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Draco only fucks him on special occasions.
In the Ministry loos after Harry spoke for his mum.
On their nineteenth, twentieth, twenty-first.
The day Skeeter invades Harry's primary school, hexes her way into deeply private, deeply buried information, and plasters pictures of a small, hungry, and beaten Saviour all over the Prophet, complete with his terrible grades and a witness stating that even then, Harry's presence had been disquieting.
The day the veil crumbles around Diagon, and the Aurors are run ragged, casting Obliviates and holding their worlds together, apart. When Harry finally apparates to the brook just outside the Manor's gates, so exhausted his knees cave on impact, Draco gathers him in his arms and mumbles sweet nonsense against Harry's lips as he takes him, so gently. Afterwards, Harry wants to beg, to follow him inside.
They're good at it: the fucking. It's hot and fast and deep and sensual. It scrambles Harry's guts and clears his suffocating mind, it leaves his skin bruised and his heart fluttering for days and weeks after. He'd almost thought he didn't care much for sex when Draco had first put his tongue in his arse and taught him better.
At Draco's wedding, Draco casts a spell that has Harry's mouth water and his cock twitch for more, more, more every time he finishes. In his silken, deep blue robes Draco fucks him until the sun grows warm again, glitter in his hair and tears in his eyes. The fertility spells, cast by a crowd cheering for him and Astoria and a timely future heir, still cling to his goose-fleshed skin.
It's the worst sex of Harry's wretched life.
"This is the last time. It has to be," Draco says, and kisses him for so long Harry almost feels tired, then goes back on his word immediately to put Harry's spent dick in his mouth.
It's an almost, after that.
They almost fuck at the Hogwarts reunion, and again when Lucius escapes from Azkaban and Draco apparates to Grimmauld in a heaving panic. Almost, at Scorpius' first, second, and third, and all his birthdays after that.
They get closest when Scorpius turns twelve.
"I do wonder what you tell him about me," Harry says to Draco, almost managing to keep his voice teasing. All day, and all the years before that, Scorp had been gushing about Harry: stars in his eyes and his cheeks flushed a darling pink whenever they spoke. He's your hero. He only ever wants to wear red, no other colour, and keeps begging us to let him dye his hair black, Astoria had laughed, like it's all some big joke.
"I tell him only the truth," Draco replies at length. They're in the Manor's kitchen, half-eaten cakes covering all surfaces, and the early summer sun dwindling beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Draco is in mugglish jeans. There's shallow lines besides his eyes.
"Please," says Harry. Just that; Draco understands. Harry will never stop craving him, needing him. Loving him. "Please."
Draco swallows, hard, and too many times.
"I can't," he says, "I've a responsibility to…" but he's trailing off already, his feet carrying him so close Harry can see the cold blue hidden in his eyes.
"I can give you everything you need," Harry says, though he's not sure it's true. "Everything. Whatever you want. You can bring Scorpius, too, we can raise him together. I'll do whatever I can to make sure he's happy, Draco, I love him, I love you. We could go anywhere together."
The embarrassment of begging is softened by the Fairy Fizz he's been drinking all day. Draco's tipsy too: he kisses Harry, long and languid, the way he only ever does anymore when he’s drunk.
"Fuck," Draco says, and almost turns angry, but then he kisses him again. Grabbing Harry's chin, he turns him to face the pantry. "In there," he says, and his hands are already curling around Harry's weeping cock when Scorpius rushes into the room.
"It's time for the fireworks," he yells, so swept up in birthday thrill that he doesn't notice the way they jump apart and even forgets to stumble over his words the way he usually does, faced with Harry. Grabbing both of their hands in his sweaty, cake-smeared palms, he drags them out into the garden. Draco watches the fireworks with a shaky smile on his face and his arms slung around his son. Harry watches the echoes of green, gold and purple pulse in Draco's bright hair, with his heart screaming and his cock throbbing against his coarse jeans.
Draco cuts him out after that.
Harry writes a few letters, asking and hoping and pleading, then stops.
He accepts Draco's choice.
Moves on, a blond at a bar and another at the gym, then a few short, sparkling months during which Bill and Fleur open their relationship to him and his life is all hope and sea-side and bright open skies.
It's five years before the knock of Draco's owl against his window breaks his hard-earned peace.
It's back at once, the craze, the choke of longing. He reads the letter several times before he understands its contents. Scorpius, starting at the Aurors, and will Harry please be kind, even after everything.
Harry is kind.
He often isn't, but could never be anything but when it comes to Draco's son.
"Harry Potter," Scorpius says the very first day, staying back after class to stare at Harry, the same stars in his eyes, the same flush on his cheeks from when he was twelve and Harry still had hope.
"That's Sir, to you," Harry says, but barely holds back his smile.
"Sir," echoes Scorpius, and throws himself into his training.
He's quick, bright. An eager theorist and duellist, politically-minded, cunning, hungry, fair, sly, confident and a little mean. Hopelessly popular. Seventeen and a bit and so beautiful it makes something ache deep in Harry's bones.
Harry mentors him. Not because he's Draco's, but because he's the best in his year. Long nights in Harry's office, field trips, a two-week quarantine once after they're both exposed to a blood-eating curse and stuffed into a too-small room at Mungo's with nothing but each other's words to keep them company. When, towards the end of his first year at the academy, Scorpius casts a hurried Patronus during a back-alley ambush, it comes out a stag. Harry drags them to safety, blood in his mouth and stinging hexes gnawing at his neck, and can't stop staring at the bold, nebulous shape.
"Scorp?" he manages, holding on to the boy's shoulders, his stomach in knots.
Scorpius is flushed so deep. His nails dig into Harry's skin. "It's not… it's not because of you, Sir," Scorpius says hastily, then flicks slender fingers and the magic dissipates. "It's my father's. It's a stag, too."
Harry holds out just shy of two months after that. Late nights and field trips and Scorp staring at him, cunning, still flustered and star-struck in the margins.
It's Scorp who takes the leap. He brings Harry a bouquet of roses and angel's trumpet and straddles his lap on the office sofa. His hair is almost long, almost silver, tickling Harry's cheeks. His hands tremble where he reaches for the clasp of Harry's robes, and when he calls Harry "Sir," shy and questioning, it's so wrong Harry's cock twitches against the body above him, spurring Scorpius further on.
Harry fucks him right there on the rug. Scorpius comes within moments but holds Harry after, shivering hands in Harry's hair and all his young warmth flush against him.
There's sound in the corridor, just beyond the thin walls. It's still early, colleagues and students just on their way out. With a wave of his hand, Harry shuts out the noise. He'll give himself a few moments before he considers the outside world. The implications of what he just did, the deep, horrid mess he'd sworn for so long he wouldn't stoop low enough to cause.
"I've always loved you, Sir," Scorpius confesses in the ache between one moment and the next.
Harry looks at him. The hearth crackling beside them casts warm shadows over Scorpius' well-familiar face, on all the curves and harsh angles Harry remembers so well. The narrow face, the unreal hair, the ill-contained emotion that radiates through grey eyes and threatens to turn Harry inside-out. The Malfoy genes are strong. Searching Scorpius' face, Harry finds flecks of cold blue in his eyes.
Finally, it’s on offer: all of Draco's beauty, his love and his promise, with none of the resistance.
Harry kisses the cool skin of Scorpius knuckles, then apparates them home, clutching onto the sweet, willing body in his arms.
“Me, too,” he replies at long length as they barrel through the void between the hearths.
