Lemon Tarts

by secretsalex

Summary:

Harry's jeans are getting tight. Draco loves it.

Notes:

This is a slight re-working of an old fic of mine. No plot here to speak of - just Harry being chubby and Draco being shamelessly into it.

Chapter 1

It had started the day Draco saw Harry without his Auror robes.

It was a Saturday, so technically neither wizard needed to be at the office. But, of course, working as an Auror was not really a 9-5, Monday through Friday kind of job. Few weeks passed when Draco didn’t find himself in the office after hours completing something that hadn’t been done during the work week. So it hadn’t been much of a surprise to see Harry getting a cup of tea in the office kitchen that Saturday morning.

The surprise had been seeing Harry dressed in Muggle clothes, a pair of jeans and an old Chudley Canons t-shirt. At twenty-one, Harry was no longer the skinny boy Draco remembered from their years together at Hogwarts. This Harry was broad shouldered, solid, not exactly tall, but certainly not a small man. And the old Canons tee looked a bit too small, stretched over the broad shoulders. Even more interesting, though, was the way it clung just slightly to Potter’s middle, the soft cotton fabric outlining the beginnings of a little potbelly hanging over Potter’s worn denims.

Draco could barely drag his eyes away from the soft little bulge. It wasn’t much, just a little handful of pudge curving over Potter’s waistband. His jeans were too tight, is what it was. Merlin, could the man never find clothes that fit? At Hogwarts, he’d always been swimming in robes that were too large for him. Now—now he was crammed into Muggle trousers that clearly didn’t fit. It was obscene.

“Morning, Potter,” Draco had finally made himself mutter.

Potter had looked up from his tea cup, which he had been intently dousing with sugar cubes. “Malfoy.” They had worked together as Aurors for two years now, and while they were able to co-exist, they weren’t exactly friendly with one another, and his tone was stiff. “Tea’s fresh,” he added, jerking his head towards the pot behind him.

Draco had nodded and moved past Potter to get a cup of his own. “Thanks.” That had been the extent of the conversation, but since then, Draco couldn’t get it out of his head. Potter. Potter and his little gut, looking for all the world like an athlete just starting to go to seed, stirring a disgusting amount of sugar into his tea.

Merlin only knew why, but Draco had been wanking over the little encounter for the last two weeks.

Draco couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t known he was gay. He’d always fancied blokes, always known he did. That was no surprise. But Harry Potter? And if it wasn’t troubling enough to be wanking over The Boy Who Lived, the situation became even more troubling when Draco thought about what, exactly, was so suddenly attractive about Potter. It wasn’t the unruly black hair, or the deep, intelligent green eyes, or the broad shoulders, or any of that. Draco could ignore those things, attractive though they might be. He’d been ignoring Potter’s aesthetic qualities, such as they were, for a decade. He was an expert at it. But this wasn’t about that.

It was about the little roll of fat sprouting at Potter’s waistline.

So now, after two weeks of furious, furtive wanking, Draco had decided to take action. He was a Malfoy. Malfoys took what they wanted. And what he wanted, apparently, was Harry Potter.

Which was why tonight, on a Friday evening nearing 5:00, when the Auror offices were rapidly emptying, Draco found himself standing in the open doorway of Potter’s office, looking into the eyes of a surprised-looking Harry, who was sitting behind his desk and shuffling through paperwork.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy. Can I help you?”

“Thought you might come round for a drink at the The Leaky,” Draco said, forcing himself to sound as if he asked Potter out for beers every weekend.

Unsubtle at the best of times, Harry’s jaw dropped visibly. “What are you on about?”

Draco shrugged. “Wanted to talk to you about the new recruits,” he lied.

Harry squirmed behind his desk. “Uh—really? I mean—“ Harry paused. “I’m not much on The Leaky, actually.”

Draco’s expression didn’t change. I know you aren’t, Potter. You hate to be recognized anywhere. “No? Well, you can always swing past my place if you’d rather not deal with your adoring public.”

If Harry had looked surprised when Draco asked him out for a beer, it was nothing compared to the look of near horror that crossed his face at the idea of “swinging past” Malfoy Manor. “Umm—what? You want me to come round for beers on a Friday evening, Malfoy?”

“If you’ve no other plans, yes.” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Think you can make it through an evening without hexing me?”

Seemingly against his better judgment, Potter smiled briefly. “No promises. This is bloody weird, Malfoy.”

“It’s a beer. We’ve worked together two years. Is it that weird?” It was. It was that weird. But Draco wasn’t going to admit it.

“Given that it’s you, yes. But I guess I’ll come round. For a beer.”

Draco smiled. “Brilliant. I’ll change the wards so you can Floo in. Say sevenish? Great.” With that, he sauntered out of Harry’s office.

~*~

Harry almost changed his mind three times as he was getting ready to leave. What the hell was he doing, going to Malfoy Manor? It was crazy. He hated—well, he didn’t hate Malfoy anymore, precisely, but he certainly didn’t like him. Malfoy wasn’t the twat he’d been when they were at Hogwarts, but he was still Draco bloody Malfoy, utterly convinced of his own self-worth, the former Death Eater made good.

He was a good Auror, Harry would give him that. But still.

In the end, it was probably nothing but stupid Gryffindor courage that forced Harry to Floo into Malfoy Manor. He couldn’t bear the idea that, if he didn’t show up, Malfoy would think it was because he didn’t have the nerve to do it. So through the fire he went, stepping out into the opulent front parlor of Malfoy Manor.

Stepping out onto the obviously expensive Persian rug in front of the hearth and brushing a few stray bits of soot from his robe, the first thing he saw was Draco himself, sprawled elegantly on a sofa drinking what appeared to be brandy.

“Potter. Glad you could make it.” Draco saluted him with his glass.

“Malfoy,” Harry replied, not quite sure what to do with himself.

Draco pulled himself gracefully to his feet and walked to an elegant oak sideboard. “Brandy?”

“Umm, sure,” Harry replied, watching surreally as Draco Malfoy made him a drink and handed it to him.

“So, are you hungry?” Malfoy asked casually, rolling his own glass between his long fingers.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Beers turned into brandy and dinner?”

“It’s 7:00, Potter. People do typically eat dinner, yes? And since you refused to go to the bar, I’m forced to provide it.”

Harry could feel his cheeks heat. “I just—I hate having to deal with crowds. You didn’t have to do anything—“

Draco waved a dismissive hand. “Good lord, Potter, I didn’t do anything. The house elves put something together. You know Malfoys pride themselves on their inability to so much as boil water.”

Harry sniggered momentarily. Was Draco actually making fun of himself? Surely not. “Uh, okay then.”

“Good. This way, then.” Draco strode out of the room and Harry trailed along behind him, still feeling a bit as if Draco were going to turn around at any moment and announce that it was all a joke and he couldn’t believe Harry had thought he might actually want to have dinner with him.

“I didn’t put us in the dining room—it’s bloody huge and I couldn’t imagine you’d like it,” Draco said, guiding his guest into a smaller room with windows opening onto the pristine Malfoy gardens, which even Harry had to admit looked lovely in the autumn sunset. Harry wondered if that was a dig at Harry’s classlessness, his inability to appreciate the enormous formal Malfoy dining room. Draco didn’t appear to be goading him, however, as he just led Harry to a small oak table positioned in front of the windows and laden with dish after dish of food.

“Sit, please,” Draco continued, and Harry nearly choked on his brandy at the word “please” from Malfoy’s lips.

He sat.

The house elves had outdone themselves, it seemed. The table was laden with platters of sandwiches, fresh fruit, spinach puffs, cheese puffs, various other pastries that Harry couldn’t identify, and a variety of other perfectly made, perfectly arranged delicacies. Before Harry could comment, a house elf appeared in the room with a crack and bowed at Draco’s feet. “Is there anything Knacky can be getting Master Draco?” the elf asked.

“No, thank you, Knacky,” Draco said smoothly, taking a seat across from Harry. “We won’t require anything until dessert.”

“Yes, Master.” Knacky scurried out of sight.

And so Harry found himself seated across from Draco and completely unsure of what to say—or what Draco even expected him to say. “Help yourself,” Draco said, gesturing to the platters in front of them. “And relax, Potter. You look like you’ve got a wand up your arse.”

Harry twitched, then choked back a laugh. “What do you expect, Malfoy? We’re not friends. I have no idea why you brought me here.”

Draco’s upper lip curved slightly. It wasn’t enough to be called a smile. “To chat about the new recruits, Potter. What else?”

Harry helped himself to several sandwiches. Roast beef, they appeared to be. “Bollocks you did. I don’t know what your real motive is, but that’s doubtful.”

“Maybe I couldn’t resist your charms, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Resorted to trolling for sex at work, then?”

“You’re the only other queer Auror in the Ministry. Maybe I’m just getting lazy in my old age,” Malfoy drawled, watching over his glass as Potter rolled his eyes and swallowed a rather large bite of spinach puff.

“Yes, twenty-one is dreadfully old. Bones getting creaky, I imagine.” Harry took a bite of a pastry, pleasantly surprised at the buttered crab meat hidden inside. “Is there something you want, Mafoy? I’ve no interest in some Slytherin roundabout, if you have some ulterior motive. I can’t imagine you really give a shite about the new recruits. Or that you’re looking for a shag with someone you barely speak to. I’m just here out of curiosity, so get to it.”

“Ah, I’ve had lots of shags with wizards I barely speak to, Potter,” Draco replied smoothly, ignoring the bit about Slytherin roundabouts. “You, on the other hand, only hop into bed with your best mates?”

“Yes, well—I suppose not.” Disconcerted, Harry picked up yet another sandwich, mostly just to have something to do with his hands.

Draco waited until Harry’s mouth was full. “What if all I want is to watch you eat dinner?”

“Shmmf.” Harry swallowed, tried again. “Seems unlikely—and a bit weird.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You mean you’re not usually in high demand at dinner parties? You’re such a stunning conversationalist.”

“I’m not usually forced to make polite conversation with Malfoys,” Harry shot back.

“Try,” Draco said flatly, taking a long swallow of brandy. “It won’t kill you.” He smirked, then smoothly changed the subject to the recruits—the very ones Potter had just accused him of “not really giving a shite” about.

Flummoxed, Harry played along, still unsure of what Malfoy was up to but accepting that it seemed, at the least, not openly malicious. Like a proper aristocrat, Malfoy was indeed skilled at the conversational arts, managing to guide Harry through harmless work-related chatter with minimum discomfort, whatever his motive. And the food was good, anyway. He noticed as the evening wore on that the brandy glasses seemed charmed to refill themselves automatically, and by the time Knacky had returned with dessert, he was pleasantly, disconcertingly flushed.

“Try the lemon tarts, they’re excellent,” Malfoy suggested when Knacky disappeared, leaving a platter of tarts and biscuits and a bowl of some rich-looking custard on the table.

Harry complied, picking one up. Despite his own advice, Malfoy didn’t reach for the desserts himself, just watched Potter over the rim of his brandy glass. Harry took an experimental bite, then a larger one. Draco’s gaze didn’t falter, and Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly. “I’m starting to think you really did invite me over to watch me eat dinner, Malfoy. Jesus.”

“Perhaps I’m embarking on a new era of friendship, Potter.”

Harry snorted again, polishing off the tart. He looked at Malfoy a moment too long, then hurriedly took another drink. “These glasses never get empty,” he blurted.

“Useful charm, isn’t it?” Malfoy agreed, taking a drink of his own. “I’ve invited you over with the intent to get you drunk and seduce you—isn’t it clear, Potter?”

Harry blushed again. The problem with Malfoy was that he could never tell when he was taking the piss and when he was being serious. In all honesty, the fact that he was telling the truth seemed about half-reasonable, at this point—what other motive could Draco have for sitting through a lengthy, rather boozy meal with him on a Friday night, doing nothing more than making rather banal, if not unpleasant, conversation?

And he was bloody handsome.

Goddammit. Where the hell had that come from? Flustered, Harry grabbed another biscuit from the platter.

~*~

Draco shifted slightly in his chair, rather enjoying the feeling of his erection pressed against his fly, and rather more enjoying the sight of Harry Potter nervously eating biscuits like it was his job. Or like it was something he did mindlessly. Gets you hard to watch him eat, doesn’t it? A rather snarky voice spoke up internally. Plenty of fresh wanking material after tonight, eh? Draco banished the voice, truthful as it was, and stood up. Might as well charge head first into the breach, he figured. He’d gone this far, and Potter appeared nervous but not wholly miserable with the evening’s proceedings.

“Look, Potter—what if I told you I really did bring you here because I wanted a shag? Would it be so terrible?”

Potter choked. He actually bloody choked, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to have to jump up and whack him on the back before Harry managed to get it set to rights himself. His cheeks, already pink, burned red, and he took several dangerously deep swallows of brandy before looking up at Draco. “Are you serious?”

Draco shrugged. “Maybe.” He moved then, striding around the table and pulling Harry to his feet. “Come on.” He grabbed Potter’s hand before he could react, then reached back for the platter of desserts with the other. Before Harry could protest, Draco pulled him out of the room without another word, leading them through the Manor’s enormous front hall and up an imposing flight of stairs.

He was a bit surprised at how willing Harry seemed to be, allowing himself to be led to Draco’s suite of rooms without a word of protest. Frankly, Draco had expected outright refusal by this point—a tactic he had planned to meet with a well-timed dig at Gryffindor bravery, as if Harry’s reticence to be dragged into the bedroom of his former nemesis had something to do with fear rather than simple distaste. It was, however, unnecessary, as Harry was traipsing along behind him with a bemused expression on his face.

In fact, Harry didn’t speak a word until they’d gone through Malfoy’s private sitting room and into his bedroom. “Your bedroom comes with its own living room?” Harry asked, chuckling.

Draco bristled. “It’s a suite of rooms, Potter. What did you expect?”

“Raised in a cupboard, remember,” Harry shot back, the venom in his tone strangely at odds with the fact that his hand was still in Draco’s.

“And yet you champion Muggles,” Draco muttered, walking Harry directly to the bed and pushing him down to sit on it.

“They’re hardly all alike—“ Harry began immediately, and Draco promptly interrupted.

“Yes, yes, of course, Potter. I didn’t bring you up here to talk politics.”

Harry looked up at him, eyes wide and ridiculously green. He bit his lip, then finally spoke. “Okay . . .”

Draco smirked, then shucked his robe in one efficient motion, tossing it aside. Underneath were a pair of form-fitting black trousers and a silver cashmere sweater, one that he knew clung to his hard, narrow angles. Potter simply stared, and Draco toed out of his loafers and socks, never looking away. “Believe me yet that I brought you over to seduce you?”

Harry choked out a bit of laughter, deeper than any Draco had heard from his before. “I’m starting to.”

“Good.” Draco smiled slightly, taking a step towards Harry, then another, until he was standing in front of him. Thank Merlin for brandy. He didn’t think he’d have had the courage for this without it. He reached out for the clasp at the top of Harry’s robes and tugged slightly. “Take this off?”

Harry stood up suddenly, bumping gracelessly against Draco as he did so. Draco didn’t move back, just let Potter flounder against him, struggling out of his robes to reveal what Draco had come to identify as a Weasley sweater, this one a handsome blue with a cheerful yellow H emblazoned on the chest, and a pair of rather shabby Muggle jeans. God, Potter couldn’t be more different than Draco if he tried. Maybe that was part of the fucking attraction—hell if Malfoy knew what else it could be.

“Cute sweater,” Malfoy said.

“How much did you pay for that thing?” Harry shot back, gesturing to Malfoy’s own jumper. “See it on the cover of Gay Wizard Weekly?”

Despite himself, Draco grinned at the insult. “Of course not—ordered it from Milan. We don’t all have Weasley’s mum to knit our clothes.”

Harry grinned back. “Molly is handy with a knitting needle.” He paused, then reached out and ran a hand across Malfoy’s chest. “Although yours is rather softer.”

“Indeed.” Draco stood still, let Potter’s hand rest against his chest until it fell to Harry’s side, then pulled the sweater over his head and dropped it to the floor. He wasn’t wearing anything under it. Harry didn’t move, and Draco reached out, tugged Harry’s own jumper up until Harry finally moved and shed it himself, revealing a plain white t-shirt underneath. “That, too,” Draco muttered, and Harry complied, pulling it over his head. Draco dropped his eyes down, wanting to see Harry’s stomach, wanting to see that part of his body that had led Draco to invite him over in the first place. In this, as in everything else, Harry was Draco’s opposite—his skin was golden, as opposed to Draco’s porcelain, his chest broad and sturdy instead of narrow and taut, his belly soft and just slightly rounded, a secret little beer gut pooching over denim. Nothing like the flat muscled planes of Draco’s own abdomen.

Harry was still again, and Draco took charge, as Harry apparently seemed too stunned by the very act of getting naked with a Malfoy to know what to do with himself. Draco stepped forward until their bodies touched, achingly aware of Harry’s soft belly against him. The kiss he delivered to Harry’s slightly parted lips was gentle, even tentative, nothing like Draco was used to giving, and even when Harry responded and it deepened between them it felt almost shy. When Harry bit down just slightly on his bottom lip, Draco gasped.

They fell back on the bed in a tangle of limbs, and Draco felt like they’d gone back through time, suddenly all adolescent fumbling and desperate kissing—although he couldn’t imagine having wanted to so much as touch Potter when they were teenagers. But now, now he was sprawled atop Harry and his cock was pushing against Potter’s belly and Potter’s cock was pushing against his hip and it was marvelous, brilliant, ridiculous.

“Lie back.” Draco pushed Harry gracelessly down into the pillows and propped himself above him. “Undo those damn jeans. I don’t know how the fly works.”

Potter laughed breathlessly. “Muggle clothes too much for you?”

“Undo them,” Draco growled back. Harry complied, and Draco tugged them down Harry’s body along with his boxers. Harry wriggled compliantly, kicking them over his heels.

Draco sat back, looking Harry over from head to toe, the way his erection curved up to lay against his belly. “Merlin, Potter.” He reached out, skimmed over Harry’s prick and let his fingers trace lightly across Potter’s stomach.

Potter blushed, sucking in his belly suddenly. “Not quite in Quidditch shape anymore,” he mumbled, hands coming up to push Draco’s away. “You apparently live in a gym, though,” he added, looking at Draco’s abs with a mixture of envy and lust.

“Don’t.” Draco ignored Harry’s protesting hands, brushing them away. “You look—you look good.” It felt like a confession, uncomfortably intimate, and Draco ducked his head, hiding behind the fall of his hair.

Harry snorted, but he let his hands drop away so that Draco could continue tracing circles across his belly.

Draco leaned down, licking a slow path across Harry’s stomach, around his navel, flicking his tongue out once or twice to catch Harry’s erection. “Christ, Potter.”

Harry exhaled shakily, and Draco watched in fascination as his tummy gently expanded before nipping him twice, sharply, just below the belly button.

“Fucking weird, Malfoy,” Harry whispered, frozen but not protesting.

Merlin, if you only knew, Potter. Draco pushed his hand into Harry’s little gut, liking the way the flesh was both wobbly and firm, soft but a little tight, as if maybe Potter had eaten too much at dinner—which was probably the case, as Draco had been all too aware of how much of the spread Potter had indulged himself in that evening. He’d lost count of the number of pasties that had disappeared down Potter’s pretty throat.

Harry moaned when Draco pushed on his belly, and his cock gave a little jerk. Malfoy smiled, although his face was hidden against Harry’s stomach. “You don’t seem to mind a little weirdness, Potter.”

Harry sat halfway up, propping himself up on his elbows. The angle made his tummy stick up just a little more prominently, made a little roll appear at the top. Before Potter could say anything, Draco bit it. Hard. Harry’s prick jumped again, a drop of precome leaked onto him.

“Christ, I just—“ Draco climbed onto Harry, kissing him senseless and thrusting his aching prick against Potter’s belly. “I like it. Fuck.”

Harry groaned into Draco’s mouth. “Good.”

Like a teenager, Malfoy rutted against Harry, sucked at his neck and kissed him and bit at his lips and shoved his prick against the soft flesh of his middle. He knew he should pull himself together, quit drunkenly grinding on Potter’s gut, but gods, he didn’t want to stop, and Harry, bless him, was clinging to Draco’s shoulders, like he didn’t mind at all.

Without warning, Draco’s orgasm shuddered up his spine, leaving him groaning helplessly as he came in his finely cut black trousers.

“Oh, Christ, Potter, fuck, fuck,” he babbled as the orgasm slowly faded. “Christ, sorry, I don’t think that’s happened since I was at Hogwarts.”

Harry laughed, and Draco was surprised at how much he liked the sound against his ear. “I’m flattered, Malfoy.”

~*~

Harry shifted underneath Malfoy, listening to the other man’s labored breathing as Malfoy recovered from his orgasm. His totally unexpected and premature orgasm, Harry tacked on mentally, stifling a giggle. If someone had told him when he woke up this morning that he’d end up drunk and in bed with a prematurely ejaculating Draco Malfoy, he would have figured they were a candidate for the Janus Thickey Ward.

And yet here he was.

Malfoy picked his head up, let a gentle kiss land on the edge of Harry’s mouth. Draco’s eyes were silver slits, the lashes low and heavy. He was fucking beautiful, really. Harry couldn’t believe he’d never realized it before.

Draco pushed himself up, ruefully stripping off the now-besmirched black trousers and the boxers beneath them, finally as naked as Harry himself. Harry admired the lines of his body as Draco moved, the narrow hips, the slim and tautly defined musculature of his torso, the narrow but firmly set shoulders. Seeing Draco like that made Harry all the more aware of his own body, as well—the body of a former athlete who still ate like an avid Quidditch player but rarely got on a broom. A body that, inexplicably, Draco seemed to fancy.

Draco reached across Harry to the table beside the bed where he’d abandoned the platter of desserts when they’d first entered the room. He retrieved a lemon tart from it now, and Harry watched, frozen, as Draco guided it surely to Harry’s mouth. “Your turn,” Draco said softly, gently pushing the tart between Harry’s slightly parted lips.

Harry took a bite, then raised an eyebrow at his unlikely, very surprising partner. “You dry hump me until you come, and you think giving me a pastry is proper turnabout?”

“Do you like it?” Draco asked smoothly, his eyes flickering across Harry’s.

Harry blushed. Draco wordlessly fed him another bite, and another, until the last of the dessert disappeared. Draco stared down at him, eyes smoldering, the silence between them crystalline and heavy, still unbroken as Draco nimbly straddled him and took another tart from the tray. His cock, so recently spent, was already half hard when he brought the second tart to Harry’s lips.

Harry shifted, his belly feeling heavy and full and very . . . present between them as Draco fed him. This is the weirdest thing I’ve ever done, Harry thought silently, nevertheless swallowing every mouthful.

It wasn’t until the second tart was gone that Draco touched him. His hands were cool and smooth, sliding gently across Harry’s chest and ghosting over his stomach, as if he knew how sensitive it was. The touch didn’t deepen until he reached Harry’s sides, squeezing firmly, kneading the slight flesh there in a kind of massage that made Harry’s breath hitch. Not breaking the contact, Draco slid down Harry’s body until his mouth hovered over Harry’s prick, by now red and throbbing. When he took it in his mouth, Harry gasped.

Draco’s mouth was playful, teasing, scattering moist kisses up and down the length of Harry’s prick, occasionally taking the head into his mouth and sucking for a few moments, only to release it with a pop. Harry’s hips snapped up helplessly, desperate for Draco to suck him in earnest. He could have reached down, tangled his hands in Draco’s blonde hair and directed him, but somehow that would feel like cheating, Harry realized—better to lie still and let Draco set the pace.

Draco teased him a few more moments before finally grasping Harry’s prick and starting a proper blowjob, surprising Harry when he deepthroated his cock almost immediately, showing off a skill born, no doubt, of extensive practice. It was a trick Harry himself had never mastered, but Draco did it with ease and even grace, his methods in blowjobbing apparently as smooth and cultured as everything else he did. When Harry felt his balls start to tighten, Draco stopped.

It was maddening.

Draco looked up, lips swollen and smeared with saliva and precome. “Let me fuck you,” he whispered, voice cracking roughly.

Harry nodded, transfixed. “Yes. Fuck me.”

Draco groaned, nodded back. His eyes swept down over Harry’s bloated tummy, then back up to his face. “Can you—will it be comfortable on your back?” He prodded gently on Harry’s stomach, almost as if he were testing its sensitivity to being jostled.

Harry was struck by the odd kindness of the action, the concern for Harry’s comfort. It felt nice to be cared for, even in this admittedly fucked up way. “It’s fine.”

Draco’s answering smile was nearly feral. “I’ll be careful.”

Harry could only watch as Draco murmured a spell that coated his hand with lubrication. Wandless magic. Harry hadn’t even known Draco could do wandless magic. And then suddenly Draco’s hand was sliding behind his balls and pushing ever so slightly into him and Harry didn’t care about magic.

When Draco slipped a second finger in, Harry squirmed. He didn’t bottom all that often, and he was glad Draco seemed to be taking his time opening him, scissoring the fingers inside him while his other hand rubbed lightly across Harry’s belly. When a third finger was added, Harry clenched despite himself. “Relax,” Draco soothed, the pressure of the hand on Harry’s belly never wavering. “I won’t hurt you.”

he words were strangely reassuring to Harry, almost as if this was his first time. It might as well be, he realized, given how vulnerable he felt.

All too soon, Draco pulled his fingers back out, leaving Harry feeling empty and needy. Before he could even speak, Draco was soothing him again. “Shh. I got you,” he murmured, pulling Harry’s legs up higher and lining himself up. When he pushed inside, just an inch or two, Harry yelped involuntarily. True to his promise not to hurt, Draco stilled and let Harry adjust, that one hand still tracing patterns on Harry’s belly, sometimes straying to tug once or twice on Harry’s prick. When Harry relaxed enough, Draco pushed in further, and slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he seated himself to the hilt inside Harry.

“Okay?” Draco asked. The effort not to move was obvious—a trickle of sweat ran down his pale cheek, and Harry had an urge to lean forward and lick it away. When he nodded, Draco started to move, his thighs shaking from the effort not to plow into Harry.

When Draco shifted a bit, hitting Harry’s prostrate with every stroke, suddenly the pain was overwhelmed by pleasure that made Harry groan. “Oh, Merlin, yes, there. God, Malfoy.”

Draco’s answering laugh was shaky, and he started to move in earnest, somehow managing to fuck Harry soundly but still gently. When his hand wrapped around Harry’s prick, it took only a few strokes before Harry was keening. “God, fuck, gonna come, gonna come,” Harry chanted, spilling over Draco’s hand.

“Yes,” Draco hissed, letting the come pour over his fingers and drip down onto Harry’s belly. He fucked Harry through the orgasm, thrusting steadily until his own orgasm overtook him and he came harshly, collapsing down onto Harry as soon as it ended.

They fell asleep intertwined on the huge bed, Harry nestled in the crook of Draco’s arm, Draco’s hand splayed across Harry’s belly.

When he woke up the next morning, Harry was alone in the big bed. Alone and mortified. His head ached from the previous night’s refilling brandy glasses, his arse ached from getting shagged through the mattress, and his stomach hurt from having steadily eaten his way through a banquet’s worth of food. To make matters indescribably worse, the brandy, the mattress, and the feast had all belonged to Draco Malfoy. Harry was sure there were more embarrassing things that happen to a person, but at the moment he couldn’t think of any of them.

And Draco was, of course, conveniently absent. Prick.

~*~

When Draco emerged from the shower and padded back into his bedroom fifteen minutes later, Harry was already gone.

Chapter 2

The Sorting Hat hadn’t put Harry in Gryffindor for nothing. He really wasn’t easily cowed. So naturally it was all the more irritating that he was nervous as hell when Monday morning rolled around and he had to go to work and face Malfoy.

As luck would have it, of course, he hadn’t been at work fifteen minutes when he walked into the office lounge to get his first cup of tea and there was Malfoy, lounging at the creaky old castoff table in the corner and leafing through the Daily Prophet.

“Morning, Potter.”

Harry felt his cheeks immediately start to flush. Dammit. “Malfoy,” he mumbled.

“Have a nice weekend?” Malfoy drawled, looking up at Harry with an unreadable, infuriating expression.

“It was fine,” Harry ground out, aware that his cheeks were well on their way from pink to red. Two junior Aurors and an administrative assistant were huddled around the water cooler, watching the exchange with interest.

“Oh, good,” Draco said. “Brilliant. Mine, too. Donut?” Draco waved an elegant hand to the box someone had left on the table for the staff.

Gryffindor he might be, but muddling through another second of this conversation was something Harry absolutely couldn’t stomach. Foregoing his tea and absolutely refusing the offered pastry, he beat a hasty retreat back to his office without another word.

Thankfully, that was the only direct interaction they had for the rest of the (interminably long) week. By Friday, Harry had even managed to convince himself that he wasn’t hyperaware of Draco’s presence in the office—and certainly that his work wasn’t suffering because of it. And certainly that he hadn’t thought of Draco every time he buttoned his increasingly tight trousers before heading off to work.

~*~

The owl, when it arrived at Harry’s flat Friday evening after work, was classic Malfoy.

Not very Gryffindor, flooing off without a word last weekend.

DM

Harry read the parchment three times, baffled, before throwing it on his kitchen table in disgust. After a week of nothing, Draco decided to send this note round? They’d had the weirdest sex of his life, he’d woken up in an empty bed—what the hell had Malfoy expected him to do? Wait around to see if Draco brought him breakfast in bed?

Harry blushed at the thought.

The Malfoy owl, a large black beaky thing that looked quite a bit like Severus Snape, came over and pecked rudely at Harry’s hand. Clearly, he’d been instructed to wait for a response.

Indignant with the owl, the note, the whole bloody situation, Harry summoned a quill and scrawled out a response.

I didn’t realize there was proper morning after etiquette for whatever the hell last weekend was, Malfoy. It’s not every day I wake up in a Slytherin’s bed—ALONE in a Slytherin’s bed, by the way.

HP

Draco’s response was back within thirty minutes.

I was in the shower, git. Where on earth did you think I was? And Friday night was a rather brilliant shag, Potter. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.

Harry snorted. Fucking Malfoy. Much as he hated to admit it, he was happy to hear Malfoy had been in the shower. That cold expanse of silk sheets next to him when he woke up had been disconcerting. He’d been so bloody vulnerable, and Draco’s absence had compounded it. He’d immediately thought—well, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d thought when he woke up alone in Draco’s bed, his drawers and an empty dessert tray scattered on the floor. What was he supposed to think?

Malfoy’s owl glowered at him, looking impatient and given to nipping. Obviously Draco expected a reply, although Harry wasn’t sure what to say. Eyeing the owl, Harry grabbed his quill preemptively before the little winged monster got too close to him.

All right, then. Now what?

Malfoy’s response was, again, so very Malfoy it made Harry’s teeth grind.

I lure you over with the promise of brandy and tarts?

Harry’s reply was immediate.

Sod off.

Apparently the owl didn’t have the intended effect on its recipient, as Draco’s next missive was positively cheerful.

You sod off. Or just Floo the fuck over and quit acting like a teenage witch. Your call.

~*~

When Harry Potter appeared in his fireplace, Draco was relieved. He wouldn’t have admitted it, of course. But he was. He’d been fairly sure Potter would come—but not completely certain. And he needed Potter. He needed to see him, touch him, just fucking talk to him. It was ridiculous, but it was true.

And as he’d sat there, waiting to see if Potter would come, all he could remember was how it had felt to walk back into his bedroom Saturday morning, expecting to find Potter sprawled across his bed, and instead discovering that he’d left without so much as a note.

If Draco were admitting uncomfortable truths, he would have to admit that the sight of that empty bed had been like a punch to the gut. But he wasn’t admitting anything.

Harry stepped in, and Draco smirked at him. “Potter.”

“Malfoy.” Harry stared at him. “What do you want?”

Draco stared back, looking for something in Potter’s face that might give him a clue to his feelings. “I want you to come over here and sit down,” Draco finally answered—a true enough statement, if not the entire truth.

Harry looked bemused. “Okay.” He sat, leaving a good two feet of space between Draco’s sprawling form and himself.

“Accio mead,” Draco said, lazily waving his wand in the direction of the sideboard. “Accio glasses,” he added, pouring them each a glass and handing one off to Potter.

“So you left when you woke up Saturday morning because you thought I’d left?” Draco asked, figuring that he’d been more or less terrifyingly honest since this whole fiasco with Potter had begun, and he might as well keep the ball rolling.

“I didn’t say that,” Harry protested. “But Friday was very, um, surprising. Ah, and then I didn’t exactly think you were wanting to serve me breakfast in bed and have a romantic weekend together, Malfoy. So when you were gone, I just thought I’d go, too.”

Draco nodded. “I was bathing, Potter. People tend to do it after they’ve been shagging someone all night. Bit messy and all.” He grinned. “I absolutely would have brought you breakfast in bed, though.”

Harry coughed, cheeks pinking up so prettily Draco had to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching out to stroke one.

“’Course, I offered you donuts at work Monday and you didn’t want any,” Draco continued with mock sadness, watching Harry carefully.

Harry glared at him. “Prat.”

“Look, Potter. Stay over tonight and we’ll try the whole fucking thing over. I really will bring you breakfast in the morning.” Draco could feel his own cheeks heating up now.

“Why?” Harry’s stupid green eyes were wide and searching. “Why do you want this? What is this? It’s—it’s fucking weird.”

Draco sighed. “I don’t bloody know, Potter. I can’t explain it. I just . . . . want you. I want to make you feel good, I want to feed you expensive fucking dessert and then fuck you. Believe me, I could deal with this a lot better if I wanted to tie you down and whip you before I fucked you. It would be much less appalling for both of us, I’m sure. But that’s not what I want. I’d apologize for my proclivities if you didn’t so obviously like them.”

Harry gaped, then snorted inelegantly. “Don’t you dare fucking tie me down, Malfoy.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, wouldn’t dream of it. Sounds dull as dishwater.”

“And feeding me lemon tarts is . . . ?”

“Hot? Dirty? Wrong? The kind of thing we’d both be mortified to admit to doing? Yes on all counts.”

Harry bit back a smile. “So—Merlin’s balls, Malfoy. This is all your fault. Weird fucking bastard.”

“Have you had dinner?” Draco didn’t bother trying to look innocent, and Harry snorted laughter. Draco grinned back.

~*~

This time Draco hadn’t bothered with the formality of dining downstairs at all. Rather, house elves were instructed to deliver the meal to the sitting room in Draco’s suite of rooms. As soon as Knacky had retreated, convinced that Master Draco was happy, Draco had nudged Potter into the bedroom and floated the entire table along behind him, ultimately pushing Harry onto the bed and parking the table beside it.

Now Harry found himself sitting on Draco’s bed, looking at a table piled high with foods that were decidedly less familiar than the ones Draco had provided last week. He didn’t see a roast beef sandwich in sight. He was a little disappointed.

Draco shucked his robes, shoes, and socks immediately, revealing a pair of black trousers and a white button-down. Harry suspected that was as close to casual as Draco ever got. Following suit, Harry tugged off his own robes and trainers, then settled on the bed. Draco sprawled beside him, swishing his wand at a platter that floated obediently over to the bed.

Harry peered at the plate. “Giant shrimp?” he asked, hopeful. He liked shrimp.

“They’re prawns, you uncouth beast,” Draco said, picking one up, dunking it in butter sauce, and bringing it to Harry’s mouth.

”Tastes like giant shrimp to me.” Harry smiled. The more time he spent with Draco, the less Draco’s acerbic wit bothered him. Merlin help him, he was starting to find it charming.

Draco rolled his eyes and popped the rest of the prawn into his own mouth, then leaned forward and licked a drip of butter sauce from Harry’s chin. “If I’m going to start sharing meals with you,” he murmured, lips still hovering near Harry’s mouth, “you have to learn to eat decent food.” He dropped a kiss on the side of Harry’s mouth, then fed him another prawn.

Dinner was a strangely romantic affair, Harry realized when they finished eating. They’d eaten sprawled across the bed, Draco identifying any dishes Harry didn’t recognize—including caviar, at which Harry had drawn a line in the proverbial sand. They’d actually talked. Not about anything serious—for instance, Harry wasn’t sure if they would ever be able to talk about the war, or why at the age of twenty-one Draco was the master and sole occupant of Malfoy Manor—but it was warm, somehow. Occasionally Draco would lean over, feed Harry bits of this or that, eyes smoldering when Harry took the morsel from his hand.

By the time Knacky had cleared the dinner dishes and brought dessert trays, Harry’s prick was pushing uncomfortably at the fly of his jeans. As was his tummy. He was trying unsuccessfully to ignore both sensations.

Harry had leaned back against the headboard, propping himself up with pillows, when Draco positively slithered into position next to Harry. As if pulled by a magnet, Draco’s hand came down to Harry’s stomach, pulling up his t-shirt to expose his soft little potbelly.

Draco’s hand traced the way the flesh spilled slightly over the constricting waistband of Harry’s jeans. “Your jeans are too tight,” he murmured.

Harry shifted, blushing again despite himself. “A little,” he admitted.

Draco prodded at the unfamiliar fly, undoing Harry’s button with ease but eyeballing the zipper distrustfully. Harry didn’t bother to explain it, and soon enough Draco caught on and gave it a downward tug, allowing the rest of Harry’s little gut to spill free.

It was hard not to squirm under Draco’s agonizing bluntness; it was, Harry thought, the least Slytherin approach he could possibly imagine. And, true to form, Draco gave Harry’s exposed tummy a not-particularly-gentle-and-not-at-all-subtle wobble, and then reached to the table and brought back a bowl of crème brulee. There weren’t any utensils in sight, and Harry couldn’t hold back a gasp when Draco dipped two fingers directly into the bowl and brought the chocolate to Harry’s mouth.

After crème brulee, bananas foster, and strangely sentimental lemon tarts, Harry’s tummy was uncomfortably bloated, and he winced a little when Draco laid his hands over it.

Undeterred, Draco pinched a handful of tummy fat and squeezed, hard enough for Harry to yelp just a bit and try to squirm away. It was harder than Harry had expected to move quickly—he felt slow and a little sluggish, and after a half-hearted attempt he flopped back down against the pillows and settled for slapping at Draco’s pinching, prodding fingers.

“Don’t pinch, prat!”

Draco pinched again, this time a little handful of what Harry was ruefully certain could only be described as a love handle. “I’ll be nice,” he offered instead, the pinch turning into a gentle kneading of Harry’s softening midsection.

“I’ll allow it,” Harry agreed, belly expanding with a deep breath under the soft, massaging hands.

“Why do you like this, Malfoy?” He was a little afraid to ask, but he wanted—needed—to know.

“Why do you like it, Potter?” Malfoy shot back, hands still manipulating the extra flesh at Harry’s waistline.

Harry shrugged. “Who wouldn’t like being pampered and fed and massaged? It’s you I don’t understand. Why not shag a bloke who doesn’t look like he’s going to pot?” Harry reached down and gave his little gut a jiggle.

Draco inhaled, his eyes inexplicably trained on Harry’s embarrassing belly. “I don’t have an answer, you know,” he said conversationally. “Remember when I saw you in the office that Saturday a few weeks ago? Just the two of us were both in the break room?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, surprised by the direction the conversation was taking. “Umm, yeah, I guess.”

“You were wearing jeans and a Chudley Cannons t-shirt.”

“Huh? And?”

“The shirt was . . . tight.” Draco waved a hand vaguely in the direction of Potter’s midsection.

“And you, ah, you liked that?” Harry watched Draco’s face closely, trying to decide if he should feel smug or mortified.

“I couldn’t stop looking at your belly,” Draco admitted. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you after that. How you had this little secret fat roll under your robes that no one could see.”

Harry shifted, his prick at full attention and his jeans still bunched around his hips. “A secret fat roll,” he echoed weakly.

”Yes.” Draco grabbed a handful of Harry’s soft little belly and squeezed. “And I think it’s getting bigger.”

Harry’s voice felt constricted when he spoke, still teetering somewhere in the no-man’s-land between shame and desire. “I should be careful or my secret fat roll will just be a beer belly, huh? Auror robes only hide so much.”

Draco’s lips were on his immediately, and Harry opened his mouth to the invasion. The kiss was forceful, maybe too forceful by some standards, but it was urgent and passionate and present. “You don’t have to hide anything. You don’t have to do anything. If you get fa—chubbier or if you don’t.”

“Did you just call me chubby so you wouldn’t have to call me fat?” Harry swallowed a laugh.

“If, I said if you get bigger. Dammit, don’t be a witch about this, Potter. And you’re not bloody fat.” He paused, thin aristrocratic upper lip twitching. “Yet.”

Harry snorted. “Thanks.”

”Shut up, Potter. Get naked.”

Harry did.

~*~

“This is all your fucking fault,” Harry said, knowing he sounded whiny and not giving a shit.

Draco rolled his eyes, sliding over until he was sprawled beside Harry on the mattress. “Merlin, Potter, who cares what some mediwitch thinks? It’s just paperwork bullshit for the Auror Division. I mean, really—who cares?”

“Apparently the whole wizarding world, according to her. I’m not in ‘fighting shape,’” Harry grumbled. His yearly physical for the Ministry had not gone well. “She wants to see me in a few months because I need to lose two stone. And it’s your fault.”

Draco laughed. He actually bloody laughed. “Potter, you didn’t gain all of it in the two months we’ve been, ah, spending time together. Don’t blame all of it on me. And as I recall, you didn’t seem to mind.”

Harry barely resisted hexing him. “That’s not the point, Malfoy! It’s just not fair that I have to go get lectured and feel like a big fat pig. When you went for your physical the healer probably wanted you to be the posterboy for the fucking force.”

Draco preened shamelessly, running a hand down his naked chest and across his abs. “She was very complimentary. Probably would have disappointed her if she’d known I’m bent six ways to Sunday. But again, Potter, that’s not the point. Quit worrying about this. It’s fine. Who cares what that silly bint thinks?”

Harry hmmphed. “It was unpleasant.”

“All right, Potter, I’ll concede that it was probably not that much fun. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Harry knew that Draco was probably envisioning a scenario that included food and sex—a scenario that, to be fair, Harry would have enjoyed. But he had a different idea. One that he was a little nervous to suggest.

“Umm. Actually there is something,” Harry began, looking up.

Draco grinned, leaning over Harry and dropping a kiss along Harry’s jaw, letting his hands wander over Harry’s bare chest, landing on a nipple and flicking lightly. “Yes?”

“Come to Ron and Hermione’s with me this weekend,” Harry blurted quickly.

The hand on Harry’s nipple stilled, then disappeared, and Draco flopped ungracefully back against the pillows. “That is not how I envisioned this weekend, Potter. Not even close.”

“I know. But they feel like I’ve been ignoring them lately.” And it was a fair thing for them to think, really, Harry had to admit. Since he and Draco had been sleeping together, he’d spent every weekend with Draco at the Manor, and in the last couple of weeks Draco had even taken to spending a few of the weeknights at Harry’s flat—although not without bitching extensively about the lack of house elves, ambience, or decent furniture. “So, yeah. They invited me over for dinner tomorrow evening.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “They invited you, Potter. What does that have to do with me?”

Harry winced. He’d been afraid Draco would respond this way. So far, no one knew they were seeing each other, unless you counted Draco’s house elf, Knacky, who had taken quite a shine to Harry. “I just thought—it’s just—look, Malfoy, I’d like to be able to bring you around my friends occasionally.”

“Gods,” Draco muttered darkly. “I suppose I should be grateful we’re both orphaned wretches or you’d be trying to arrange awkward dinners where we meet each other’s parents.”

Harry stiffened. Occasionally something so casually cruel would come out of Draco’s mouth, reminding Harry exactly what he used to hate so much about him. He and Draco had never once discussed that part of their pasts. After all, what would they have said? Harry’s parents had died at the hands of the Dark Lord, and Draco’s had died—Lucius in Azkaban, Narcissa in genteel confinement in the Manor—as a direct result of their allegiance to him. There was nothing to say that would make those awful truths any easier to swallow. “I’m not asking you to—whatever. Nevermind.”

Draco sighed. “I’m sorry, Harry.” It was the first time he’d ever called Harry anything but Potter, and Harry couldn’t resist looking over at him. “That was—insensitive.” Draco paused, muscles in his jaw twitching from what Harry could only assume was the extreme pain it caused a Malfoy to apologize. “Although if I’d ever brought you home as a date when my parents were alive, that might have been enough to kill them right there,” Draco added ruefully, his smile a little bitter and a little soft.

Harry snorted. “Lucius wouldn’t have approved?”

“Lucius would have hexed you across the dinner table. But it would have been worse for Mother. She never even knew I was queer.” Draco’s voice was hollow, and Harry wanted to reach for him, tell him he was sorry he’d lost his parents, tell him he knew how much Draco must still grieve for everything he’d lost.

Before he could, Draco shook his head and settled his expression back into his trademark smirk. “Do Weasley and Wife Weasley even know I’m fucking you? Can’t imagine they’d approve.”

Harry ducked his head. “No, they don’t know. I thought maybe you could come with me tomorrow night, do your best not to be an arse, and maybe . . . “ he trailed off.

Draco propped himself up again, looking down at Harry. “You know Weasley would hate the idea of having me in his house, don’t you?”

Harry frowned. “He’ll get used to it. I just—look, if this is just fucking, this doesn’t even matter, but if it’s more than that, I’d like you to go with me. Ron and Hermione are my family.”

Draco smiled, his face somehow both mocking and gentle. “So this actually is the equivalent of an awkward dinner with your parents, isn’t it?”

“Well—I mean—“ Harry stumbled, looking up at Draco through his lashes. “I guess, a little.”

“Fine, Potter, fine. Sure fire disaster, but fine.” Draco waved a negligent hand. “But I have two rules.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at Draco’s high-handedness, thinking that he really shouldn’t be surprised by it, and waited.

“One, when you explain to them why you’re bringing me you cannot use the term boyfriend at any point. I don’t care what you replace it with, but I am not, nor do I have, a boyfriend. Bloody ridiculous word for two blokes.” Draco stopped to check Harry’s reaction.

Harry didn’t blink. “Not a boyfriend. Got it.”

“Two, you have to wear an outfit of my choosing.”

Harry felt his brows rise impossibly higher. “You’re going to dress me.”

“Yes. It’ll be fun.”

“If you have a kink for women’s knickers, Malfoy, I’ll learn to deal with it, but—“

Draco snorted. “Not knickers, though it’s nice to know you’d do it at some point if I asked. Nothing like that. Nothing I can’t get out of your own closet. Promise.”

Harry shrugged. How bad could it be? “Done.”

“This is going to kill Weasel, you know.”

“Don’t call him that,” Harry said instantly. “And he’ll be fine. He said he and Hermione have some big news about something, so hopefully they’ll be all on about whatever it is, anyway.”

“Big news, hmm? Granger’s up the duff, then?”

Harry started. That hadn’t been anything he’d considered, as Ron and Hermione had only been married that summer, not even a full six months yet. “I’ve no idea. What makes you say that?”

“He’s a Weasley. It’s a wonder she wasn’t knocked up by the time he proposed.”

Harry snickered. “You’re a prat. And you might be right.”

“I know.” Draco leaned down then, pressing his mouth lightly onto Harry’s. “Now stop talking about them. It’s not sexy at all.”

~*~

When Harry owled Ron Friday afternoon to let him know he would be bringing a date, Ron sent a howler. A three minute howler explaining just how crazy Harry must be to be shagging Draco Malfoy, and that Harry was probably under Imperius, and that Malfoy was a pointy fucking ferret with no redeeming value. A second owl, this one from Hermione and bearing an apology for Ron’s “appalling immaturity” and assuring Harry that yes, they most certainly wanted him to come round for dinner and yes, they most certainly would set a place for Draco, did little to improve Draco’s mood.

Harry was beginning to have doubts about the solvency of this plan.

Those doubts weren’t at all eased when Draco insisted on sticking to his second rule—that he would dress Harry in an outfit entirely of Draco’s choosing. By the time they Flooed into Ron and Hermione’s living room, Harry was miserable. Draco was smirking, Ron was fuming, and Harry himself had been cruelly shoved into a pair of black trousers that had probably fit just fine six months ago. The jumper Draco had dragged out of the back of his closet to complete the outfit had, likewise, probably fit better about a stone ago. Harry felt a bit like a sausage in a casing.

When they arrived, Hermione valiantly tried to act as if it were perfectly normal for Harry to bring Draco Malfoy with him for dinner. She greeted Harry with a hug and a kiss on the cheek before turning to Malfoy and bravely offering up her hand to his.

“Hello, Draco. We’re so glad Harry brought you.”

Ron and Draco snorted in unison.

“Thank you, Gr—Hermione,” Draco said smoothly in what Harry had come to recognize as Draco’s Public Voice. It was the voice he used at work, as well. It was smooth, cultured, and utterly void of sentiment.

Hermione elbowed Ron, who dutifully nodded. “Malfoy.”

“Weasley.”

Harry was grateful when Hermione promptly stepped in and played hostess, offering drinks and fussing over them in what Harry thought was amusingly reminiscent of Ron’s mum. If Draco noticed the mismatched wine glasses that were passed around—and Harry knew he did—he didn’t comment.

“So, Harry, how did you and Draco meet up again?” Hermione asked cautiously when they were settled at the small dining room table, where she had provided what Harry identified appreciatively as “Weasley fare”—steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes, and other assorted comfort food.

“Umm, work, you know,” Harry said vaguely, taking a huge bite to prevent him from having to continue.

“Potter was kind enough to come by for dinner to discuss the new recruits,” Draco added helpfully, smirking over at Harry.

”You invited him over for dinner?” Ron blurted, looking stunned.

Draco nodded, offering Ron a rather toothy smile. “Of course—so nice to catch up with old schoolmates, isn’t it?”

“Eh.” Ron looked from Draco to Harry, clearly still baffled.

“So Potter came over for dinner, and I think he fell in love with my house elf. Knacky knows his way around a kitchen,” Draco continued, oblivious to Harry’s glare. “He may have come back less for my considerable charm than Knacky’s lemon tarts.”

Harry grabbed his wine glass and took a few fortifying swallows, refusing to glance in Draco’s direction.

Hermione smiled fondly at Harry. “He’s always had a sweet tooth.”

“I noticed,” Draco drawled.

Harry shifted at the table, tugging surreptitiously at his waistband. Between the trousers and the conversation, he’d never been so bloody uncomfortable in his life.

”Problems, Potter?” Draco’s whisper was annoyingly smug.

“I hate you,” Harry hissed back, tugging the band down as far as he could to allow himself to breathe.

Draco smirked, looking down pointedly to Harry’s belly spilling uncomfortably over his waistband before turning back to face his plate. “I’m going to fuck you till you scream as soon as we get home, if it’s any consolation,” he murmured out the side of his mouth.

Harry twitched. It was a consoling thought.

“So, guys, what’s the big news?” Harry asked, helping himself to seconds and hoping to steer the conversation firmly away from Draco and himself. And the goddamn lemon tarts.

Hermione’s eyes flashed to Ron’s, who gave her a little smile and a nod. “Actually, we wanted to wait until Christmas at The Burrow to tell everyone, but Ron can’t keep a secret from you to save his life, so we thought we’d tell you now. You’re the first to know, Harry. We’re expecting,” she beamed.

Harry jumped up from the table in genuine pleasure, ignoring Draco’s whispered, “Told you so.”

“Mione, Ron, that’s brilliant,” he crowed earnestly, catching Hermione in a hug as she stood up to meet him. “Congratulations. When?”

“Oh, not until the first of June,” Hermione said, wriggling out of Harry’s embrace and stepping back to smooth her loose jumper against her waist. “I’m not quite four months yet.”

Harry peered down at Hermione’s stomach, which indeed was no longer entirely flat, though he hadn’t noticed until she’d pointed it out. “That’s wonderful, you guys, really. Ron, your mum’s going to be through the roof.”

Ron grinned, not bothering to get up from the table but looking pleased with himself. “She’s already been hinting about the pitter-patter of little feet. You have to act surprised at Christmas when we tell them, Harry.”

Harry nodded, wondering already if Draco would go with him.

“Congratulations to you both,” Draco said smoothly from his seat at the table. “That’s wonderful news. The world always needs more Weasleys.”

Three pairs of eyes darted accusingly to Draco’s, but he only smiled and raised his wineglass. “Cheers.”

“Oi, Harry,” Ron snickered good-naturedly as Harry and Draco stood in front of the Floo to leave later that evening. “Sure you don’t have some good news to share with us, too?” He poked his wand against Harry’s belly, which was all too noticeable above the tight trousers. “You look further along than Mione, mate! Where did that come from?”

“Sod off, Ron—” Harry began, but Draco interrupted him. “Shut the fuck up, Weasley.”

“What the fuck is your problem?” Ron fired back, looking at Draco with open hostility.

“Just shut up and there is no problem.”

“Both of you stop it,” Harry interceded, looking miserably over at Hermione. Up to this moment, he’d been convinced they’d managed to keep the evening not only civil, but nearly pleasant. “We have to go. Ron, I’ll owl you later in the week, Hermione, dinner was lovely. I’m so happy about the baby. Thanks for dinner, you guys.” With that, Harry pushed Draco forcefully to the fire and handed him Floo powder.

“Malfoy Manor,” Draco snapped into the fire, not bothering to bid the Weasleys goodbye. Flustered, Harry gave an awkward wave to his friends and followed.

~*~

“So what was that all about?” Harry demanded, following Draco up the massive staircase at Malfoy Manor to Draco’s bedroom.

“What was what all about?”

“You know what I mean, Malfoy. Ron was just taking the piss, he’s my best mate. You didn’t have to yell at him.”

“I didn’t yell,” Draco said.

“No, you did that thing you do. All quiet and condescending, like the person you’re talking to is a lower life form.”

“When the shoe fits.”

“You got mad because Ron called me fat,” Harry mused thoughtfully, flopping down across the bed. “Were you . . . protecting me?”

Draco bristled. “I wasn’t bloody protecting you.”

“That’s what it looked like, Malfoy,” Harry said smugly, patting the mattress beside him so that Draco might join him. “It looked like you were, ah, protecting my honor.”

“I just think if anyone’s going to call you fat, it should be me.” He frowned, reaching out to touch Harry’s belly through the clinging sweater. “You look good,” he added, running his fingers lightly under Harry’s jumper and feeling the way Harry’s soft little paunch hung over the stressed waistband of his trousers.

“I look like I shrunk my laundry,” Harry replied, shifting under Draco’s touch. “You picked the smallest trousers in my closet.”

Draco laughed, prodding Harry into a sitting position so that even more of his belly spilled over his belt. “You promised I could dress you.” With that, he tugged up on the hem of Harry’s jumper until Harry obligingly pulled it over his head, leaving him bare except for the trousers.

“And you picked this outfit because you’re sadistic?”

“No. Maybe. I picked this outfit because I wanted you to have to think about your body the whole time we were at dinner. I didn’t want you to be able to hide your belly under your clothes and pretend it’s not there.” Draco looked down at Harry’s bulging belly hanging shamelessly over the tight trousers. “I wanted you to feel fat.”

Harry’s prick, already hard, jerked enthusiastically. “Mission accomplished.”

Draco smiled, fingers tracing Harry’s soft tummy, gently stroking. He tried to slip a finger inside the waistband of Harry’s trousers, but the fabric was stretched too tightly to allow it. “Merlin, those are tight. Want to take them off, Potter?”

Harry nodded with a groan, and Draco undid the buttons, watching with something like awe as Harry’s abused belly spilled out. Draco reached out again, this time to trace the red, angry lines that had been creased onto Harry’s flesh from the constricting fabric. “Looks like it hurt,” he noted, taking a handful of chubby flesh and kneading it gently.

“Umm, yeah,” Harry mumbled, arching his back and closing his eyes as Draco caressed him.

“But it didn’t stop you from eating.” Draco leaned down to lick each red welt on Harry’s belly.

Harry flushed. “Hermione can cook.”

“Shh, Knacky will hear you.” Draco laughed against Harry’s lower belly, where he was softest. “Lift up,” he commanded, tugging the rumpled trousers over Harry’s hips.

Harry complied, wriggling awkwardly until Draco had him completely naked, then watching as Draco stripped off his own clothes with considerably more finesse.

Draco looked down at Harry appraisingly. “So two stone, hmm?”

Harry nodded wordlessly, feeling his cock dripping on his belly, watching Draco carelessly grasp his own in a slow slide.

“You know, I don’t think it’s all in your belly, either,” Draco continued, still sounding soft, almost disinterested.

“No?” Harry choked out the word, unable to match Draco’s coolness.

“No.” Draco trailed a finger over Harry’s hip, then down to his thigh, then back up to his belly. “Turn over, Potter.”

Harry complied, flipping over easily and letting his soft belly trap his prick against the mattress.

Draco’s hands were on his sides, then squeezing the cheeks of his arse. “Here, too, I think,” Draco murmured, giving Harry’s arse a healthy pinch. When his hand came down in a light slap, without warning, Harry squeaked.

“You should see the way your arse jiggles when I do that, Potter. Jesus Christ,” Draco exhaled, his voice finally sounding unsteady.

Before Harry could reply, Draco was on top of him, pressing kisses down the sides of his back, mouthing the soft flesh at the sides of his waist, licking a stripe across the curve of his arse. When Draco spread him, Harry didn’t move, just buried his face in the pillow and waited.

Draco’s tongue was hot, flickering, tracing a path up from behind Harry’s balls to his entrance, flicking dangerously.

“God, Draco, please,” Harry groaned.

“You want my tongue up your arse, Harry?” Draco punctuated the question with a sloppy kiss on Harry’s rim.

“God, please.”

“Tell me how it felt sitting at Weasley’s table too fat to breathe and I will.”

Harry gasped. Draco’s voice was low, almost threatening, and Harry’s prick was throbbing, he was pushing it helplessly into the mattress, so turned on he couldn’t think.

“Tell you—tell you—what?” Harry stuttered, feeling like his brain was shorting out.

“You heard me. As long as you keep talking, I’ll keep doing this,” Draco whispered, stabbing his tongue against Harry.

“Oh, God, yes. It was embarrassing!” Harry yelped out. “I knew it had to show that I’ve gained weight—oh, GOD—and, uh, I’ve tried so hard to hide it, but I wasn’t wearing robes and—ugh—the button on the trousers was cutting into my belly, and you were watching me eat.”

“Mmmhmm,” Draco hummed against him in encouragement, not speaking because his tongue had pushed just slightly into Harry’s hole.

“I was so afraid they would think I was—fuck, that I was fat—it was so embarrassing, and you always look so fucking perfect, and I never do—and I felt so bad for eating seconds but I wanted it and you were watching me, oh, God, fuck,” Harry babbled.

“Yeah, baby, tell me,” Draco hissed, sliding up Harry’s body. “Tell me and I’ll fuck you through the mattress.”

Harry jerked, the term of endearment just barely registering through his fog of arousal.

“It was so hot, Draco, it was so hot and I couldn’t fucking breathe or get comfortable and it was like we had this fucked up hot secret all night,” Harry panted.

“Yes.” Draco’s fingers, magically lubed, were suddenly up his arse, and Harry squeaked, pushing back immediately against them. “Except it wasn’t much of secret, was it? Weasley noticed, didn’t he?”

Harry groaned again, shamelessly fucking himself on Malfoy’s twisting fingers. “Yes!”

“Yes, he did. You want me to fuck you now? Hmm, you want me to tell you what you look like right now?”

“Oh, Merlin, yes,” Harry begged.

“Up on your knees, there you go,” Draco crooned, pulling Harry onto all fours beneath him. “That’s right, right there, baby. Gonna fuck you now, gonna fuck your fat little arse. God, you look so good, Harry.”

Draco lined up and pushed in, faster than he normally did, knowing Harry was more than prepared tonight. “God, you feel good, Potter, so fucking good.” Before he started to move, Draco leaned forward, reaching around Harry, ignoring his cock to grab his stomach, not gently.

Harry pushed back against Draco’s cock, forward to try to catch some friction for his prick, then just reaching down and gripping it himself and stroking roughly.

“Merlin, look at you, Potter.” Draco shuddered, giving up all pretense and plowing into Harry, letting his prick scrape roughly over Harry’s prostrate with every stroke.

“Draco, Draco, Draco,” Harry chanted, Malfoy’s given name falling from his lips like he used it every day.

“Come, Harry, come right now while I fuck your fat arse.”

Harry screamed, following Draco’s command almost instantly. His whole body clenched, and Draco shouted, his hand digging into the flesh of Harry’s belly when Harry’s body literally pulled Draco’s climax from him.

When the last wave of it receded, Draco collapsed on Harry’s back wordlessly, pushing Harry down to lie flat on his belly where his own come soaked the sheets. “You’re smashing me,” Harry finally mumbled up to him.

Draco laughed, the sound scratchy and gentle at the same time. “I can’t smash you. That’s why I’m on top,” he quipped, nonetheless pulling out and sliding to lie flat on his back at Harry’s side.

Without a word, he pulled Harry into a sweaty embrace, tugging until Harry was nestled in the crook of his shoulder.

“That was brilliant,” Harry finally said.

“Was, wasn’t it?” Draco lazily waved his wand in a cleaning spell that encompassed both of them and the sheets. “Want Knacky to bring up dessert?”

~*~

Notes:

Your comments and kudos will be treasured like the finest of wines. And I'm on tumblr,if you'd like to discuss the merits of Harry and lemon tarts.