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You don't even know the name for this thing you want to do to him. You don't even know that it has a name. All you know is that, one detention, you snap.
And it starts.
You say something rude to him, because you're Draco Malfoy and he's Harry Potter, and that's what happens. One moment you're polishing a centuries-old Quidditch Cup and he's washing windows with that angry swipe, the squeak of his rag abrasive to your ears. The next breath, you're in each other's faces. He's got you backed into a wall, his wand in hand but not pointed at you. No, he learned that lesson sixth year. The guilt still swims in his eyes, mixed with fury.
The kiss startles you both. You hadn't meant to. Despite countless wank fantasies, you were never going to do this.
But you are doing it. And he lets you. He parts his lips, and you're ruined.
You turn his back to the wall. The clatter of the wand striking stone echoes through the room, then his hands are on you. He's pulling you in, and the deep well of pain and joy you've hidden inside ignites.
Your nails scrape down his neck, down his chest. He groans against your lips. You're unfastening his trousers and falling to your knees. You take his cock in your mouth but hold his hips and don't let him thrust. You suck his thick cock with tears threatening your eyes, and so you shut them.
When he comes – and it's fast – he's practically crying, too. You swallow like a slag and disguise how much you like it. You grimace even as you lick the taste from your lips.
You know you should stop now.
But then he looks down at you, all drowning green wonder and shame. You let those thousand fantasies push you to stand. You're both still panting as you wrench his trousers and pants down, and angle him over the banquet table. Potter grunts, and you expect a rejection. But when you do it – and you didn't even know you were going to until you're down there behind him – he sucks in his breath, his body going momentarily stiff, retracting… and then his muscles go beautifully lax. His arms spread wide and grip the edges of the table, and he lets you open the twitching flex of his arse.
He lets you taste him, one small lick at a time. And with each moment he doesn't hex you, you get bolder. It's not long before you're angling your face to get deeper, and that tight whorl of soft skin starts to relax, and you hear an undignified growling sound – and it's you.
You glimpse Potter's cock between his thighs; it's hard again. You lick down, down, find his bollocks and suck them warm into your mouth. You shove your hand into your pants, the other grasping the back of his thigh. Potter reaches, feels, and then grabs your hair. He pulls you back where you were. You oblige, suddenly fighting the urge to smile, to triumph.
You both groan when your tongue slips inside.
You don't even know the name of this thing you're doing to him. All you know is that, in precious few moments, it will end.
Five Years Later
Leave it to Harry Potter to have his stag do at the Hog's Head.
You come here when you close up your shop and then stay till last call. It's usually quiet at this hour, so late and still. There are far more fun places for young witches and wizards to frequent if they want to stay out all night. Your visits here are medicinal. They help you sleep.
Well. They did.
It's obvious when he sees you because the laugh slips from his face like a mask. Weasley's still patting him on the back, but Potter's looking at you, and you're looking back, and for a moment all the air is sucked out of the room. You'd suspect Dementors, except that it's not cold; it's impossibly warm. His gaze leaves you fighting to remember anything about your life, anything at all.
And then his friends rip him away for pints.
You consider leaving, and maybe it makes you a masochist that you don't. It's been a long time since you've seen him in person. He makes the headlines a lot, though. New Auror. Decorated Auror. Big Bust in Kensington. Promotions.
Wedding Announcement.
You surreptitiously watch him over your whiskey glass. He looks happy in a bruised way. You observe him taking ribbings with grace, enduring toasts, laughing in all the right places. But when, two or three times, his gaze finds you, it all tilts a bit.
Eventually, his friends leave two, three at a time, until it's only a drunk Weasley and Thomas and Finnigan, who agree to get him home.
Potter downs the last of his pint, and you think he's going to leave, too. But then, as the door shuts on their departure, he orders a Firewhisky.
It takes a moment. His back is tense, and you think he's just going to sit there staunchly and ignore you.
But then…
He turns on the barstool, his eyes tired as they find yours. He throws back the shot and sets the glass carefully on a napkin. He pushes Galleons across the bar in exchange for a key. He stands, and your breath catches as he glances at you before he starts slowly up the stairs.
When you find yourself in the hall outside the room where he left the door wide open, you don't ask if he assumed you'd follow. You don't ask anything. When you loom in the doorway and he stands there in the middle of that room, facing you, and he strips his shirt off and drops it, you drop whatever words you never even formed and go to him.
You walk him against the wall, and you kiss. It's hard from the start, his mouth hot like embers, peppered with whiskey. His tongue touches yours, and there's a moment of soft stillness… of open lips and breath and the yearning in you both.
And then you remember.
You turn him away and shove his face into the wall. You reach around, unfasten his belt. You yank it, hissing from the loops, and fling it across the room. You pull his trousers and pants down, like a thousand years before, and then you fall.
You fall to your knees, to your disgrace. You hold his trembling arse open with equally trembling hands and you taste him again.
You taste him again.
Sweat and musk, fever-hot, and a breath of the soap he uses as you inhale and run your tongue up his crease until he moans and widens his legs.
When he waves his hand and the door slams shut, you realise it's been open all this time and you didn't even care. The only thing you care about is that he tastes the same, like you memorised. You lick up to this lower back, drop down and do it again. You might be trying to claim him... this piece of him. He might be letting you. Until…
"Damn it, Malfoy."
Your cock jumps. You tease his hole instead. "Like this?"
He groans, and though you laugh and it sounds like a taunt, it's not.
It's happiness. For this dangerous moment, this flirtation with entropy, you're happy.
"Eat me out, Malfoy," Potter growls. He sounds like an Auror. Like a man. You remember that you're alive because of how brave and stupid this kid was.
"Like this," you murmur against him and then press your tongue inside.
His fist makes impact with the wall, and his magic reverberates through the room.
You're doing this to him.
You flutter your tongue against his arsehole. He leans his forehead against ripped wallpaper, panting. And the words you hear don't make sense for a moment. They're just meaningless, hyperbole. They're the words you say when you're turned on beyond all reason.
"Fuck me," he says. And for a moment, you dismiss it.
But he says it again, "Fuck me," and it's like he's had to tear the words from himself and throw them, still bleeding, onto the floor.
You lose your breath. But then you're rising, fumbling your cock out. He's bracing against the wall, and when you both whisper a lube spell, he goes dripping wet. You slide inside before you even know what you're doing… what you're both doing.
But by then, it hardly matters. Because you're fucking. You pin him to the wall and hold his hips, slide your hands up his sides, grasp his raised wrists. You're thrusting fast already, unable to hold back. He's meeting you, buffeted by you. Your prick is warm and wet inside him, and his magic has reached into you. It's hardly fair.
"P-potter," you stutter. You don't mean to wrap your arms around him before you come, but you do. His naked skin moves hot against your clothes, your hips driving into him. You hold your breath, and then you moan into his hair, and he follows you, tugging on his prick and splattering the wall while you fill him, fill him, fill him, oh dear Merlin, his taste already fading, like a ghost.
Two Years Later
It had been in the papers – of course it had. 'Harry Potter Snubbed for Head Auror Position as Wife Files for Divorce'. As though the two things could possibly be connected. You scoffed even as you wondered if they were.
This was weeks ago, though. A couple months by your count. But who's counting?
It's certainly not the first thing on your mind when your shop bell jingles. Because of course it jingles while you're levitating a row of five boxes from your inventory through the narrow doorway to the front.
"I'll be with you in a moment," you yell.
"Take your time," he yells back.
And you drop the bloody boxes.
He's standing there in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, hands in his pockets, a bit of a beard grown in. He gives you a tentative smile. "I was, uh, hoping you could help me with something."
…his grunt as you shoved him against the wall… him spreading his legs for you… "Fuck me… Fuck me…"
You barely manage the word. "What?"
He scratches his neck and gazes around. "I'm looking for a book. I haven't been able to find it." He digs a parchment from his pocket and walks up to you. He leans in, as though it's imperative you both read the title at the same time.
He smells revoltingly good. You gulp.
"Do you think you might have it?" he asks.
You tell yourself that you own a bookshop and that's why Potter's here.
But you know how he tastes.
You know how he tastes.
You bloody know how he tastes.
"I think so," you tell him.
You wander back into the stacks, and he follows. You deliberately lead him around a bit to wrong section after wrong section. You'd feel ashamed of yourself, but… Well, he's always had the uncanny and annoying ability to turn you completely shameless.
You try three sections and risk him deciding you're grossly incompetent before you finally take the correct turn to the exact spot you know his book will be.
You pull it down and hand it to him, but instead of expediting his purchase and leaving, Potter decides to leaf through it, a small frown of seriousness on his face. Though nothing could be less serious than the book Potter holds as it's a children's tale about a creature who's half-bunny, half-dragon. In fact, it's a book you had wanted as a child but had been forbidden. It's not a story pure-bloods smile upon to any degree.
You don't want to ask, but your curiosity gets the better of you. And it's not as though Potter came here with his wand drawn or a Gryffindor-shaped chip on his shoulder. He doesn't appear to be here for sex, either, so you figure a little conversation won't go widely amiss.
"May I ask what you want it for?"
Potter raises his gaze and floors you with a sudden smile. "Hugo, Hermione and Ron's little boy. He's turning three in a week." He shrugs. "Teddy offered up his copy, but it's missing a page and I think he'd regret it in the long run anyway."
"He's a metamorphmagus, isn't he?" It seems like a proper sort of book for kids like that. You wonder if Potter bought it for him. And you know you should know the answer to your question; you're related after all. But it's not as though you've made the effort to mend many fences with anyone. Denial has been your mechanism for moving forward.
It occurs to you suddenly that your sleeves are rolled up and your Dark Mark is showing. You hadn't anticipated anyone stopping in and interrupting your box-moving at three o'clock on a Wednesday. Not the least of whom, Potter. It's too late to cover it up now, and almost as soon as you've thought this, he glances at it.
You realise he's an Auror. He's become an accomplished Legilimens. Though surely he's got ethics when it comes to its use. Though perhaps not with you.
You clear your throat and cross your arms.
"How much?" he asks, waving the book.
"Oh, uh…" Five hundred Galleons, the little bastard shit inside you sneers. "No charge. It's on the house. My gift to the Weasley brat." You sigh in self-hatred.
But Potter smiles. "You're sure?"
"Yes, it's nothing."
He gives you a nod and then turns to go. Your gaze drops to his arse in those well-worn jeans until he disappears around the corner, and then the bell jingles over the door.
Ten Days Later
You don't normally do this. But ever since Potter came into your shop, he's been all you can think about, and you need to be bloody well shot of him.
This is your drastic measure: to go out to the gay clubs and try to pull someone else. You don't have a hard time. It's not that. It's only that no one seems all that interesting, and the few times you've taken someone out back you've regretted it.
What is it about the wizard brain, you wonder, that continues down the same street even when logic and experience should long ago have dashed all hope against the wall of the skull?
You realise your mistake only a few minutes in. When you see him, you stop dead in your tracks, the bodies of dancing men writhing about you like serpents.
He's there, in the throng. He's got two blokes trying to make a move on him at the same time, and he looks like he'll allow it to a point and then no more. Or maybe that's just your own wishful thinking.
He looks up then, and he sees you. And it's not like all the other times he's seen you. It's not like eighth year, the guilt and the fury; it's not like the night before his wedding, his battered happiness, your own poor willpower.
It's nothing like that. Because Potter smiles. And his smile is like a Summoning spell. You're moving toward it before you've commanded your feet to unglue from the floor. If you'd actually had any say, you would have made them take you the opposite direction.
You push through bodies until you're close to him. He's staring at you, his gaze wondering and hungry. He makes an easy gesture with his fingers, and the two blokes are pushed gently but forcefully back. And then you're up against him. A parchment might fit between you, but it would be tight. His gaze falls to your mouth, his hands to your hips.
"I thought you didn't dance," you find yourself saying over the thud of the music.
He leans in, already moving, and says against your ear, "I didn't do a lot of things."
You wrap a hand around his lower back and yank. Because he does this to you. He catapults you from your own reality. He reshapes your life. You fit your leg between his and roll your hips. You feel his gasp against your skin.
"What are you doing here, Potter?"
"Shut up and dance with me."
You do.
*
You've Apparated back to your flat. The two of you lasted three songs. It felt like holding fire in your arms to be that close to him. And now he's stripping you, and his hot kisses trail over your chest. He bites your nipple, and a sound leaves you like a candle's wick pinched of flame.
He guides you to your own bed. He pushes you down on your back. This is not how you assumed it would be.
When his head descends between your legs and he wraps snug lips around your cock and blows you, you itch to sink your fingers into his hair, but you grasp the sheets over your head to keep from it.
He has you almost coming over and over again. You've never let anybody stay down there that long. It's always seemed like a vulnerability you weren't willing to lend, much less give up.
It's different with Potter.
It always has been.
But just when you think he's going to let you spill down his perfect throat, he rises up, panting. You groan, and this produces a smile on his swollen lips. He reaches for your arm, guides it toward his mouth, and licks a kiss over the ink. He sinks careful teeth into your flesh.
"So you were looking."
He glances at you, tongue still darting over your Mark.
It shouldn't feel this good. Perhaps he sees that in your face, the guilty ecstasy.
Potter crawls over you, straddling your hips. He says the lubrication spell while he takes your cock in hand.
You give a start. "I wanted to—oh fuck…"
"Lick me?" he asks.
But you've lost all capacity to answer as he slides down and buries your cock inside himself.
"Next time, Malfoy," he says, grinning. Then he rides you until you come screaming.
*
"I'm leaving the Ministry," he says out of nowhere. He's propped against your headboard, sipping a glass of water. He gulped the first one you gave him.
You're lying flat on your back, an arm thrown over your head, your flaccid cock sprawled into the crevice of your hip. You turn your head. "You're what?"
He shrugs.
You turn on your side, and he looks down at you. "Why?" you ask. Though you're stunned that by bringing it up Potter seems to think it's your business.
"Things change," he says vaguely. But there's a look in his eye that communicates more than his words.
"What are you going to do instead?" It's annoying that you find yourself genuinely curious. More than.
"I guess I'll be figuring that out." He slants you a smile. It falters, and he looks down, unable to meet your eyes. "I thought about you."
He's knocked the breath out of you, and you can't answer… can't admit to the same. Probably wouldn't if you could. He's just doused your veins with champagne. You clear your throat, and what comes out instead is, "You might speak to McGonagall."
He looks up again, tilts his head in inquiry. You try not to get distracted by how fit he is, lounging in your bed, and how badly you already want to shag him again.
"Working in Hogsmeade, I hear things," you tell him. "Seems the last Defence teacher didn't so much work out. Again."
He snorts, takes a sip, and then passes you the water glass. You sit up and drink and set it aside.
"Why are you telling me?" he asks.
"Isn't it obvious?"
"Is anything you ever do obvious?"
"Oh for Merlin's sake—" You throw the sheet off your legs and stand up, snatching your trousers from the floor and pulling them back on.
"Malfoy."
"What, Potter? I thought you'd be good at it, that's why!"
"Malfoy."
"What?" You turn in frustration.
"Come back."
You hesitate, but when Potter moves down the bed, lying on his back, it undoes you. You crawl over him, and he unzips your newly donned trousers.
"Leave them on," he whispers, opening his legs for you.
Together you guide your cock inside. He gasps when you thrust in deep. He wraps an arm around your shoulders. You brace over him. He holds your gaze while you fuck him.
You're lost.
One Year Later
You don't know if you've ever been so tired. Now that you've opened a second Forbidden Forest Books on Diagon and you've spent the last week using the Time Turner Granger lent you to manage both, you're practically dead on your feet. Thank Merlin Pansy's back from America tomorrow to take over the Diagon property or else you might start Crucioing customers just for walking in the door.
All you can think about is a pint and then bed. Maybe a pint in bed.
You Floo home expecting the dark and quiet of your flat only to be assaulted by shouts of "Happy birthday!" by what appear to be dozens of unwanted friends.
"It's not my birthday," you're arguing with the first person you see, who, surreally, happens to be Longbottom, before you realise that, dear bloody fuck, it is.
They're clapping. The fuckers are clapping.
"Sorry," comes a low whisper in your ear.
When you turn your head, Potter looks both chagrined and amused at your expense.
"I'm bloody exhausted," you try to explain.
"Drink this." He slips what, from feel, you determine to be Pepper-Up potion.
You can't help but harangue him even after you've drunk it. "Did you do this? Why would you do this to me?"
"For you and no, actually. They wrangled me in at the last minute."
"How long do they have to be here?"
Potter snorts. "As long as it takes to celebrate your bloody birthday, Malfoy, now suck it up."
The potion starts to take effect, and for the first time you notice Potter's wearing that jumper you like so much. And the jeans you fancy. And he's done a fair job with his hair.
It occurs to you that this – how Potter looks – is for you. A feeling that has nothing to do with the potion bubbles up in your chest. You've only been dating him for six months – although Potter says he counts the six more of unrelenting shagging before that, too – so of course it makes sense that you're not used to how this feels. You're not used to Potter's life being wrapped up in your own.
You're not used to the sneaky way his hand slips into yours, as it's doing now.
You're not used to the smile he turns on you or the ease with which you make him laugh or the effortless way he leans in and deposits a kiss on your lips.
But though you may not be used to it, you're perfectly willing to take advantage.
Weasley's in the middle of a joke, literally in the middle of a word, when you murmur, "Excuse me," and tug on Potter's hand.
"What—?" he starts. But he's quick, Potter. He knows you. And he chuckles. "You think we have time for that?"
"I'll make time," you growl.
When the door to your bedroom shuts, and Potter waves a hand and three wards go up at once, you want to growl again, and maybe you do. You tug him into your arms and start in on his clothes. Your lips against his neck, you slide a hand to his arse and run your finger down to nudge and massage his hole through the denim.
"Oh fuck," he moans. He presses his lips to your ear. "Rim me, Malfoy. Please, fuck, I want you to."
"Yeah?"
"Merlin, yes."
You let his jeans fall and pool at his ankles.
This thing you love to do to him, it has a name. And as you circle behind him, a warm, lingering hand on his stomach, and you feel yourself smiling, you realise it might not be the only thing you love.