless, gormless snake?
“Draco?”
He takes a deep breath. Potter doesn’t owe you anything, he reminds himself for the hundredth time, he can be as stupid as he wants. “Alright, fine. Let’s go.” He jabs a finger at Quentin’s chest. “But if you vomit on my shoes, I’ll kill you.”
Quentin’s ensuing smile is blinding, gathering wattage the closer they get to the exit, only to be abruptly shut off the moment Draco shoves him inside the Knight Bus.
Draco takes a step back on the pavement. “Don’t worry. They’ll take you home.”
“Sure will.” Artie slings an arm around Quentin’s shoulder to keep him from jumping out. “Will you be needing a bucket?”
“Yes. A large one,” Draco confirms, then waves at Quentin’s stunned face as the door closes and the bus disappears in a blur.
Well, that’s his good deed done for the day. Draco dusts off his hands and turns on his feet. He takes a few steps back to the club before stopping. What’s the point? He wasn’t enjoying it earlier and he certainly won’t be enjoying it now. Images he’d been trying to push back return with a vengeance.
Potter taking him so sweetly the night before.
Potter catching the winning Snitch, his triumphant face all over the holographic screens.
Potter in Ali’s arms.
Potter looking down on him, far beyond his reach.
Draco swallows down the bile and the nausea. It must be the damned drinks Quentin had given him. Nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix. All he needs to do is go home and then he’ll be fine. Yes. Home.
A place where he’ll be blessedly alone.
A place where his thoughts can finally quiet.
—
If it was the wards pulsing that woke Draco up, then it was the sound of furniture crashing mingled with loud cursing that sent him running with only a haphazardly thrown dressing gown around his shoulders.
“God, shit, this fucking table, fucking hell to fucking fu —”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Draco spells the lamps on and the ensuing brightness casts Potter and the small disaster he’s made of Draco’s living room in sharp relief. Potter freezes like the guilty, trespassing bastard he is, caught between an upturned armchair and a fallen vase. Fucking Merlin’s slightly larger left testicle, he should have removed Potter from his Floo earlier.
But then again, what sane person would expect Potter to barge in here at three in the fucking morning?
“Are you pissed out of your mind?”
“What? No!” Potter bites his lip, a blush forming on his cheeks. “Maybe a little.”
His thin thread of patience finally snaps and Draco surges forward. “Alright. Back to the Floo with you!” He sweeps his hands in the universal gesture of ‘Go on. Get!’ but Potter — insufferable tosser extraordinaire — keeps dodging him until they’re going around the table in circles.
“Wait, no! Malfoy, I just — I saw you leave with Quentin.”
“So I did. What’s it to you?”
Potter’s jaw tightens and his eyes drift to the stairs. “Is he up there?”
“What the — Are you mad? He’s in his house, wherever that is. Coincidentally, the same place where you should be.”
Draco speeds up and Potter ducks behind the sofa. “Why would I go to his house?”
“Not his house, you idiot! Your house!”
“I don’t want to go there either.”
Draco leaps over the sofa and catches him by the scruff of his shirt. “Why the fuck not?” he demands, twisting Potter around until they’re finally facing each other.
“Because you’re not there.”
Draco’s heart stutters. “What…” he trails off, works his throat, “...the fuck are you on about?”
Potter makes a frustrated noise. “Look, I’m not good at this, alright?”
“Breaking and entering? I’d say you’re quite adept.”
“No.” Potter sighs. “Telling someone I like them. It’s just…well, they usually tell me first.”
Draco picks up his jaw from where it had fallen. “Humble as always,” he mutters. Surely he’d heard wrong. Potter couldn’t have said he —
“Can you not be a prat for two minutes? Please? I’m trying to tell you something important.”
“Wow.” Draco’s eyes widen. “You were right. You’re really bad at this.”
Potter sags on the back of the sofa and groans. “God, I know.” He casts a pitiful look at Draco. “You’re not with Quentin, are you?”
“No, but you are with Ali and drunk on top of it, so I think you should leave now.” Draco folds his arms across his chest. “Maybe you meant to Floo his house.”
Potter stands abruptly. “I’m not with Ali! Why would you say that?”
“Why would I say —” Draco scoffs. “Really? Who was hugging and kissing the twat after the game, huh?”
“Hugging, yes. But we never kissed, Malfoy! He just congratulated me. That’s all. There’s nothing between us. I told you I was over him.”
Draco stares at Potter’s earnest face, all twisted up in frustration. It’s immediately obvious that he’s telling the truth. “Oh. Well,” Draco coughs, suddenly wishing the floor turns into a sinkhole so he can die and not be here at this very moment.
“Were you mad because of that?” Potter asks, eyes sharp and piercing.
Draco feels a bead of sweat drip down his spine. “No.”
“Jealous?”
“No!”
Potter's lips twitch. “Because you like me too?”
“Fuck n —”
Potter swallows the lies on his tongue with a kiss that leaves Draco breathless.
“...no.”
Potter had placed his arms around Draco’s waist during the kiss and he uses it to pull him closer now. “Liar,” he taunts.
“Drunk.”
“I would have told you earlier when I was sober as a monk,” Potter says, “Was planning on it if you hadn’t disappeared with Quentin.”
Draco throws a look at the carnage of his living room. “And you thought this was a better idea?”
“It’s working, isn’t it?” Potter says, fully smiling now.
Their eyes lock for a moment before Draco breaks it, a short, hysterical laugh bursting from his lips. “Fuck,” he curses, because Potter is right. It is working. Somehow, he’s starting to believe it — that Potter well and truly likes him. And by god, if that impossible thing is somehow true, how can Draco still fight the truth of his own feelings?
“Did you know it was harder to leave you this morning than it was to catch the Snitch?” Potter tucks a lock of hair behind Draco's ear and the simple brush of skin makes him shiver. “I kept thinking what a shame it was to end things just like that. We’ve never even had breakfast together or gone on a proper date. And you’ve never been to my house t—”
“Wait a second,” Draco cuts in. “Your house? That’s on the table?”
“If we’re dating, then…yes. Of course.” Potter tilts his head. “Do you want to go there now?”
Draco stares at him for a long moment, echoes of Potter’s former staunch declarations (I don’t bring anyone home) ringing in his ears, before he’s laughing again. This time, there’s no hysteria. Just simple delight at the honest to god truth.
He likes Potter and for whatever insane reason, Potter likes him too. Sure, it’s highly likely this will all blow up in their faces in the end, but there’s also a small possibility that it might not.
And wouldn’t that be something?
Mind made up, Draco fists Potter’s shirt and kisses the confusion off his lips. Replaces it with laughter, with desire, with every feeling that’s been bottled up inside of him for the past year. And when he’s done, he pulls back, grinning, he’s sure, like a complete and total loon.
The very same image he sees reflected in Potter’s face.
“Maybe later,” he tells Potter, already pulling him towards the stairs. “For now, I want you in my bed.”
The next few days are spent on lavish breakfasts, dates by the river, house tours, and cursing Potter out for his incredible view. A penthouse. He’d been hiding a bloody state-of-the-art penthouse with an indoor pool, the sick bastard.
There’s also quite a lot of fucking.
But it’s probably best to leave that out of the memoir.
—