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So, he’s in a tiny bit of trouble.
A totally regular, non-threatening amount of trouble.
His knuckles are throbbing and beginning to bruise. His boss’ nephew is on the ground and unconscious, blood trickling from his nose — but at least he’s breathing, Harry figures.
This is completely fine. Entirely under control.
It began, probably, when Harry saw him. Not the nephew — he is irrelevant for now, as Harry tries to recall the events that have most likely led to his inevitable firing from the Ministry. No, it began when he walked into work, as bored as any other day might make him, until a head, so bright it was unmistakable, caught his eye.
Harry’s heart had leapt so much that he had only a moment to realise and process that it was in fact Draco Malfoy, on a bench with a big visitor badge pinned to the chest of his immaculate robes. He’d been looking away, his side profile familiar but mature now, all these years gone. The pointiness of him had chiselled out slightly, suiting him, Harry thought. His hair was devoid of gel, but styled, and also suited him, Harry thought. The way that he had thrown one leg over the other, the way that his eyes remained downturned so that his lashes almost sat upon his cheeks, the way that his fingers tapped irritably against the wood beneath him. It all suited him, Harry thought, and could not accurately guess how long he had been staring before he was caught.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he attempted to calculate the last time that they had crossed paths. Had it truly been at the man’s trial, when Harry had watched him thank the Minister for his mercy in granting him a year’s house arrest, given his age and the help that he had given Harry Potter in not identifying him? Had the last moment that they had shared eye contact been that very moment, across the court, tear marks on his blotchy red cheeks. Harry had testified for him. His eyes had said, thank you and fuck you, but a word was never spoken to him. A lingering thought had followed him out of the courtroom and haunted him until he’d thought that he had forgotten about Draco Malfoy all together: Does he hate me for this?
It wouldn’t make sense for him to do so. He should be kissing your feet, Ron had told him when he voiced his concerns one night. It was this, or Azkaban, and Malfoy wouldn’t survive one night there. Ron had asked him, why would he hate being let off easy? But Harry had thought to himself that it wasn’t about the house arrest; it was punishment enough to know that he had Harry Potter to thank for the shortened sentence, and owing him anything at all was most likely akin to death.
But they had been eighteen then, almost nineteen. They had been too young to cope with their emotions and understand what they meant. Harry had been, at least. Ron had asked him, why do you even care if the git hates you? and Harry had no answer for him or for himself, an unsettling sensation falling over him as he realised that he did not know.
Now, with a self-aware, inward chuckle of how immature it sounds, Harry could recognise that they were men. At twenty-six, they had a wider scope of the world. Distance between them, also, and a thousand questions regarding the time that has passed.
Malfoy had indeed caught him staring eventually. He caught him when allowing those familiar grey eyes to lift and canvas the room, and Harry had watched as they had transformed from bored to — something — in an instant. Locking eyes, neither of them had seemed to want to be the first to look away. No words were spoken between them besides what might have been said non-verbally, but Harry could not say for certain that anything was.
It was not until somebody walked straight into him that Harry remembered that he was standing in the middle of a corridor, taking up unnecessary space and being an overall nuisance to the hardworking wizards and witches of the Ministry. After apologising to the man who had stumbled into him, Harry attempted to gather what little self-awareness and control that he may have had left, and turned back to Malfoy. With a nod of his head — and with nothing in return from the blond man from his youth — Harry continued on his way, significantly less bored than when he had walked in.
It happened just like that. After years of not thinking about Malfoy at all, this became the defining moment as to when he would not leave Harry’s mind, and when he would begin to attempt to weave Malfoy into every conversation he had.
For one reason or another, Harry couldn’t get him out of his head. Along with all of the complicated, intricate history, the life-debts and the duels, there was one fact that Harry could, upsettingly, unavoid as a catalyst to this Malfoy-plague on his mind: The bastard was detrimentally, hopelessly, and earth-shatteringly, fucking gorgeous.
*
Harry ended up seeing him again once a week, every week after that. This, unsurprisingly, did not do anything to help his situation.
Hermione took to shaking her head and trying not to laugh at him whenever the man was inevitably brought up in conversation. Ron wanted to take him to a mind-healer, or else have him tested for a love potion.
This, of course, was ridiculous. Harry was not lamenting over his gentle temperament or wishing he could marry him. He was not discussing the (frankly impressive) length of his eyelashes, or the pretty shade of his lips. He was simply bringing him up, letting them know that he had seen him again, because it seemed like important information to share. Harry wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about.
If, once or twice, he found himself in the shower, or in his bed on a sleepless night or early morning, bored and alone and thinking of Malfoy, that was nobody else’s business. If he found both his mind and his hand wandering south, that was also nobody else’s business. If he happened to wrap his fingers around himself and found himself harder than he’d been when thinking of his past lovers, that was, indeed, his own business. The thought of those grey eyes spurred on the movement of his wrist, the tightness of his grip, the furious upward thrusts of his hips. He couldn’t remember touching himself ever feeling like it did when he thought of the man; he felt like a teenager again.
Each week, when Harry saw him and they locked eyes, they would not speak. It was more subtle now, done in a way that would not hold up people on their way to work. Leaning against a wall and peering over at him, or having to put down and conveniently reevaluate the contents of his briefcase.
Harry felt reduced each time he gazed at him, felt a heat in his cheeks as he remembered touching himself the same morning with the thought of him fresh and hot in his brain. He had simply had to hope that Malfoy wasn’t a legilimens. Each week, something would pass between them that was more than these words that perhaps should be spoken. Understanding, maybe? Willing? Challenge, most likely — Because they both knew that there was plenty to be discussed, if they wanted to. The question was who was going to initiate it.
This mental battle they had begun was fresh and exciting, no matter how deranged it seemed to his friends. And perhaps Harry was imagining all of it. Perhaps Harry was having an entirely one-sided conversation in their shared gaze, and he really was going crazy.
He had looked at Malfoy the day that he had wondered that, had watched the way that Malfoy’s eyes trailed over him and found his mouth dry, his cock automatically hardening beneath his trousers, as if a mere glance from the man should demand such a reaction. Harry had had to urgently waddle away from him, leaving confusion on the other man’s face, slight disappointment that their now-regularly scheduled eye-contact was cut short.
That had been the first hint that he wasn’t going crazy, after all.
*
“Potter,” Robards had said to him one morning; the morning where Harry’s rather secure career had finally become jeopardised. It had started as quite an inconsequential morning, because work was slow and Malfoy had not been there with a big visitor badge today. “Come with me. There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.”
Harry had gone, because Robards was his boss, after all, and there was always one person or other that he wanted to impress with The Boy Who Lived.
“This is Byron,” Robards had told him. “My nephew.”
This mere introduction was not what led Harry to knocking him out. Harry shook his hand politely, judged him as younger than himself; early twenties. He looked like he could be one of Dudley’s friends from back in the day, stocky and confident, his grip too tight. Maybe Harry didn’t like him already.
“‘Nice to meet you,” Harry had told him. A lie.
“You too,” Byron said, the American accent shocking Harry’s ears for a moment. “So you’re like, a big deal here, huh?”
Harry sterned his jaw, shrugged, and dropped his hand. “That’s what people tell me.”
Byron had laughed, then, but Harry had the distinct impression that he was being rude even through his smile. He was looking around at the place, eyeing up every single body walking around them, winking at women and even allowing his head to spin around to watch a young man walk on. Harry had to hide his surprise at this, had to physically stop his eyebrows from shooting to the top of his forehead.
“Byron is on a trip from the States,” Harry heard Robards explain needlessly. “As you’re one of our top Aurors here, Potter, I would like to ask you to show my nephew around. Give him a tour of the Ministry, demonstrate what it is we do here to keep our Great Britain safe and secure.”
Harry forced his face into an agreeable smile. His cheeks hurt. He swallowed the profanity that threatened to spill out, and instead said, “My pleasure. This way.”
*
“So,” Byron said as they trundled down an empty corridor, with really nothing to look at or show him. Harry determinedly kept his eyes forward, away from the man who had been getting on his last nerve. His movement was forestalled by the next question, knocking almost all of the air out of his chest. Byron said, “You queer?”
However much it may seem like it is the reason that Harry’s fist found a home in the man’s face, it is not. Harry could sparsely even think of a reaction to this, let alone act anything out. He was not offended, per se — shock and surprise erupted through him, along with some embarrassment, memories of his hand down his pants, aided by thoughts of Malfoy.
“Sorry?” he had said, blinking, wide-eyed. It was all that he could bring himself to say.
“Do you like men?” he elaborated. “You look the type. But, you know, all British guys do, so I can never be too sure.”
“That’s not —” Harry hesitated, a hand rising to awkwardly rub the back of his neck. “— Er, appropriate.”
Or your business, he didn’t say. He should have. Maybe it would have shaken some manners into him, forced him to reevaluate the shit that comes out of his mouth.
Byron scoffed a laugh, at that. “So you are queer, is what I’m hearing. Don’t get all uptight about it. I fuck both.”
Harry, really, did not care. He wanted to tell him this, but held himself back and kept his mouth shut, not wanting to offend the nephew of his boss. If he could just get this over with, he had thought, they could both leave and never have to think about each other again.
Quickly, Harry found that getting it over with was not an option.
Each rounded corner brought a new face, a new body to comment on. Byron turned this tour of the Ministry into a twisted game of would or wouldn’t, with Harry’s friends and colleagues at the basis of the crude entertainment. His stony silence in no way perturbed the man, oblivious to his lacking patience. Harry watched his head whip around to follow a sweet girl that he had only met a few times, heard him say that he definitely would, and this was when Harry felt his fists start to tighten.
Still, he held back. For as long as he could handle it, he held himself back, knowing that as long as he could get through this tour, it would be fine.
It was fine. Almost.
It so easily could’ve been fine.
“Oh. Wow,” Byron breathed. Harry steeled himself for the next word, not bothering to look away from onward, not eager to hear whether it would be a would or a wouldn’t. Neither word came.
Byron had stopped walking altogether, frozen to the spot, and Harry had already walked on a few paces before realising this and stopping, too. He followed Byron’s hungry gaze, the direction in which his mouth, hanging open, pointed crudely.
Of course. He shouldn’t have even been surprised.
“Who the fuck is that?” Byron asked, staring down an entirely oblivious Draco Malfoy, who shouldn’t even have been there today. He was not wearing his usual billowing robes, but a smart shirt and form-fitting trousers, along with an uncharacteristic smile on his face as he conversed with someone from another department who Harry can’t look at close enough to figure out if he knows them or not.
The clothing, of course, was not reserved for Harry’s notice alone.
“That’s,” Harry began, the moisture from his mouth vanishing. “That is, er, Draco Malfoy.”
Byron showed no visible reaction to the man’s name, no glimpse of recognition overtaking his shameful awe. His slowly lidding eyes, filled with a sudden lust, were unmoving from Malfoy’s slightly leaning posture, pointy elbows on a low wall. One knee bent, one not, his posture was still unwaveringly perfect. A curl of blond hair fell over one of his eyes and long fingers pushed it back into place.
“I don’t need to tell you what my answer would be for that, do I?” Byron asked, a whistle following shortly thereafter. Harry had felt the true sense of anger stir then, quiet warning sirens beginning their blaring echo deep within him. He refused to say anything in return to humour the man, and so the silence had been filled by more incessant drabble and filth. Byron had continued with, “Fucking hell. Imagine that bending over for you.”
Harry’s eye had twitched. So had his fist.
And that is what leads them here, to where Harry is in a totally regular, non-threatening amount of trouble, his knuckles throbbing and beginning to bruise. Beneath the building panic, he only has a moment to think that the bastard is just lucky that he hadn’t had his wand in his hand, instead.
There are a million more eyes on him than usual, which is both saying something and a little nostalgic after so many years since the War. Amongst those eyes are a set of grey, filled with confusion, just like the rest. All Harry can think to do is push his glasses up his nose with a bloody finger.
“Harry?” he hears, and he’s turning around, finding his best friend in the crowd. It’s a very big crowd. Harry feels the panic in his throat, now.
Ron gets to him just as the talking starts, sharp murmurs shared behind hands. People are running over to Byron and calling for Healers, calling for Robards, and oh, yeah, Harry is fucked. But Ron is a good friend. Ron is the bestest friend ever to exist in the entire universe, actually, and he walks Harry away, into small office where Harry can quickly process his emotions with one very pronounced word:
“Fuck.”
Ron clicks the door shut behind him, expression aghast. “Bloody hell, Harry! What — What?!”
“Fuck!” Harry repeats, reality sinking in. “Oh, God, Ron. I just punched Robards’ nephew!”
“Yeah, you weirdo!” Ron exclaims. “What did you go and do that for?!”
Harry’s face twists — not in physical pain, per se, but it definitely does hurt, because the shame here is awful. He can’t lie to Ron, but there really isn’t anything but the truth that he could feed him as an excuse so quickly. He’s never going to hear the end of this, and he must brace himself for the inevitable reaction, cringe shooting through his body as he manages to get the words out.
Too quiet for the man before him to hear, he admits, “He said he wanted to fuck Malfoy.”
“What?” Ron frowns, taking a step closer.
“He said he wanted to fuck Malfoy,” Harry exclaims, holding his hands up at once.
Ron’s expression, impressively, becomes even more ridiculous. “So you knocked him out?!”
Harry rolls his eyes. “That wasn’t actually my intention!”
“What the— You— You’re so weird!” he says. “Blimey, Harry!”
“I know!”
A small pause. Then, with the same ridiculous expression on his face, he shrugs his shoulders, “A bit impressive, though.”
Harry groans, falling into a deep seat and slapping his palms to his face. There’s a thrumming silence in the room that’s directly juxtaposing the hustle of commotion outside of the door. Biting his lip, he concedes, “Yeah?”
“I mean, I didn’t see it happen, but he’s a big bloke. Must have a proper right hook on you. Good job.”
Harry rubs the back of his neck. “Do you… Think…”
“Mate, I can admit that it was pretty cool, but if you’re about to ask me if Malfoy would’ve thought the same—”
Harry scoffs. “I wasn’t going to ask that!”
With a raised eyebrow, “What, then?”
Harry twists his face again, pressing his lips together, eyebrows furrowing. He shakes his head, accepting defeat. It’s Ron’s turn to groan now, muttering something about Harry being too obsessed for his own good, and it’s kind of gone past the point of arguing with this claim, so Harry doesn’t bother.
He doesn’t have time to ask Ron what he’s supposed to do now, what he’s supposed to tell Robards, because the man is slamming the door open with his eyes on Harry and Harry alone. He’s demanding answers that Harry is still trying to figure out how to articulate without being too indelicate and exposing. There’s a crowd still behind him, all lurching in to peer through the doorway, desperate to hear just what Harry has to say for himself.
“Well?” Robards is shouting. Harry can’t look at him. He’s looking through the door, now, focused on only one person — one bright head that manages to screw up his thought process even more than he can fathom.
Harry gulps. Still not looking at his boss, he says dumbly, “What?”
Those grey eyes that have become so familiar to Harry these past weeks are peering back again, intrigue and concern pasted into the irises, into the crease between his light brows. Harry’s brain is already swimming — now, it appears to begin to drown. Harry looks at Draco Malfoy, and he is lost for words and logic.
“Potter,” Robards seethes. “I demand to know why you have attacked my nephew.”
Harry gulps. He doesn’t notice Ron trying to cover for him, doesn’t notice his attempt to tell Harry to stay quiet. He’s too stupidly focused on someone else. So, to his idiotic detriment, Harry answers Robards — and the million other employees listening in — with the same truth that he afforded his best friend. Keeping his eyes fixated on the grey staring back at him, Harry says, “He said that he wanted to fuck Malfoy.”
*
He can just see the headlines. Skeeter is going to have a field day with this. Hermione is going to have a fit.
Much to Ron’s anger, Robards sends Harry to his office instead of home to recuperate. He’s clearly not in a clear state of mind, Ron argues for him. He has to go home, has to sleep it off and come back with his head screwed on right. Robards hears and entertains none of this, dismissing Harry to his office whilst they figure out what to do with him.
The crowd parts for Harry as he does as he’s told, but the infringing eyes are not only on him, anymore. Against his will, Malfoy has become another centre of attention, and for that, Harry feels his first twinge of remorse of the day.
Now, he sits alone in his office, head yet again in his hands. Ron has no doubt gone to Floo Hermione, to get her advice or perhaps even ask her here. He hopes not. He doesn’t want to have to disturb her day with his absurd attitude towards Draco bloody Malfoy, of all things.
The door opens, and Harry doesn’t look up. He assumes that it’s Robards, here to scream at him some more, or perhaps make his termination official. Maybe it’s Ron, back with more news. Maybe it’s Byron, on his feet again already and wanting a crack back at him.
Maybe it’s—
Harry looks up, knowing his hope is most likely fruitless. But it’s not.
It takes him until the door is clicking shut again to realise that — holy fuck — it’s not.
“Malfoy,” he says, stumbling to stand up, almost tripping over his own feet. He’s temporarily inept at speech, it seems, so he doesn’t attempt to say anything else, lest he make his situation any worse.
“Potter,” is the word that is returned to him. Harry feels so young again, hearing his name fall from his mouth. He feels like he’s on another planet entirely as he attempts still to wrap his head around what’s happening. Malfoy’s voice sounds only marginally different to how it sounded all those years ago, when everything between them seemed to begin and end.
Harry examines the way that he leans against the wooden door, hands behind his back. Along with not wearing his robes, there’s a notable absence of a visitor’s badge, but Harry doesn’t know if that’s too much to say out loud. Everything feels like too much. An acknowledgment of their shared gazes feels heavy upon their presence in this small room.
He doesn’t know what comes next.
Malfoy takes his silence and then a step forward. Harry’s heart is in his throat, and for no good reason that he can think of.
“So,” he says, because Harry says nothing at all. The eye contact is forming a lump in Harry’s throat and he may choke, or he may get hard, or he might lose his mind altogether. Malfoy takes another step closer. “You fancy yourself my knight in shining armour, do you?”
Harry takes a deep breath. “He was making comments like that about everyone.”
Narrowing his eyes, Malfoy considers this. “Just your hero-complex kicking in again, then. I see.”
The man’s shoulders fall slightly. Realistically, Harry knows that the words should annoy him, should light a familiar fire within himself to summon some snark right back. But he doesn’t. There is already an encompassing heat within him, too distracting for another kind to take its place.
Harry just stares.
Malfoy tilts his head. The smarts from their days at Hogwarts have not weakened, because he appears to read Harry’s mind at once. Another step forward.
“What if I wanted to fuck him back?” he asks, his head on a now-permanent angle, his eyes darkening. “What if, in trying to protect my virtue, you’ve denied me a good night?”
“You don’t want him,” Harry denies. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. He tries to block out the weeks of eye contact but they’re heavy on his mind, haunting him and heating his skin.
Quick as anything, “I don’t?”
Quicker, still, “You don’t. Somehow, I don’t see loud-mouthed Americans being your type.”
“And you know my type.”
And he’s closer now, somehow, even though Harry doesn’t remember him taking those last steps. He doesn’t think about the words before they leave his mouth in response to that question phrased as a statement, sharp and substantial: “I know who you look at.”
Malfoy’s eyes widen, as if surprised by Harry’s gall. Then a glint seeps into them, as if impressed by it. He’s not close enough to touch but he’s close enough to see the quirk in his lips, as well as a freshly reddened mark from where he’d been chewing them.
Malfoy asks, “Have you got something to say?”
“Only that you’re welcome,” he says. “Byron was one second away from public indecency just from looking at you.”
“Seriously, Potter. You’re going to make me blush.”
Harry glares at him for that, reverting back to years ago, but it doesn’t last. The unspoken words between them from weeks of understanding settle once again into his skin, and he adjusts his gaze to reflect that. And yet, perhaps a part of them will always be like this, winding the other up because they can, because they seldom know much difference.
Malfoy doesn’t stop, shows no intention of leaving. He asks, “Will you be fired?”
“Probably,” Harry says, not taking his eyes off of him.
“Shame,” he says back. “I should’ve waited, and gone for your job instead.”
Harry blinks. “You were interviewing?”
“Intensively. I wasn’t here to just watch you, you know.”
Harry wants to ask everything. He wants to ask what position it’s for; what department; would he see him regularly? He craves information about the man and yet he doesn’t ask, because that’s not how it is between them. Not yet.
He says, “Just a perk, was it?”
And Malfoy’s eyes fall to his feet before they inch upwards, scanning his body until his gaze meets Harry’s once again. One eyebrow raised, he tells him, “Maybe.”
He sterns his jaw, pushes himself away from the desk that he’d been leaning against, and hates that Malfoy is still taller than him. There's still a few paces between them, but it’s easy to tell. Easier now than it has been, anyway, when they’ve been across rooms or hallways, alternating between sitting down and standing up, looking at each other or not.
Harry thinks about each and every instance in the recent months in which he hasn’t been able to stop himself from talking Ron and Hermione’s ears off about the man. He wonders what they’d have to say about this — what they will say, if Ron walks in and catches them, which he could do at any damn moment. He doesn’t know why it’s framed in his head as the potential of getting caught, but it is — as if the two of them are doing something wrong by being in a room together. Together and alone.
A deep breath leaves his mouth without him realising it. They’re alone. They have not been alone in years. Maybe it’s the addition of the adrenaline of the day, or maybe it’s the fact that Harry hasn’t seen him this closely in forever as well that makes it all so overwhelming, that makes him unable to take his eyes off of him again.
He’s prettier up close, even though Harry hates to admit it, because something like that shouldn’t even be possible. His grey eyes possess flecks of blue, his pale skin holding the slightest and lightest of freckles, which are quickly covered by a cloud of pink that dusts his face. Harry realises that he’s been staring again.
The room is hot and the space between them is minimal. Too long of a silence has passed for them to brush it off. Harry doesn’t know how to proceed other than to look into the other man’s eyes. That is all that he has known, conversations and songs and debates slipped between them without a word spoken. Now, when he looks in his eyes, there is more. The sentences passed between them these last moments have meant nothing in comparison to the look in his eyes, the desperation for an understanding.
Harry says, “Malfoy,” with a new softness, a new quiet and calm about him. There’s weight in just this one word, an uttered name with such a past to it. Harry wonders if the other man is thinking about the time that they’ve spent dancing around one another, staring, spitting in each other’s faces. He wishes he could read his mind. He says, “Draco.”
The man before him parts his lips, pink and a little ripped and yet still somehow perfect. His gaze permeates past Harry’s glasses, glides seamlessly from eye to eye. Through his open lips comes his hot breath, mingling with Harry’s own, and it's dizzying.
Instead of answering with his own words, Draco Malfoy sinks to his knees.
Words have transcended this situation, anyway, and Harry is glad of it, because nothing that he could articulate could possibly come close to whatever the Hell is going on. He opens his mouth as his gaze follows the man down to where he stays, looking back up at him, scanning for any sign of disgust or concern. Harry gives him nothing but wide eyes and a speeding heartbeat that the man can probably hear.
Draco breaks the heated eye contact only to focus on what he’s doing, his hands lifting from his thighs — all the way to Harry’s belt buckle.
He undoes it with an apparent determination that has Harry’s enthusiasm on display through his trousers already, but Draco doesn’t comment on it. He takes keen action instead, turning next with haste to unbuttoning and undoing the zipper on his trousers, fingers moving with an attractive speed.
His eyes only flutter up to Harry’s once again when he has exposed his underwear, black today, hiding the shadow and depth of his arousal but only just. Draco avoids looking directly at it until he sees the flash of consent and fire in Harry’s eyes, and then he’s hooking the tips of his long, pale fingers over the hem of Harry’s underwear. The soft scrape of his fingernails is subtle but somehow everything, making his mouth drop open, his jaw twitch, staring down upon a scene he knows no man — let alone himself — deserves to see.
When he pulls down his underwear, both of them stop breathing. Harry’s erection practically bounces out of his confines, standing tall and proud, right there in front of Draco’s face, protruding over his wide-eyed gaze. He’s dreamt of this, Harry reflects silently. He has fantasised about this more than once in those long, lonely nights of recent weeks. In the shower and in bed, in the cubicle of the public Ministry toilets because he can’t stop himself after looking in those damned eyes.
Draco’s eyes on him feels immaculate. His fingers remain in the fabric of his underwear because he’s immediately too distracted to let go. Harry can feel his quickening breath against the tip of his hardness, the slight wetness already accumulating there making it all the more noticeable. His breath is warm, somehow comforting. He wants more, but he doesn’t have to voice it.
The curled fingers leave his underwear and splay themselves across Harry’s thighs whilst he wastes no more time, pushing his head forwards and resting the head of Harry’s cock on the heat of his tongue. It’s an impossible sensation, an even more impossible sight. Harry scrambles with his hands, pulling up his shirt and pushing up his glasses, both to further ensure a better view. Draco holds eye contact with him as he simply allows the still moment to unfold, tasting him for what Harry knows is the first time and hopes isn’t the last.
His head is spinning. A hand reaches back to steady himself against his desk and Draco closes his mouth over him, still gazing upwards, so lewd and so much that Harry fears his own collapse. Draco takes him in his mouth, just the head for now, his eye contact only breaking to allow them to flutter shut. Still, he allows it to just rest in his mouth, seemingly relishing in the feeling of it, his tongue slipping underneath it and then all around.
Harry is seeing spots of light where his vision should be. It’s an unintentional error on his part when he lets his hips jerk forwards, subconsciously seeking for more of that same pleasure. The movement surprises Draco but does not put him off, and before Harry has the chance to apologise, he’s pushing his head down further of his own volition.
His mouth feels like nothing Harry has ever known before. His mind cannot even remember the names of those who have done this to him now, because it appears to be turning to jelly. He watches and watches the way that Draco continues and then retracts himself, taking it slowly but eager to get it all in.
When he feels himself finally reach Draco’s throat, his knees buckle. Draco’s nose tickles his pubis and Harry does not know how he got here, does not know this unravelled from punching a random fucker in the face but he is eternally grateful that it has, because this—
Draco swallows around his cock and Harry throws his head back. It is yet another unconscious decision that has Harry driving one hand into the blond hair at his hips, threading his fingers through the softness and trying not to hold on too tight. He remembered thinking how nice his hair looks nowadays, how pretty his pink lips were. Now, he has them — at least for now, at least in this room, he has them in the most intimate way he possibly can.
The silence still stands in the room, save for Harry’s constant panting and occasional grunts, holding back from letting the most of it leave his lips. To anyone else, he might curse, might tell them how good they’re doing or how much he’s enjoying it. There’s no room for that here, no space in the moment for words that wouldn’t be able to live up to it all anyway, that seem beneath the two of them right now.
Draco gets into a strong rhythm, bobbing his head up and down, his eyes opening again eventually. He looks up at Harry yet again and Harry practically whines at it, reading anything and everything in that gaze. His eyes say, You’re welcome. His eyes say, I could do this forever.
Harry would let him.
The idea comes to him as he feels the well-known heat bubbling in his abdomen, a sudden and intense need to not allow this to end right here. As much as Harry wants to finish inside of his mouth, or all over his face (and trust him, he desperately wants to — has fantasised about doing both many times), he can think of just one thing that would top that. Substantially so.
His hand, the one that had come to a rest within Draco’s soft hair, slips from the crown of his head to his jaw. He rubs his thumb over the skin there, confounded for just another moment too long about how one man could ever look so beautiful. Draco’s profile is truly striking, his face as if carved from marble, more sensually attractive at this second, cheeks sunken with suction. His gaze, on him still, holds so much thrill and satisfaction at what he's doing that it’s indecent.
At the new presence of Harry’s hand under his chin, Draco pulls off and away from his erection as if he’s been told to. The tip of Harry’s now dripping dick rubs over Draco’s glistening lips once more before Harry taps his cheek, and then the man is standing, and Harry’s having to tilt his head up again.
The silence between them lingers. They stare at each other, into each other’s darting eyes and at each other’s mouths, their flushed cheeks and heaving chests. There’s barely any time for Harry to gather his thoughts or reflect because he’s already moving without realising it — head first, slotting their noses side-by-side, lips slamming against lips. And maybe he should find it disgusting as Draco rushes to reciprocate, open-mouthed kisses taken in their stride even despite where his mouth has just been. The thought doesn’t even enter his head. Disgust is a foreign thing, here, now, in this small, hot room.
Draco’s tongue is as good in his mouth as it was on his cock. Harry doesn’t cheapen the moment by allowing his easily-distracted mind to linger on who Draco has kissed before, whose dicks he’s sucked before, because with any luck, he’ll be able to ask him at some point. His jealousy, impressively, is suppressed by the feeling of the hardness that he feels against his own. Harry feels the dig of teeth in his lower lip as he rushes to reach downwards, undoing the other man’s belt just as he had undone his.
His hands work quicker than his mind but slower than his mouth. They barely have time to breathe with how fervently they’re kissing, but Harry’s breath would’ve run out soon enough anyway, because he’s reaching into Draco’s now undone trousers, one hand’s fingers digging into the platinum hair as the other wraps itself around Draco’s echoed erection. It’s impressively hard, Harry’s ego inflating with the realisation, because the man is fucking throbbing just from a kiss and from sucking his cock. At Harry’s touch, Draco gasps, breaking the kiss to do so, and Harry uses the moment of distraction to his advantage.
He flips the both of them around seamlessly, pressing Draco back against his desk, crowding him until he’s practically sitting on it. His nails paw at Harry’s neck as he’s moved without warning, and then he’s staring with so much fucking excitement that Harry doesn’t notice when he almost headbutts him in his fervour to kiss him again. They’re both so lost in it, whimpers filling in for the quiet, tasting each other in a way that makes them both remember and forget all of their conjoined history.
Draco shoves down his trousers and underwear before Harry pushes in fully in between his spread legs. Their erections brush against one another before Harry reaches down and takes both of them in his singular grasp, rubbing them both against each other and his palm. And fucking Draco Malfoy is sitting there on his desk, entirely naked from the waist down, and it should be like a scene out of a crude porno movie, or one of the filthy magazines that Harry saw in shaded store windows. This should not be a reality, and yet even when Harry’s hand slips down just that little bit further, it still is.
The tip of his middle finger dips into the crease and he feels Draco freeze, his tongue momentarily retracting back into his own mouth. Harry does not yet remove it, but pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes yet again, examining his every micro-expression.
He shows no sign of hesitation, or disgust. In fact, his eyes say, do it. His eyes say, I dare you.
Harry brushes their noses against one another and mutters a spell that he knows all too well by now, wandless and wordless, and then his finger is slipping inside Draco’s ass as smooth as butter. The sound that Draco makes is nothing less that gorgeous, making his head fall back, exposing his long, pale neck — and it’s really all too tempting. Harry begins to pump his finger in, and then out, and then in again, all the way to the knuckle, and as he does it, he presses his face to the man’s throat.
Staying there is all too easy. By the time he’s pumping in a second finger alongside the first, Harry is mouthing at the skin on the man’s neck, biting and sucking small marks across it. Draco’s quick, breathy hums do nothing to deter him. Nor do his hands, grasping everywhere that they can reach on Harry’s body.
When Harry leans back to admire his reddened work across the pale skin, he slips in his third finger. The shade of the love-bites matches his now-darkened lips, hanging open in awe, swollen by kisses and teeth. The wince that Harry hears as Draco is stretched further in preparation coaxes Harry to stroke the man’s hair, an attempt at comfort. He wants to say you're okay but the silence stretches on, so he gazes at him and hopes that the man will continue to read his mind. And in his pleasure-drunk stupor, Draco actually does. He stares right back at Harry, determination somehow showing through in his eyes, and Harry understands it. They’re still on the same page.
Perhaps, Harry entertains, as he now leans back to watch his fingers move in the man, crudely staring at the act with no shame — Perhaps, in all of this, in the day-in-day-out staring, they created a sort of mind-charm, or suddenly became accomplished legilimens and occlumens for only the other person. It almost makes Harry laugh, even in the heat of the moment.
Perhaps they just know each other better than they’d both like to admit.
Draco makes a sound like a whine and again, Harry understands it as if the thought comes from his own mind. He removes his fingers from the man and takes hold of his cock, whispering the relevant spell once again, the singular word somehow a booming volume in the still-resounding hush. He jerks at himself just a few times, attempting to steady his breathing, staring down at the man and thanking whatever Gods might be out there for giving him both this opportunity, and a desk that just so happens to be just the right height for this.
Draco lays back, splaying his body out over all of Harry’s stuff — unfinished letters, log-books of cases. Harry doesn’t care if they get ruined. They crumple beneath him as Harry rips off Draco’s trousers and underwear entirely, getting rid of the unneeded obstacle, and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Draco’s hips. He thrusts forwards, not to penetrate at first, but to slide his erection over Draco’s, catching their breath in their throats.
He holds himself again, pressing his head to the prepared opening, watching Draco’s face closely. When he pushes forwards, that last, final push — breaking through the barrier of all that is known and makes sense — he almost sees stars. Distantly, he can hear the man beneath him choke on a cried out moan before slamming a long-fingered hand to his mouth, and for the first time since this started, Harry remembers that they’re in his goddamned place of work —
But they’ve gone this far. He’s probably getting fired anyway.
Once the head has sunken fully inside, Harry cannot breathe without a moan accompanying it. He makes himself wait, forces himself not to continue pushing in for the sake of Draco’s comfort, and it’s torture. Sweat drips off of his forehead, and his glasses are steamed up, smudged from the other man’s nose nudging them, but he can still see the way that his chest heaves up and down, the way his face is slowly beginning to calm and settle with getting used to the stretch.
There’s a nod from the man beneath him, after moments pass that feel like an entire lifetime, and Harry takes it as his cue to keep moving. The grip that he has on Draco’s hips grounds him as he pushes forwards, mouth permanently open as inch by inch he slides inside him. The heat and the tightness is overwhelming, and when he bottoms out, his thighs flush against Draco’s skin, he feels like he could almost faint. Draco is gripping the sides of the desk, fingernails digging and making marks in the dark wood, hopefully permanently.
Harry pulls back slowly before snapping his hips forward again, and then he’s gone. Draco shows anything but the need for him to slow down, wild eyes turning upon him filled with nothing but lust, and Harry is gone gone gone. His hips start to move without any semblance of holding back, pulling back and driving in, pulling back and driving in, and oh—
Draco’s body is rocking back and forth with it, ruining all of the parchment and Harry doesn’t care. He’s simply watching it unfold, watching Draco’s back arch up in pleasure, watching Draco’s fierce eyes not be able to make a decision between squeezing shut and wrenching them wide-open. His body is the most beautiful thing that Harry has ever seen and he still has his fucking shirt on, and—
Has it ever felt like this before? Harry can’t remember — He can barely remember the names of those that he’s done this with before now, let alone how they felt, but it couldn’t have been anything like this, nothing like this at all. He’s never felt his heart in his throat like this, never had such a head-spin, or ferocious thrum of arousal; an erection that is so hard that it’s unknown to him. If he was compos mentis, he’d be wondering if he’d been drugged, or jinxed, but he knows that it’s not a possibility. This desperate dizziness and staggering heat is born of no drug, no potion, no hex or curse or anything of the like. It is the result simply of Draco fucking Malfoy, and the way that his eyes glisten when they look at him, and—
An ink pot falls on its side, splattering Draco’s pristine shirt and pale arm in black, and it ridiculously reminds Harry of school. Draco either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, so Harry follows suit. He keeps fucking him, eyes everywhere until they’re once again on the returned gaze — the look he’s giving him equally as erotic as watching his cock bounce with the thrusts, leaking all over his stomach. Harry can’t bear to look away, can’t bear to even blink, their gazes locked in an impossibly sexual, sensual stand-still. Grey on green, green on grey, it’s too much, and every single look they’ve shared over not just the weeks but the years comes back to him, and—
How the fuck is this possible? Disbelief at the action overcomes him for a moment before he realises that it’s real again, and the tightness he feels is real, fucking into its reality. Draco’s legs lock in around his waist, drag him in with each thrust, quickening the pace. The fallen ink pot rolls off the desk, smashes on the ground, glass and black exploding everywhere and Harry still doesn’t care, and he—
He thinks about Hogwarts, thinks about insults and glares and hexes thrown, and worse. He thinks about the man sitting in an exam hall, those pretty fingers on a quill. He thinks about the man on his knees in Malfoy Manor, lying to his family. Later, on his feet before the Wizengamot, telling the truth. Tears on the man’s face — hatred on the man’s face — gratitude on the man’s face — His eyes had said thank you and fuck you. And Harry, he—
He wonders if Draco is somehow finding room in the moment to do as much reflecting as Harry is. Now, his eyes hold the entire truth of the past, not shying away from it, so maybe he is. Maybe Draco is recalling every moment they’ve shared since their first meeting in Madam Malkin’s, since Harry had then rejected his handshake but now has not rejected his advances. Maybe Draco is considering the fact that he’d once almost killed and been killed by Harry, and today Harry had punched a man for his rudeness towards him. Whilst pondering it, he feels the man tense up, a long, new, equally as pretty noise staggering out of him with stuttered breaths. He thinks he hears him swear under his breath but words are still unknown to them in this position. He wonders if Draco is reacting in such a manner because he’s reading Harry’s mind, or otherwise following the same exact thought process; the convolution and part-mended toxicity of their youth adding to how fucking good this feels, like they both needed this, like this is a therapy, and Harry—
He thinks of modernity, then, of spitting in Byron’s face and punching him again for good measure. He had said, “Imagine that bending over for you,” and with a poetic licence, Harry doesn’t need to. His anger feels justified and transformed now, channeled into a twisted form of satisfaction. Byron doesn’t know Draco. In his own way, Harry thinks, nobody will ever know Draco as well as he knows Draco, as deeply as he knows him. Nobody will ever share a past as similar as theirs, as unspeakable and as discussed. Thoughts and prayers can be sent, fantasies can be obsessed over and whispered to others with the same poisoned minds but this is theirs. In every manner possible and relevant, they wouldn't be able to replicate this with anyone but each other — an entirely unique experience that they have the privilege of sharing. And it’s so much, it so fucking intensely special — and Harry can see the sentiment reflected right back at him in the other man’s eyes. Harry is gripping on tight to Draco’s hips and thighs, tight enough to leave bruises, and he is — He—
He is cumming, much faster than he would’ve liked but so amazingly, pumping himself and his cum inside of him. His eyes threaten to squeeze shut but he doesn’t let them, holding this fated eye contact with a burning determination. His hips are stammering in their pace because it feels so fucking good, a culmination of all of their history, and it doesn’t escape Draco’s notice. At once, he’s almost spasming with the realisation of Harry finishing inside of him, and it falls over him, too. Harry watches with purposeful, intent eyes as Draco’s cock — practically untouched — begins to paint his torso and wrinkled shirt with the white splashes of his orgasm. It’s the hottest fucking thing that he’s ever seen in his life.
Harry stays inside until they both are shaking with the aftershocks. Heavy breaths and high moans are falling from the both of them, and Harry is just being brought back to reality, noticing a smudge of ink that has somehow made its way onto Draco’s forehead.
When he pulls out, he watches shamelessly as his cum begins to spill out after it. Draco’s face reddens with embarrassment but he doesn’t tell Harry to fuck off, yet, pushing himself to sit up again once he’s caught his breath. His eyes stay on Harry’s face, wide still, like he still can’t believe it even after it’s already happened.
That’s when they hear it.
“—Have to worry, Harry! I spoke to Hermione, and then I spoke to Robards, and honestly, we think you have a pretty good chance of—”
The door opens. They don’t even have time to warn him off.
“— Keeping your — What the fuck?”
“Ron—” Harry stresses, bending down, trying to yank his trousers back up to his waist. “Fuck, Ron—”
“No!” Ron shouts, slapping his hands over his eyes, his mouth twisted in pure horror. “No! No! You’re weird, Harry! You are so weird! What the fuck!?”
Draco is unmoving, frozen in place, too covered in stickiness from both semen and ink to effectively clothe himself in time.
“I leave you alone for two minutes and you punch a bloke. I leave you alone for five, and you fuck Draco Malfoy!”
Harry gulps, pulling up his zipper. “It was a bit more than five, actually—”
“Bloody — Fucking — Merlin—” Ron groans. He turns around, but because his eyes are still covered, he walks face-first into the door. “Ow! That’s your fault, that is!”
Draco presses a hand to his mouth now, stifling a snort.
“Don’t you start and all!” Ron huffs, his hand finding the doorknob once more. “You two have ten minutes to clean up. Ten! Don’t say I never do anything for you. Bloody Nora…”
Draco is unable to stop the laughs protruding from behind his palm now. Harry watches his smile, watches the creases by his eyes. And then Ron is gone, muttering to himself down the corridor, leaving the two of them entirely alone yet again.
They probably have a lot to talk about, anyway.