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Harry’s bakery is the only one in the small rural smattering of Holly Hollow. It has been for the past 12 years. Harry had reared the bakery like a newborn child, like a newfound purpose. Much like any small community, almost nothing stays a secret. From the clothes a person dons on a given day, to a change in relationships. Harry keeps his circle small. His closest friends have become pillars to keep the bakery functioning. His funds brought it to fruition, the passion for baking, and the need to do it each day. Hermione manages the books, and Ron runs orders, and the supplies. On a regular day, the deliveries are ready by the morning and Ron begins his day running them- making it home in time to ensure he and Hermione’s pets are kept on schedule. Harry runs the shop from sunup to sundown. Most weeknights are spent preparing for the next day’s fresh goods that the town depends on. Bread, donuts, cookies, bagels, cakes, muffins, cupcakes, occasion sweets, and whatever else was requested. Harry buys his goods locally from Ron’s family farm. He makes everything from scratch, down to the cream. Lately, his wolf has been more restless. Lately, the bags under his eyes have been the talk of the town. Lately, the strain of doing everything alone has been getting to his head. The passion remains, but his ability to carry on with all the baking duties has threatened his idea of the love that goes into each good sold. His friends have their responsibilities, jobs, children, relationships, or some other facet of life to worry about. None of them share a devotion to baking and the consistency of a great product like he does.
Hermione does her part daily, managing his books, purchasing supplies, and ensuring everyone is compensated far above an average salary. When she passes him a list of potential applicants for a baking assistant or co-head baker, he is beside himself with gratitude. He comes in on a Saturday with a fresh bag of coffee beans, pouring as much as the grinder will fit. His day begins with the sound and smell of grinding coffee beans. The first two leave him wishing he brought some whiskey to the shop that wasn’t meant for baking. Three more applicants go by and he caves, pouring two shots of whiskey into his third cup of coffee. He finishes interviewing seven applicants and none of them show the dedication he desires in someone to run his bakery with. Harry sits at the table, his too-long hair falling in his eyes, sighing. The notes in front of him were sparse, with names of applicants and messy lines crossing them off- he rejected them as soon as their interviews ended. He left his bed for this, and not one of them would be worth hiring, worth trusting. Not one of them even smelled like baked goods at all. He wonders if they had ever made fresh whipping cream in their lives, wonders if they knew how to perfect meringue. He places his head on the cool stone table that he and Ron had made a few summers before he opened the shop. It was only 3:30 pm. There was still time in the day. Maybe someone had heard they were taking interviews.
He hears familiar footsteps and knows who has come to visit him before they enter the shop.
“Harry, how did it go?” Hermione pauses, her brown eyes widening at the cup of coffee. “That bad?”
“Yes, they were all hopeless. I appreciate your list though. Not one of them smelled like they had baked in the past few months. You know, how you can smell it on a person,” He rambles, barely raising his head from the table. Hermione nods at him.
One person in this town shared the clawing monster in his chest. He and Hermione had gone on a hike a summer night 10 years ago. Both of them had woken up in the hot sun against a rock formation they were attempting to find during their hike. Thankfully, neither of them was pale and the sun didn’t have any lasting consequences. Hermione’s hip had ached something awful and blood-streaked her dark cheeks. Harry’s golden brown neck streaked in the same formation as hers. Scratches, healed over already. His right thigh above the knee had a ragged-looking bite mark, and Hermione’s hip had the same when she checked. Both of the marks were somehow partially healed. The study ensuing afterward led to one conclusion; suspicion of such an outcome already in the forefront of their minds.
It forged a new way for him and Hermione to connect, and a new thing to teach Ron about the two of them. Longlasting friendships can feel repetitive. Remember the time… Yes, we’ve heard that story before. In the time after that fateful hike, a new wave of intimacy and understanding molded into the long-formed candle that emulated the bright fire of their friendship. The three of them go out together on full moons, but sometimes Hermione and he go out separately, crossing paths during their runs about the forest surrounding the town. The greenhouse they shared for magical plants on the land between their houses grew. They learned to grow the ingredients for wolfbane, and surprisingly Ron enjoyed the task. He enjoyed being able to help with something that would ease the pain of the moon. Ron miraculously knows how to ease an anxious wolf, usually with exercise. They would close the bakery for extended lunches in the early years of its opening. The three of them would run, work at the farm, or later when Ron and Hermione adopted some bigger dogs, they would run with them.
Life was good. Life was satisfying. Harry had trouble admitting he needed help on his best days. Their friendship developed to understand that trait in all three of them. Before, they could read one another in communication or lack thereof. He rarely even had to admit he needed help. They collected many strategies to handle being wolves in a small town with proverbial and legitimate sheep. Ron, Hermione, and Harry learned legilimency to help with their communication. During the study, they figured out a way to send telepathic messages by registering the feeling of each of them entering the others’ minds. It was easier to recognize entries for those you knew so well. It was like categorizing everyone’s footsteps. Harry was rarely surprised.
Ron laughs. His eyes were drawn to the bottle of whiskey, poorly hidden, Harry kept to make boozy sweets for dinner parties.
“Mate? Whiskey in your coffee, this early,” Ron states, smirking at Harry.
Harry lifts his head and looks at Ron with a lopsided smile.
“Make sure you eat,” Ron adds. “Putting your food in the drink fridge.”
“Good luck, I hope you find someone today,” Hermione says with a wave as the two of them begin to gather their stuff and exit.
Draco is walking down the patterned stone walkway in the little town. His shoes click rhythmically as he walks towards the bakery. His pretty white blonde hair is up in a high ponytail, but there’s no hair tie in sight. Ron holds the door for Hermione, and she walks through. Ron keeps the door pulled open for the man they rarely see on this side of town. Hermione widens her eyes, looking at the slender man, smartly dressed with somehow sharp and soft features. She looks at Ron, He will be the person he hires. The man is his type and reaks of vanilla. Oh lord, Ron. We are in deep shit, or Harry is. Harry toys with the pen and sips on his coffee. He looks up as he hears the clicking halfway down the street, and when the man walks through the door he has to catch his breath.
Draco looked like a dream. He smelled like one too. Rosewood, pine, and vanilla. Harry stands as Draco approaches introducing himself formally and taking Harry’s hand.
“I heard from one of my friends who stays in the area that you required an extra set of hands for your work here. I’ve been looking to expand into something that suits a day-to-day work schedule instead of made-to-order goods. I used to run a made-to-order bakery out of my house for some family recipes, select specialties by request, and ship my product, by mail or owl post. You are a wizard too, right?”
“Yes, I… am. How’d you know?”
“You have the looks of the ancestral line of Potters, I heard the last of the line lived over here. I did not know you ran this bakery. What a pleasant surprise.”
“I had no clue there were people who would know my family lineage by my looks. You’re quite impressive,” Harry says, keeping his voice even.
His wolf was much too excitable at the scent of this man alone. This feeling diverted from his normal experience of the wolf, usually inclinations towards actions. Never people. Not like this. This was not him recognizing his pack. He would not let it get between real help at his shop from someone more than capable.
“It was a part of my education at home, recognizing other family lines, and a variety of other curricula. I have a typical CV, should you want to review it.”
Draco hands the crisp sheet of cardstock to Harry, their fingers brush, and the wolf nearly howls within Harry. He cringes internally, externally he nods and smiles-hoping it looks natural, not strained. Harry inquires further about Draco’s business, techniques, and details of recipes he is willing to share. Harry offers him the job and informs him of a salary beyond generous for a position at a bakeshop in a small town. They finish the interview by discussing the lax policies of the bakery, typical hours, and whether Draco would like to assist with prepping for the subsequent days' production.
“I thought that was typically expected for a position like this, though I appreciate your flexibility.”
Harry blinks displaying his irritation, not with Draco, but with his day. He takes a deep gulp of the coffee he made.
“You wouldn’t believe the applicants I’ve spoken to today. Most of them did not know how to make meringue.”
Draco gasps dramatically, then smiles at Harry. Truthfully, Harry was exhausted by this point. The beast in his chest ran laps around his heart since it smelled the man for the first time. Harry manages a smile that he believes is convincing. Draco is unsure what to make of the man’s facial expressions. He is sure that Harry is tired, though it is just becoming evening. The two agree that Draco will start bright and early tomorrow. They part.
Something came untied within him, and there was just under two weeks to the moon. Harry soothes himself in the prickling wild grass in his backyard. His back against it. He stares at the stars and hopes the feeling will pass. One of Ron and Hermione’s dogs, Occulus, wandered from their yard to cuddle up with Harry. His head pressed underneath Harry’s chin. He is calmer when he rises from the floor which was his goal. He drags himself to bed, Occulus following. He sends a patronus to inform his friends of this. The morning comes after a still-dragging night of what feels like his second self biting the shit out of him. Harry eats, brushes his teeth, and dresses. Occulus returns home.
He reaches the bakery looking a bit worse for wear. Draco is waiting for him at the door. He greets him, unlocks the door, and holds it for his new help. Harry walks Draco to the furthest room from the door where handmade aprons, a washer-dryer set, a larger dishwasher, and a sink are. The back of the shop is more industrial than the rest of it. The walls are cinderblock and painted a light green. Draco picks a black, white, and green plaid apron with thick straps. Harry embroiders his name onto it with a spell in red thread.
Harry gives Draco a full tour of the shop. Draco notes the undetectable extension charm on the kitchen providing room for two workbenches and a couple walls of cooking equipment. He had nearly forgotten about the charmwork that reminded him of the Black ancestral home. He shows him the cases in the front with strong stasis charms, the fridges behind the counter that could be accessed from both sides, and the register. The register was muggle. He had prepared for this, even if he did poke it with his wand twice while Harry wasn’t looking. Harry patiently modeled how to use the register by having Draco pick something he wanted to try. Harry rang it up while he watched. Draco endeavored the same thing with a cake and coffee Harry wanted.
The baking flew by as everything that required cooling time was done the night before. They frosted cookies, cupcakes, flambeed creme brulee, and unique little chocolate meringue puffs. Harry admired Draco’s hands, and handiwork. His feral beast admired the figure Draco cut in the apron tied tight. Whereas, Harry found himself lost in the complicated hairstyle the blond sported. There was a braid- a few braids that swooped about a stylized bun, strands of hair encircling a shape that was like the ridges of a shell.
“I didn’t think I could ever finish opening chores this early. We have enough time to eat.”
Draco smiles at him, so sweetly, it nearly rotted his ribcage. They sit at a prep station in the back to avoid interested small-town eyes. The stainless steel glinted in fluorescent lights. Harry sets out his cake and hands Draco a fork. He sips at his coffee, subtly watching the other man.
“Seriously, I usually have to eat on the go or in sneaky bites throughout the day.”
“Quite unsanitary, if I do say so myself, Potter,” Draco says, wrinkling his nose in a way that must be dramatic humor.
Harry scoffs, he takes a bite of his coffee cake and a sip of his coffee. His green eyes seem to be accentuated by the table as he raises an outraged eyebrow at Draco. The blond eats neatly, catching Harry’s glare and sending him one of his own -raised aristocratic chin, and a shake of his head. Sparkling grey eyes find crumbs on the corner of Harry’s lips, seeming to fixate there and then… They’re gone. Draco focuses on his breakfast, not revisiting the moment prior. His resolve is eradicated faster than it had built up as he watches too-sharp canines bite into the cake. His eyes are wide, breathing shallow, and he is completely unaware of why he would be affected by this seemingly innocent feature. Harry catches his eyes, the faintest hints of a smirk under the surface of his expression.
“Those are distinct,”
“Hm?’ Harry asks around the bite between his lips and teeth.
Draco cannot help a soft laugh, and the outraged look he gives Harry.
“Your, well, one may call them fangs.”
Harry chews, swallows, and tilts his head like a puppy hearing a familiar sound. He hums, nods, and takes a sip of his coffee.
“Family trait, from my mother.”
Draco nods. His expression did not inform the way he felt- which was as if the moment it took Harry to respond to him was a show of sorts. The man is entertaining, he is so detailed, so three-dimensional. He makes the people around his side of town seem bland, drawings on paper. He wants to believe that the sharp cuspids are family traits. It could very well be true.
“Would you like me to stay up front with you today if you need help?”
“For a while, I should be okay once I have become accustomed to the interesting contraption that eats your monetary gains,” Draco says, a touch of humor in his posh accent.
“The register!” Harry retorts.
“Indeed, Potter.”
“You must be obsessed with my lineage or something.”
“Educated, informed, in the know, Harry.”
Harry rolls his eyes and stands, downing his coffee like a strong drink before discarding the trash from their meal. He brews another pot of coffee for them and anyone else wanting it. They start with an open door, open blinds, and bright sunlight.
Harry had already poured himself another cup of coffee, this time with a dollop of cream. He set the cup on the counter parallel to the display cases. A regular to the shop walking in, an older woman who always bought cheesecakes on Monday, a loaf of bread on Sunday, and occasionally a coffee or tea. Since the bakery was closed this past Sunday, she would need both.
“Good morning, Harry. Oh, I see you’ve found help. Thank goodness for that, your face has been sullen and exhausted lately.” She says, leaning slightly against the counter and holding a hand to Draco. “What’s your name, dear?”
“Draco,” He says, kindly. The woman picks up on his accent immediately. “And, yours?”
The woman smiles at him, “Arata. From the other side of town.” Arata replies, nodding. “Harry, Tsk. He is gorgeous, you best be careful with him.” She replies, her eyes leaving Draco’s to level Harry with a glance worthy of one’s sharp aunt. Draco’s cheeks tinge, barely noticeable.
Harry coughs, turning around to grab a sip of his now emotional support coffee. Of course, he knew that. Of course, she had to point it out. Arata read Harry like a book, the wolf recognized her as some sort of translator at times. It was hysterical.
“Thank you, kindly, Arata. What can I get you today?”
Arata explains her usual to Draco, and he listens attentively. Harry has composed himself by this point, leaning against the counter and allowing his new associate to work. Arata leaves shortly after, happily carrying both her bread and cheesecake. The rest of the morning unfolds like this. The townspeople introduce themselves to Draco, though not commenting on his accent and supposed beauty- to his face. Harry knew they would surely discuss it for at least the next week. Noon comes quickly, and another regular that Harry typically got on with entered. Cedrick walks in, the sunlight beams over his dirty blond hair, his casual outfit displaying lean muscle, and he stands a few inches taller than Draco as he approaches the counter.
“Harry, hello,” Cedrick says, not looking up from a notebook in his hand.
Harry responds in kind, and Cedrick looks up from his preoccupation to meet Draco’s silver eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry, how rude of me.”
Cedrick fumbles with his notebook before placing it on the counter and reaching out to take Draco’s hand. He takes Draco’s in both hands but does not shake it. His fingers linger on Draco’s, seeming to inch towards some sort of action, perhaps bringing it to his lips. Draco takes his hand back and begins to take his order.
The creature is alive within Harry. It’s beyond alive, claws slashing at tendons. He hears rushing in his veins, heart battering in his ears, and wonders if it is visible. If he looks poised to strike, coiled tight. If the visions of Cedrick, someone he considers himself fond of, with his throat ripped out and the most literal iterations of beating the piss out of someone, could be seen on his face. Harry breathes heavily fogging his glasses with the heat of his coffee, face coloring in anger, sharp cuspids only hidden by the cup of coffee.
Cedrick orders his latte, a bagel, sliced and toasted. Harry offers Draco the opportunity to take a break. His tone must be that of an order because Draco heads to the back without a word. Harry makes Cedrick’s latte, toasts his sodding bagel, and hands it off to him. He calms as Cedrick exits, heading to the back with a consolation coffee for Draco.
“How do you like your coffee?” Harry asks, his voice softer, attempting to make up for what could have been seen as an outburst.
“Cream-touch of sugar. What was that, Potter?”
Harry avoids commenting on the perceptiveness of the other man, not wanting to give in to the visibility. He hands the coffee to the blond. Draco scoffs and then takes a sip. His silver eyes widen.
“I will be asking you to make my coffees from now on, should you oblige.”
“Anytime.”
Harry’s smile is gentle, proud even. Draco finds himself forgetting the strange behavior of his new boss for the moment. The day continues much like it began, peaceful, many engagements with the register, and more introductions. Sundown comes soon, and the doors are locked. The kitchen awaits them.
Throughout the day, they had paused to make dough for the evening prep work giving it enough time to rise. Most of the stock had sold, especially bread, desserts, and pastries. The first step would be baking the bread and cheesecakes. Tuesdays’ specialty is tiramisu. They soaked ladyfingers in coffee and whiskey instead of coffee liquor as the bread and cheesecakes baked. Draco threw the first blow so to speak. He dipped his gloved fingers in the coffee and whiskey mix and flung it at Harry.
“You have been tightly coiled today, you need a drink. Here!” He says, flinging the dark liquid directly at Harry’s face.
Harry would say he wasn’t surprised but, the sound of Draco dipping his fingers mimicked dipping the ladyfingers with how delicate and precise his touch was. He let it hit him, wanted to humor Draco, that’s all.
“OY!” Harry exclaims, licking the mixture off of any accessible areas.
Draco’s blush certainly has nothing to do with embarrassment. Harry comes straight towards him, almost like he was stalking him in the depths of a forest. Draco could be the deer, and Harry the wolf. Draco steps back from the table the mixture of coffee and whiskey in his arms.
“I have precious ingredients in my hands, not another step, Potter.”
His fingers, still delicate and slender-looking in gloves, dip into the liquid again.
“I am unafraid to use this against you. Back, beast.” Draco quips.
Harry holds his hands up, faking Draco out, his right hand wipes at his face. Draco gets a glimpse at how toned Harry is. The arches of his biceps are apparent as he wipes at his face. He removes the glove on the hand that touched his face and retrieves a new one. Draco neutralizes his gawking, placing the bowl back where it was meant to be parallel to his hulking raven-haired boss. Harry turns around rapidly, dipping his gloved fingers in the liquid and sending droplets at Draco’s face.
“Now, we’re even, Malfoy.”
“Even… I cannot accept that. What has begun, cannot be undone.”
“Sounds like a feud,-you proposing that?”
“Indeed.”
“Careful, Draco. I don’t give in, or back down.”
“Sounds enticing. ” Good qualities in a lover.
Harry and Draco look at one another, examining openly. One could even say, appraising. Draco speaks first, breaking the silence as they move to continue their work.
“You’re competitive, aren’t you?”
“Very. Can be a problem.”
“I hope you survive when I correct you.”
The evening passes with many instances of “unintentional” brushing of skin. The sugar cookies and cheesecake sit in the cooler, the bread has been sliced and bagged, and the mascarpone is ready to be layered with soaked ladyfingers. Harry brings out a container of sweetened cocoa to offset the bitterness of coffee and whiskey. Draco nods at this choice.
“You vere from tradition, Harry. Typical tiramisu calls for a sweeter coffee liquor.”
“I enjoy modifying recipes to suit the tastes of my clientele.”
Trays cover two of the prep stations. Both of them layer ladyfingers first, and then mascarpone. Draco raises an eyebrow at Harry’s method. The muscles in Harry’s forearms flex as he scoops up a small mound of cheese and lets it splat against the ladyfingers. He spreads the cheese with flicks of his wrists. Draco’s technique involves three small quantities of cheese, firm circular spreads.
“Perhaps we should use piping bags next time?”
“Takes forever to fill them.”
After that exchange, the two men continue brushing past each other as they exchange positions in the two rows of tiramisu trays. Draco looks over Harry after they finish. He notices mascarpone in his hair, on his forearms, and all over his apron. He has cocoa powder on his nose and across the midsection of his apron. Harry’s new colleague pulls out his wand and cleans him up with one spell. They finish quickly, and part for the night.
The rest of the first week of working at the bakery passes in moments they both remember like the slow moments that flash before one’s eyes at that crucial descent of life.
Tuesday is busy. They sell all of the tiramisu, some customers buy entire trays. It slows down in the late afternoon which borders on evening. The morning before they open they take turns frosting cookies and placing goods in the display cases. Harry makes Draco’s coffee in the first moments of the morning. A short time later… Draco stands in the doorway to the back watching as Harry frosts cookies. He is not being covert.
“Potter, do you always hold the piping bag from the middle?”
“Malfoy,” Harry says simply, looking up to meet his eyes. “How long have you been watching?”
Draco’s posture remains elegantly relaxed, though he would have flushed or grown shy if he hadn’t always concentrated on it. Harry follows for seconds as his eyes trail elsewhere in the kitchen- the only mannerism that demonstrates his bashfulness. Silver eyes remain elsewhere as Harry openly retraces Draco’s figure in the apron. His scent is intoxicating, encapsulating, driving him feral alone. His looks only lopped weight onto this new infatuation the wolf holds with a closed jaw. His personality challenges Harry. This pleases him more than the wolf though. Draco’s eyes come back to Harry’s face. His boss appears as though he intends to tear the flesh from his collarbones. He masks his confusion with amusement.
“More effective to keep a firm hold on the end and use your fingers to modulate the speed at which frosting leaves the nozzle.”
Harry scoffs and then coughs to mask it. He looks at the frosting bag and adjusts his grip attempting Draco’s method. It works quite well but feels less natural.
“I knew you’d barely be able to stomach me correcting you.”
“You just showed me another technique, you weren’t correcting.”
“Whatever you say, Potter.”
Wednesday's special is sandwich cookies.
That morning, the moon's creeping aches woke Harry much earlier than he needed to be awake. He runs three miles before work, showers, and shows up early to make coffee. He prepares a coffee for Draco, ( cream, a touch of sugar) and puts it under a stasis charm. It’s nearly an hour before Draco arrives, finding Harry dozed off- sitting at a prep station with his right hand pressed against his cheek. It is cute, really, in the way that intimidating things can often be like a tiger lying on its back waiting for pets from a familiar human. His new co-head baker lets himself into the bakery and finds this sight. He wants to gasp or take a picture instead, he walks silently up to Harry.
He gently trails his fingers over Harry’s resting hand whispering, “Harry?”
The shop owner mumbles, full lips moving around words that don’t reach fruition. Draco repeats the action, and Harry’s deep emerald eyes open meeting his. He startles gently, looking down at Draco’s hand on his arm. His skin feels like rapid neuron firing.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Harry says groggily.
“Oh, good morning, thank you…” It was too early to be blushing at such a simple compliment.
“Made you a coffee, it’s under stasis,” Harry says, pointing and yawning. “Your skin is very soft.”
Draco chuckles softly, turning to remove the charm and take a sip of his coffee with his back and blushing cheeks to Harry.
“Potter, it is too early to flirt with me.”
“Never too early. Could do that at any hour.”
Draco does everything to remain dignified at this sleepy Potter, and his sleepy charisma. He gulps down the coffee that his throat threatens to close around. Harry’s eyes openly trail down the graceful outline of the man’s shoulders, the way his spine draws slightly inward, the way his hips swell just so, and how perfect his ass looks in those slacks inches away from too tight. His gaze drawing back up to the white-blond hair, it was in a set of braids. A tugging sensation in his gut wanted him to pull them. His body does something to him, does something to the wolf, and his scent. Why did he think it a good idea to hire his type incarnate?
“Is this how you are when you are freshly woken from slumber?”
“‘Suppose it has the same effect alcohol has, you know the saying.”
“You flatter me far too much for me to keep my ego in check.”
“I don’t think your ego needs to be in check. You are capable, gorgeous, and intelligent.”
“Potter, stop it, now,” Draco says, sternly, trying to contain, control, and comprehend everything Harry has said in the past few moments.
“Let’s get started then. I want to see that blush on your face,” Harry says, truthfully he had heard the blood rush to Draco’s face. He could hear his heart racing.
Harry made three different kinds, mixing the cookies with the uneven numbers left at the end. Draco had ensured the night previous with much fuss that the number of cookies would align. Instead of making all of the sandwiches in the morning, they decided to make them to order until Neville arrived to order 30 cookies for his students. Harry forgot that he tended to do that every other week.
Neville arrives at 8:00 a.m. sharp, an hour before classes begin. He wears a faded pair of well-fitting jeans, cuffed at the bottom with a herbology club t-shirt under his collared half-zip sweater. Draco is working the register with his personalized apron. The cookies are cooling, sprinkles and tiny chocolates are already in pans, and two types of frosting are placed into piping bags.
“Good morning. Happy Wednesday!” Neville says as he enters, simultaneously joyous and mellow.
Harry and Draco greet him in return. He stops in the doorway bashfully, looking down at the potted wisteria plant. The wisteria appears to be a breed of overeager vines instead of the typical tree.
“So… I need thirty of your specialties for the day for my students.”
“Oh!”
Harry chuckles from the back, still filling the piping bags with cream cheese frosting. The buttercream was finished. He finishes up and places the trays into one of the coolers.
“Usually, I would have them ready for you. I forgot, Draco and I got a bit ambitious deciding to make them when orders come in,” He says, finishing up.
Neville then says, Oh, looking up to see Draco for the first time. His orders were delivered each week. The wisteria had wound itself around Neville’s wrists and his left shoulder. The purple contrasted beautifully against the green of his sweater. He steps closer trying to gently separate the plant from its affections and place it down. Harry starts frosting cookies quickly and with a grace, he takes on from Draco’s technique. Neville separates the vines from his shirt, aside from an unnoticed one that slipped between his sweater and t-shirt. The plant rapidly begins to acclimate to its new environment. The wisteria vines edge around the register seeming to wilt at the lack of living energy. One thick flower-filled vine rises into the air slowly as Draco turns around to check on Harry. He is just finishing topping the thirty cookies. All that was left was adding the sprinkles or chocolate.
The vine reaches up and cradles Draco’s face with a gentleness only a flower could have. A soft startled noise leaves his lips, and the vine seems attracted to the warmth. Harry is at the counter within seconds. Neville’s face is flushed eyes drawn to the plant showing its affection to this ethereal stranger.
The vine drops down to toy with the source of the warm breath. Tendril-like pedals padding against his lower lip. Draco’s cheeks redden, and he huffs out a startled chuckle.
“‘M, sorry” Neville hums, smiling gently and eyeing his apron. “Draco.”
Harry is jealous of a plant, or rather the wolf is. It claws at his ribcage leaving ribbons of bone and powder dispersed in his lungs. He loves Neville and considers him a close friend. Closer than Cedrick. Even that name now left such a disgusting taste in his mouth. The wolf claws through his ribcage as he watches Neville detach the plant from Draco. His sternum burns as if there would be claws digging through him if he looked down. Harry coughs, bringing himself back to the current situation. He and Neville lock eyes. It startles the teacher quite a bit, and though he knew about Harry’s condition, he could not gather why Harry would level him with such a glance- one of a predator about to strike.
Harry grumbles, coughing again. Draco tilts his head sharply at the panicked look on Neville’s face, and the cough from his boss. As soon as the plant has detached, the blond steps back. His face is still pink, and Harry steps forward in front of him.
“Would you help me get the hundreds and thousands on the sides of the sandwich cookies?”
“Of course, Harry. That plant seemed like it wanted to get inside my skin..” He comments, and the wolf is alive again.
Draco almost brushes against Harry as he walks to the back. Skin, skin, skin, skin. It was as if the word was now carved into the hollow where his ribcage used to be. The smell of him is intoxicating. It is beginning to drive Harry closer to madness this near to the moon.
Thursday’s special is various flavors of meringue cookies. They are a unique little recipe Harry discovered when browsing the internet which he rarely does. He took the recipe he found and modified it. The original recipe called for chocolate meringue and mini chocolate chips, he created a coconut cream version with shreds of coconut, a lemon version with tiny sprinkles dispersed throughout, and so on. All the cookies are ready on Wednesday evening and in limited quantities. Draco corners Harry before they open the doors.
“I need to discuss something with you.”
“Go ahead,” Harry asks, trying to contain the dreaminess he feels at the stern tone in Draco’s voice.
“Do you trust me around your customers?”
“Yes, why?”
“Why are you always a hair's breadth away from me as I tend to them? Why do you jump into action with some menial task I know you can do yourself?”
Harry is verbally cornered, “No reason. I want to see how you function when asked to assist. I want to learn your techniques.”
“Sure.”
Harry cocks his head, and Draco wants to melt. This mannerism of Harry’s makes him look so soft.
“Do you want me to attend to them? Or is it something else?”
“Nothing to worry about, Malfoy. I promise.”
Draco does not believe that although he thinks he is closer to understanding. A smirk underneath the look of ease that Harry sports. He is jealous, but of what, and is this simply his now inflated ego talking?
Friday’s special is an Irish cream that Ron’s family taught Harry to make. It can be used for coffee, or sold by itself to go with another dessert. They prepare it that morning, and Harry’s arousal is hard to contain when Draco takes his serving of the cream and tastes it with his fingers alone. Pink lips wrapped around medium-length nails and fingertips. The soft hums of approval. Too much.
“Have lunch with me tomorrow?” Harry asks out of nowhere in the middle of the day.
Draco simply nods. “Let’s stay after, I’ll teach you a dessert I used to make for my business. We can eat it tomorrow.”
Harry mirrors Draco's gesture, having already planned this lunch out in his mind. The moment Draco decided to suck on his fingers in front of Harry, he knew he had to buy him dinner first, or rather lunch. He plans to grab takeout from one of the nearby homestyle restaurants.
The evening approaches, and the door is locked. They begin working on the dessert Draco wanted for lunch tomorrow. Before they start anything, Draco gets into Harry’s face and flings cream directly at him. The fluffy substance decorates Harry’s prominent nose and the bridge of his glasses which he still wears despite not needing them. Harry gasps the intake of breath something between anger and outrage. The offender runs to the corner of the prep station and starts his work. Brown fingers scrape the sickly sweet cream from his face. He stalks over to Draco, cornering him. He swipes the cream against his lips, tilts his head challengingly, and waits.
Draco pouts, side-eying the corner of the room as Harry towers over him.
“Go on then.”
Draco licks the cream off his lips, reaching to grab Harry’s wrist in revenge. He licks the rest of the cream off of his index finger and laughs coldly.
“Enjoy dreaming about that all night, Potter.”
Harry stifles a growl, stifles any show of arousal. He narrows his eyes at Draco.
“You’ll pay for that soon enough.”
They prepare and bake a French dessert, and all Harry can think about are Draco’s lips and tongue, wanting nothing more than to press him into a corner and… He stops the thought before it takes him and the wolf over. When they get the dessert into the oven, he looks Draco over. He raises his hand over his face, dusting sugar off his cheekbone. His calloused thumb brushing gently across his soft skin.
“How do you always stay so clean when you bake?” Harry whispers, attempting to mask the gruffness in his voice.
“How do you always get so dirty?” Draco asks, trying to hold back his smugness.
“-t’s a show of love for me.”
Harry walks Draco to the apparition point later in the evening, their fingers brushing against each other. The heat from Harry’s body keeps them warm. It startles Draco, the way he was so warm. It is a true reflection of the man, himself, burning hot in intensity and heart.
Draco appears at home and silences himself. He screams in excitement and a release of tension. He runs into his extravagant house, planning his outfit for the next day. He chooses paper bag waist pants, pleated at the midpoints between the buttons and his hips in a creamy brown color, a black belt to cinch his waist, fancy shoes that match the belt, a black turtle neck top that stops above his navel, and a shortened blazer that matches the pants. He decides his hair will be down, loose, with a subtle black headband- hoping the look isn’t too feminine to make him dysphoric.
Neither sleep well. The wolf keeps Harry awake with raging body aches, and blood flow to his lower half. He resists poorly. Draco is in a similar state though more excited than a moon-bound wolf. The morning arrives uncaring of the night prior. Harry works out like he typically does to distract himself from the moon. He burns a bonfire in the early hours with Occulus at his side. Occulus spends more time with Harry when the moons approach seeming to understand the strain somehow. His name did reflect his personality. Harry showers and throws on a pair of distressed black jeans, black boots, and a soft but loose button-down. He orders something akin to brunch from a restaurant in the village. When he gets to the bakery, he closes the blinds and sips on a rare cup of tea. The food is ready soon after his tea is finished, he retrieves it and puts it under a stasis charm.
Harry pulls out the key to the bakery and duplicates it, deciding the lunch date(?) may be a good time to give it to him. If he wanted to get in early or stay late, no worries. If Harry needed a day off before the moon, no worries. Draco enters the bakery soon after finding Harry glossy-eyed and exhausted. He walks right to the back and grabs their dessert. Harry’s sleepy eyes follow him. The outfit catching his attention, that sliver of skin visible. He huffs, pressing the backs of his palms into his eyes for seconds before he hears Draco return.
“Good afternoon, Harry. The food smells good.”
“Afternoon. I like… well I like all of it. Your hair looks nice down.”
“Thank you,” Draco responds, eyes drawn to the prominent lines of Harry’s shoulders.
The shirt had the top three buttons undone, the ends of a deep scar visible through the left side of the collar. A few thinner scars peaking through nearer to Harry’s chest. Draco’s eyes fixate on the dark curling hair on his chest, sparse yet thick. He sighs, sitting down. Harry smiles, thankful that they seem to be in similar predicaments. He unpackages the food and lays the takeaway container in front of Draco before placing one in front of himself. The diner nearest to the bakery makes the best omelets and home fries.
“I went with a simple breakfast from a few doors down,” Harry says, setting condiments and utensils on top of the container.
Their lunch progresses with the time to genuinely inquire about one another. Draco does not dare bring up the scars, not yet. They talk about their friends, pastimes, families, and magical practices. Draco’s upbringing in magic had been more intentional, overt, regimented, and ritualistic. Harry’s had been innate, skill-driven in subject matter, and natural or nature-driven in the rituals. There was a lot to share on this topic. They could spend weeks teaching one another the perceptional gaps in their magical upbringing. The conversation is free-flowing and laden with flirtatious banter. Later that night they make dough for bread increasing the choices by a few including new ideas from both of them.
Sunday is uneventful. They slice bread and cheesecake throughout the calm yet busy day. The day is punctuated by continued conversation. Harry does his best to hide his bouts of intense aches and waves of increased energy. Draco notices. Soft winces on Harry’s face when he mixes ganache. The way his shoes lift from the floor when he does calf extensions in the kitchen, as he walks from station to station. Harry breathes through the pain, and Draco detects that too. He wonders if something is wrong, something he thinks he is piecing together.
By Monday, Draco has more than put together the nature of Harry’s condition. It logically should have come to him sooner, although he can say he is proud it only took him 7 days of daily contact. He is a wolf, and Draco may know who bit him. Harry’s friends stop in and drop food off for them both which makes him bashful. The genuine care for the business and those who help Harry shows; they thought of him too. Harry steps out with them. He and Hermione converse in hushed whispers, knowing smiles show even in her side profile. Draco does his best to mind his own business but, the way the sun made Harry and Hermione glow may as well be his business. Ron on the other hand squeezes her hand, squinting in the sun, his light eyes affected. Ron’s face is somehow a mix of skeptical and smug. The topic of conversation must be regarding his performance, perhaps his fit in the role, The way Harry explains with easy smiles, and talking with his hands must be good. Hermione and Ron come back into the bakery, waving goodbye to Draco before they exit.
He almost immediately asks Harry when he was bit, the deep urge to connect potential dots at the forefront of his mind. Draco lives in the more affluent rural area up the hill. The little village in the valley talks. In a village, a secret like this must be daunting to keep especially with a prominent magical community. Magical afflictions are not foreign to him. Two of his closest friends are “afflicted” with conditions similar. Blaise Zabini is the male heir of generations of vampires. Pansy’s parents were both bitten on a trip abroad. They performed a transference ritual and used poor undesirable animals to transfer their lycanthropy unto. The animals were disposed of quickly, painlessly, after the rituals’ success. Her parents thought this would safeguard their daughter from the potential of passing the condition. It did not. Upon maturing into her teenage years, the symptoms were unveiled fully. There wasn’t any shame in the condition, but they did not inform her the transference spell was possible until she came home one night after a moon with blood and skin under her fingernails, flesh in her teeth. Her mother is the head of healing for magical conditions at a major nearby hospital. She determined that the flesh was from two different sources.
Shortly after this occurrence, ten years ago, they completed the transference spell abroad as such cruelties towards supposed lower life forms are forbidden in Britain. It was hard to tell how Pansy felt about this, difficult to understand if she agreed or disagreed. Shortly after she returned from the trip, he could see distant memories in her eyes, sense it in the way she carried herself. She missed the dirt under her paws, the opened unthreatening air of the forest. She took etiquette classes since she was a child and they redoubled them to train the remnants of wolfish instincts out of her. Regardless, Draco wondered if the events lined up. How could he even dare to ask? They had made a pact not to discuss the transference spell, a contract of sorts, a vow.
Harry is calmer after his friends visit, and the food. Draco identifies this immediately. He can still see the raging energy and grimaces of pain in flickers. They break for lunch and eat deciding to continue their new habit of preparing throughout the day to leave more time in the evening. All that would be left after closing would be layering the cake. They work like they’ve come to an unspoken understanding, one that Draco knows the nature of and Harry simply accepts with more apparent smiles.
Tuesday’s trend of business continues. Arata visits the store and buys a tray of tiramisu for her book club.
“That woman must be a witch,” Draco comments, standing on the toes of his expensive shoes to whisper in Harry’s ear.
“She is, though she doesn’t use a wand. The woman’s herb garden and tea blends are the best in town,” Harry whispers back.
Conspiratorial could be the word for the interaction. The reality was they were torturing each other, chills down both their spines at innocuously whispered words. Cedrick arrives at midday, face in his notebook. Harry smells and hears him nearly a meter up the road, he has his latte prepared, and physically steps in front of Draco to take the register. Draco hides an entertained smirk in the coffee Harry prepared him. The visuals of the wolf raging inside of Harry are so visible now that he understands, or suspects, but Draco knows . It’s visible in his posture, his nose turning up at a familiar person, or a minute tilt of his head as if that would assist in his hyperactive hearing.
Harry will ring Cedrick up and give him his latte before he orders it. He would smash the trigger before the hammer was cocked. He is far too on edge for this today, far too close to transforming in the middle of his bakery, though that wasn’t possible.
“Afternoon, can I have my usual?”
“Done, and rung up, anything else?” Harry asks, short.
“A slice of your special. Where’s that dashing coworker of yours?”
Draco peaks out and waves before walking briskly to the back. He is goading Harry, he knows. It is too priceless an opportunity to miss. Harry follows the line of Cedrick’s eyes, on Draco’s waist, his figure, his bum. Harry huffs out, halfway to a growl. The offending man sighs, eyebrows raised as he shamelessly scans his body. Harry grabs a cake and the latte-tersely informing the man of his total. Cedrick smirks at Harry, giving him a look like “Hey you can’t blame me.”
“Where do you find 'em, Harry?” He asks, clearly not picking up on the rage burning so hot that it seemed to increase the internal temperature of the bakery.
“He found me, have a lovely day, Cedrick.”
As soon as the door shuts, Draco bursts out laughing. It sounds like sobs, high-pitched giggling, and gasps in the back of the store. Harry darts to see if he is alright. Then, he sees the other’s grin, hands clutched to his stomach. Idle pieces of the half up half down style his hair falling into his face. Harry’s gaze is dangerous, his hands at his sides nearly balled into fists, muscles flexing and unflexing. Draco progressively stops laughing, silver eyes wide and innocent. A smile inching onto his face like he’ll start laughing any second.
Every fiber of Harry wants to corner Draco. He wants to throw the rest of the day away. Then, Draco starts laughing again, and Harry can’t help himself. He laughs hard until it's been several minutes and they finally stop. The only sound is breathing.
“You knew exactly what you were doing,” Harry says, palm pressed to the wall between Draco and the corner.
“Endearing how you tried to refrain from cornering me, and before that ripping Cedrick to shreds when he dared to allow his gaze to venture.”
Harry laughs, a short breathy sound that rumbles through Draco without having touched the other man.
“You know exactly what you are doing.”
Harry’s hand comes down from the wall, his fingers ghosting over the hair that fell over his cheek. His fingers gently brush it back and almost make it to cup his cheek as the door chimes.
Time passes, and Harry dares to touch Draco more. A brush of fingers across the small of his back, a gentle clasp of his shoulder, trailing fingers across his waist, catching Draco as he stumbles at one point. He wants nothing more than to tug at the delicate ponytail, expose his neck, and claim him.
The rest of the week progresses as it had the previous week. The tension increases like the cream for creme brulee. Draco could barely stomach teasing Harry knowing the Saturday that was approaching, though he continues finding himself in interesting positions each time he does. Harry physically removes him from the counter by the sink much to his utter enjoyment. He wishes he would have stood between his legs and…
Do you have plans for the full moon? He couldn’t ask. Such a typical question for a wizard with his practices.
When Saturday comes, he almost sends a care package. The moon does not rise until the evening. There was no reason for him to be nervous. He spends the day drawing runes on his body, and gathering the last time with his mother before she departs for her festivities. He pays a visit to Renata for an order he placed. The dried herbs smell divine. She bound them perfectly, just as he likes for a smudging session. He prepares a more casual cake to eat when the moon sets. The cake is layered with a light cream between fresh berries.
Harry wakes. It is not a leisurely rising. Occulus is by his side the moment he is in the backyard. He walks the sweet dog back to his home letting himself in and enjoying the full moon feast that he, Ron, and Hermione made a tradition. It was hard to stomach food with the wolf bouncing about with gleeful energy. He needs to eat to prevent brutality, to prevent bones and sinue in his teeth come the early hours.
The evening is upon them with little regard for how ready they feel. Harry decides to start at the forest furthest from the village nearing the more rural properties up the hill. The wolf is free.
Draco secures his bundle of herbs to a contraption he made that swings with the wind taking the path nature gives it. He lights it and vanishes his robe back to his room. His milky skin is adorned with sigils from a variety of magical disciplines. Draco dances with a renewed rush of magic, joy, and energy. Harry is good for him. The offerings pile collected throughout the month is lit a few feet from the burning herbs. He dances naked under the moon, his skin glistening with runic markings, reddening with heat, shining with sweat.
Harry pads across lush moss and grass seeking to find the source of sweet-smelling light he sees in the distance. His paws meet a field of soft flowering clover. The light is closer, and he smells him before he sees him. Emerald green eyes like a lighthouse in the night even with the brightly burning fire. Harry knows, even while he is the wolf. His curling black fur is barely visible in the darkness. His ears perked up, muzzle raised to soak in the smell of herbs, of Draco.
Draco hears heavy footfalls stalking him. He sees green that is much more distinct than his field. His heart races. He ignores it, continuing to dance, determined to remain in his world during his full moon dedications. The large wolf has Harry’s eyes, his scars, and even his walk comes ever closer.
Harry walks in circles around the fire, near the smoke, near Draco. He patrols it like it is the only purpose for the moon. He does not disturb the man, though his eyes stray from his guard multiple times.
We will need to close the store tomorrow. I am not hurt, need rest, need a day. Harry messages the rest of his pack. Can you do that for me?
A loud howl is heard a great distance away, and Ron responds in the affirmative. That’s all he can understand anyway. The wolf patrols for nearly an hour before sitting menacingly before the fire, eyes never leaving Draco. He pants after a while running off to drink from a stream, thick drool trailing from his jowls. Harry shakes, expelling moisture at the fire that hisses. He sits again, eyes beginning to grow drowsy-still he watches Draco.
The early morning hours come. Draco continues to dance, and Harry continues to guard the man. The moon sets, and Harry transforms back. Bones crack back into place, and fur retracts. They were equal now, in the sense that they were both naked.
Draco does not raise his eyes to Harry. He continues his previous actions until Harry is in front of him. Human. Strong hands on his hips.
“Can I touch you? I’ve been dying to,” Harry rasps, lips at the shell of Draco’s ear.
“Please,” Draco startles himself with how easily the word slipped from his lips.
“I love the way you say please.”
Draco whines. “Shh, I haven’t even touched you.”
“You are.”
His hand trails from Draco’s hip, down, down until a thick digit slips between his legs brushing expertly against his clit. The tip of his index finger pressing against the threshold.
“Like a gift, only for me.”
Draco’s breathing stutters. Harry’s index finger presses deeper releasing a wash of arousal that coats his finger. He draws upward, circling Draco’s clit. His legs shutter hard, and Harry’s opposite arm securely wraps about his waist. His index finger taps a gentle rhythm, earning a drawn-out whimper. Harry laughs, his lips pressing into the crook of Draco’s neck.
“Can I have you, right here?”
“Yes,” The word is firm, sure, and desperate from the minimal touch he is given.
Harry smiles into Draco’s neck, his lips kissing then biting gently. He pulls back, licking his fingers, and waving a hand to put up a few wards. He waves his hand again and ensures the ground is soft enough for Draco. The blond’s lips drop open watching Harry’s finger in his mouth, and the wash of magic around them. He bites his lip on a moan at the feeling. Harry’s hands are back around him laying him down. The cake Draco had set out was feet from them, floating. Harry brings it nearer.
“Part of the ritual?”
“The final part.”
“Then you should eat.”
The fingers on Harry’s nondominant hand dip into the cake and press up to his lips. Draco opens his mouth and takes in his fingers, tongue swirling around cream and fruit. He licks his lips. Harry patiently waits for him to swallow before two fingers on his dominant hand slip into Draco gently. He gasps.
“So good for me.”
His fingers dip into the cake and further into Draco. He swipes cream and berries down Draco’s chest. His fingers move in and out steadily. He licks all traces of sweetness or sugar from his fingers before returning the attention to his clit dually stimulating. Draco moans, hips shifting. Harry licks up the mess he made across Draco’s chest. His hands continue moving but he shifts upwards capturing his lips in a gentle kiss as he increases the pace of both his hands. His hips buck into Harry’s hands.
The kiss continues as Harry’s fingers work, and he pulls back.
“Get some cake, love.” So Draco does, holding a berry between his cream-slathered lips.
Harry meets his lips, cleaning the cream and taking the berry. Draco is vocal throughout the stimulation, and all he wants to do is feast on him, fuck him, keep him forever.
“Need, more.”
He leans down, nondominant hand holding Draco’s hips in place as his tongue goes to work. Draco’s fingers slide into his hair, tugging, whining, moaning. His legs start to shake at the attention. Harry laughs into him adding vibration to the mix. His tongue taps at Draco’s clit, licking flat every so often. He adds a third finger, curling all three instead of pistoning them. He undoes Draco slowly maintaining the curling motion and shifts to sucking on his clit through the incoming climax. His legs tense, and he orgasms allowing Harry to indulge in the wave of liquid arousal.
His slick fingers dip into the cake and press against Draco’s lips. His opposite hand delves into him curling three fingers through his orgasm as Draco sucks his fingers clean. His fingers dip into the cake again smearing it across his nipples. Harry licks, sucks, and lightly nibbles on the puckering flesh of his nipples.
Harry kisses Draco with cream and the tangy bite of strawberry on his lips. They Kiss him with more urgency and vigor. Draco nibbled at his lower lip, tongue darting out to taste himself mingling with the other flavors.
He hasn’t been able to form much more than simple phrases and sounds. When their lips disconnect, the two of them share a look in which they both appear to be on the same page.
"Can I fuck you? It’ll be intense, but I think you already know that- Seeing as you were unsurprised when a giant wolf showed up, witnessed you dancing naked, and then turned out to be me.”
“I figured it out days ago… Why do you think I goaded you at work. Yes, you can fuck me.”
Harry hums, his grin showing his teeth intentionally. He nods, holding Draco’s legs against his chest gently. He sighs contentedly, cock sliding between pale thighs.
Draco is sure his entire face has flushed pink, eyes downcast to where Harry thrusts into his thighs. His green eyes rolling back on a groan, the only time he has looked away from Draco that night. Harry continues until a pale hand reaches up, thumb smearing circles around the slickened head. Harry’s eyes seem to blaze hot, a smirk crossing the face of the man below him.. He tugs back from between Draco’s legs pressing slowly in, inch by inch, the girth alone is startling.
By the time Harry has fully sheathed within Draco, he is gasping and feeling frantically at his lower stomach. His hands settle on a bulge, pressing down triggering a sharp growl.
"Don’t.” Harry says, gruffly.
Draco smirks, doing it again, and he bucks his hips hard. The sound that leaves Draco’s lips is foreign to him, nearly a scream but more a sob of toe-curling brutal pleasure. Soon they reach a slow pace of mutual movement, the sensation of being stretched so completely yet mind-numbingly full at the forefront for Draco. His silver eyes heavy lidded, and he fights with everything to stay blissful in the moment. Harry’s heart hammers in his chest, almost in time with his thrusts, though his movements are slower for now. He cups Draco’s cheek, increasing his pace and force. They moan in tandem, pale legs shuttering in his grasp.
The evidence of their pleasure echoes through the rural expanse of Draco’s property and likely the neighboring ones. It feels like an eternity and mere seconds in the half-hour they have spent fucking. If Harry had not lovingly softened the ground below them, his back would likely be rug-burnt. Even his heavy breathing was somehow sexy, and then Draco can feel the swell of something. Something even thicker than the girth that startled and stretched him. Harry’s muscular arms wrap around his waist and lift him closer. He feels folded, like doing a stretch for his toes before ballet.
His legs maneuver to wrap around Harry’s hips as the man leans to capture his lips. It’s messy, like the way they consumed the cake. Saliva and teeth, moans and whines, the wanton curling towards each other needily.
“I could smell how flustered you were some days in the bakery. Could practically taste you dripping in your trousers,” Harry says, voice rough with straining control. “You always remained so collected. I wanted to spread you out on a prep table and breed you then.”
Draco’s eyes are wide, glossy, cheeks going impossibly pinker. He whines at the beginning of the admission, and gasps out a cry by the end.
“Gods, you should have.”
Harry bites at Draco’s lower lip, tugging it out and sucking on it.
“I will now, you’ve been so good for me. You deserve it, don’t you, Draco?”
Draco can only respond with a moan, his lips parted as he looks between them at the knot pressing eagerly against his pussy. Harry chuckles, the vibration coasting across his neck and shoulders. Harry bites down hard in the crook of Draco’s neck, and his back arches considerably in his grip. As soon as abnormally sharp canines press into flesh, he presses the knot into the tight heat with a harsh buck of his hips. The pain and pleasure run parallel. Harry’s breathing is shallow and heavy, while Draco’s is gasping, rapid, one hand in dark curls, and the other scratching down his spine.
Harry’s hips rock uncontrolablly, pressing his knot in deeper. He growls against Draco’s neck still biting and sucking. One hand remains around Draco while the other guides his hips with Harry’s movements. The thighs around his hips shake.
“You are impossibly gorgeous, perfect,” Harry rambles, their foreheads touching. “Mine.”
“Yours,” Draco echos, he smirks blissfully as his hand travels down to cradle the bulge in his lower stomach, “Mine.”
Harry groans, hips driving upwards roughly with a single goal. He achieves it moments later, cock twitching deep inside Draco as he fills him. He holds him tightly, protectively- keeping him firmly sheathed inside as tremors rock through the slender body in his lap.
They stay in that position as they ride out the aftershocks. Harry’s hands carding through white blond hair, massaging his scalp, rubbing his back. Draco’s nails dig into Harry’s shoulders before he calms and simply holds them tightly. Soft hands travel to his golden face, thumbs padding over his cheekbones. A serene smile mirrored on their faces.
The sun begins to rise when Harry’s knot finally releases Draco. Harry summons a blanket, and they lay on the hill. Bodies warmed by each other and the ritual fire. They feed each other cake into the early morning hours.