Archive of Our Own

Life was unfair. Draco Malfoy was about to be reminded of that in spectacular fashion on Monday evening.

Mid-November at Hogwarts was, frankly, dull. The castle had settled into that grim stretch of term where everyone was tired, it got dark at four in the afternoon, and the only excitement to be had was watching first-years beef with suits of armour. An emergency staff meeting, then, promised either chaos or gossip, and Draco would happily take either.

It surely had nothing to do with him.

Which, in itself, was still a bit of a miracle. In six years as Potions professor and Head of Slytherin, he had maintained a perfectly clean professional record. Not even one proper scandal. Honestly, considering his own Hogwarts career, it was almost insulting. He had become responsible. Respectable, even. It was deeply off-brand.

He was early, because he might be twenty-seven and an adult, but he was not suicidal, and getting on Minerva McGonagall’s bad side seemed like a very efficient way to die.

He spotted Neville Longbottom by the sideboard and made for him at once.

Naturally, Neville was already halfway through the pastries and building a very decent plate for himself. Draco had long ago accepted that some people coped with stress through emotional repression, some through violence, and Neville through baked goods.

“Evening, Draco,” Neville said.

Draco picked up a cup of tea and took a cautious sip. “What do we think this is about, then?”

“Honestly? No idea,” Neville said grimly. “But if all of us have been summoned, it can’t be good, can it? Collective punishment, maybe.”

“Probably overdue,” Draco said with a laugh.

There was still something faintly absurd about Neville being one of his closest friends. If someone had told sixteen-year-old Draco that one day he would voluntarily seek out Neville Longbottom for company, he would have laughed in their face, then probably called them deranged. But being the youngest professors, both Heads of House, and starting at Hogwarts at the same time had apparently been enough to force them into each other’s orbit. It also helped that Neville was actually funny, and clever, and so unreasonably easy to like that it was difficult to cling to his own tragic schoolboy misjudgements.

Neville’s gaze shifted over Draco’s shoulder towards the door. He lifted a hand and waved.

Draco turned. Of course, Potter.

Harry Potter had joined the staff the year before, after abruptly giving up the Aurors for reasons Draco still did not know and found personally offensive. Why anyone would turn down becoming Head Auror, unpleasant as the entire institution was, in order to come and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts to hormonal teenagers was beyond him. It was not even a sensible career pivot.

Still, against all odds, he had lasted over a year. That alone was impressive, considering the school’s history with Defence professors. Frankly, the job had a body count and a curse attached. Potter had apparently looked at that and thought, yes, lovely, sign me up.

Draco had nothing against him. Not really. They were... amiable. Well. Polite. Civil. Capable of standing in the same room without attempted murder, which by their standards was practically intimate.

Their friends overlapped in strange and mildly unsettling ways these days. Blaise and Granger had become close through Ministry work, which remained one of the more baffling developments of Draco’s adult life, but apparently the war had done odd things to everyone. Even so, he and Potter had never quite found a rhythm with each other. Draco told himself it was because they had nothing in common.

This was a lie, but a useful one.

The bigger issue was that Draco had a thoroughly inconvenient crush on him. On Potter’s stupid face, for one thing. On the lean build he had acquired as an Auror. On the permanently dishevelled hair that made him look like he had just rolled out of bed and somehow still had the audacity to be handsome about it. Draco was also painfully aware that, although the papers had taken great delight over the years in reporting on both Potter’s and Draco’s interest in men, that did not mean Potter would ever be interested in him specifically.

So Draco did what any sane adult did with impossible feelings: shoved them into a dark corner of his mind and pretended they did not exist.

This strategy had worked beautifully until Potter started popping up everywhere. In the corridors. At meals. In staff meetings. In his peripheral vision, all the time.

Potter was heading their way now, and Draco was already preparing himself to behave like a normal person, which was exhausting, when McGonagall swept into the room with Filch scuttling along behind her and clapped her hands sharply.

“Good evening, everyone!”

A chorus of good evenings followed as the staff shuffled into their seats along the long table. McGonagall sat at the head, looking brisk and composed. Filch hovered at her shoulder, already wearing the expression of a man enjoying himself far too much.

“I apologise for calling you all here so late,” McGonagall said.

Draco lifted his tea again, but froze halfway through a sip when McGonagall looked directly at him. A cold thread of dread slid neatly down his spine.

“Argus brought it to my attention that the Frey twins attempted to brew a Hair-Raising Potion this afternoon,” McGonagall said. “It went, I am told, incredibly wrong. I have taken fifty points from Slytherin.”

Draco sat up straighter at once, annoyed. Annoyed as Potions master. Annoyed as Head of Slytherin. But he still was not seeing why this required every professor in the castle to attend an emergency meeting, and judging by the baffled looks around the table, neither was anyone else.

Filch, clearly unable to contain himself, chimed in. “Whole classroom and office is full of black sludge. Sticky. Stinks. Impossible to get rid of.”

Draco’s stomach dropped. “What about my stores?”

If anything had happened to his ingredients, there would be bloodshed.

“They’re fine,” Filch said, looking vaguely disappointed.

“Yes, thank you, Argus,” McGonagall cut in briskly, before Filch could get any more cheerful about the disaster. “Your classroom will be out of use for the rest of term, unfortunately, while we order and put in effect a specialised solution to dissolve the...” She paused, then sighed. “Sludge.”

Draco stared at her. Of course. Of course this would happen to him. Why not? Apparently, one tolerable academic career was all the universe was willing to allow before correcting the imbalance.

“Out of use?” he repeated. “So where exactly am I meant to teach?”

“You will share a classroom.” McGonagall folded her hands neatly. “Which brings me to the reason you are all here. Who would care to volunteer to do us all a great favour and share their classroom with Draco for the rest of term?”

Silence. Utter, immediate, ringing silence.

Draco could not even blame them. Nobody wanted to share with Potions. Not because they disliked him; he was, rather impressively, on decent terms with most of the staff (even Hagrid, as if he hadn't been a complete little toerag in his class), but because Potions was loud, messy, smelt alarming on a good day, and occasionally involved minor explosions. It was an objectively dreadful houseguest.

Beside him, Neville muttered, “Sorry, mate.”

“Traitor,” Draco whispered back, though without any real heat. It wasn’t as though he wanted to teach in the greenhouses either.

McGonagall’s eyes swept the table. “Septima?”

Vector straightened at once and launched into a remarkably fast explanation involving delicate arithmantic diagrams, limited space, what sounded like complete nonsense.

“Cuthbert?”

Professor Binns made a faint, offended noise and began drifting lower, as though preparing to escape through the floor.

Draco was just beginning to consider whether he could plausibly teach outside in the snow, or perhaps commandeer and fit twenty-four students in a cupboard somewhere, when McGonagall looked towards the back of the room and said, bright as anything,

“Thank you for volunteering, Harry!”

Draco turned so sharply it was honestly a wonder his neck didn't dislocate from his shoulders.

Potter was standing up, clearly heading for the sideboard of snacks, looking just as startled as Draco felt, one hand holding a pastry that looked suspiciously like it had come off Neville’s plate.

“What?”

“You’ll be sharing the Defence classroom with Draco for the rest of term,” McGonagall said, as if she was announcing delightful (and not soul-crushing) news. “Excellent.”

Now it was Draco’s turn.

“What?”

“Defence is the best option,” McGonagall went on, ignoring both of them. “Plenty of space. I’ll have the house-elves bring extra cauldrons and any necessary supplies up to the classroom. Thank you, everyone. Meeting adjourned.”

And just like that, the room dissolved into chatter. Chairs scraped back. Professors rose in clusters and began filing out, many of them looking deeply relieved that the disaster had landed on someone else.

Next to Draco, Neville made a faint choking noise that sounded very much like suppressed laughter.

Across from him, Potter had gone completely still, staring at Draco in horrified disbelief.

Draco, meanwhile, was staring right back.

Merlin. This was going to be a complete disaster.

Harry had been woken at the deeply offensive hour of six in the morning by what he assumed was Malfoy’s owl.

Six o’clock. Before breakfast. Before coffee.

The note had been short and exactly as annoying as Malfoy himself.

Come to the Defence classroom now.
D.A.M.

Harry had stared at it for a full ten seconds in the dim light of his room. He could not believe this was his life.

He was not, as it happened, thrilled to be ordered about first thing in the morning. That feeling did not improve as he dragged himself through the corridors from his quarters towards the Defence classroom, hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked, and mood black as a cursed kettle.

Which would have been more convincing if his stomach had not done a distinctly unhelpful little flip at the thought of seeing Malfoy. Apparently, the summons itself was not the issue.

But honestly, he’d never eat an apple turnover again.

That was what had done this to him. One stupid pastry. One innocent, delicious, flaky mistake. He’d just been making a beeline for the sideboard in the staff room when McGonagall had apparently looked up, seen him standing there like an idiot, and decided that meant he was volunteering to let Malfoy take over his classroom for the rest of term.

To be fair, Harry knew perfectly well he was absolutely going to eat another apple turnover at dinner. Possibly two. They were excellent, and self-denial had never really been his area. But he’d feel really guilty about it, and that had to count for something.

The real problem, he decided, wasn't desserts, it was Malfoy.

Malfoy, whom Harry had been trying not to spend too much time around. Not in any obvious way, because that would have been weird, but strategically. Which was difficult when Neville kept insisting they all go for drinks at the Three Broomsticks in his ongoing and frankly deranged mission to make everyone friends.

It wasn’t that Harry thought he and Malfoy couldn’t be friends. They probably could. Quite easily, actually, which was part of the issue. It was just… safer to bicker with him.

Because Harry was not at all convinced that getting properly close to Draco Malfoy would end in anything other than humiliation, disaster, or some combination of both.

When Harry had finally worked out, very late and with a truly embarrassing lack of self-awareness, that he liked men, he’d been twenty-one and newly broken up with Ginny. The revelation had not come in some noble, introspective moment. It had come at Andromeda’s house, when Malfoy had arrived to drop off something for Teddy, all long pale hair and sharp cheekbones and an absurdly tailored suit that ought to have been illegal.

Harry had seen him, stopped thinking entirely, and then gone home to have a very clarifying evening. That clarification had involved rummaging through old magazines and newspapers until he found a photo of Malfoy on the cover of Witch Weekly and then having a wank to it, which was not a detail he intended to share with another living soul.

Not even Hermione. Definitely not Ron. No one.

He would take that to the grave.

By the time he reached the Defence classroom door, Harry was awake enough to feel dread properly. He stood there for a moment, chewing his lip and staring at the wood as if the room beyond might have transformed into something less irritating if he waited long enough.

It did not.

With a sigh that came from somewhere deep and tragic within him, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Then he stopped dead. The room had been split in half. Literally in half.

A bright line of chalk ran straight down the middle of the classroom, slicing it into two perfect sides. Harry’s half looked like it had been hit by a small but determined storm. His books, equipment, and various bits of classroom clutter had all been shoved haphazardly to one side like an afterthought. The other half, Malfoy’s half, obviously, was immaculate. Cauldrons sat in neat rows on desks. Cupboards had been arranged with almost psychotic precision.

Harry’s eyes followed the chalk line all the way to the front of the room, where it continued across the floor, up to the desk, and somehow cut that neatly in half as well.

Malfoy was sitting behind his side of it, looking smug enough to power half the castle and, infuriatingly, far too good for six in the morning.

Harry stared. “Why,” he said slowly, “in the name of Merlin have you vandalised my classroom?”

Malfoy looked up, deeply pleased with himself. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’ll rub right off once we’re done. It’s only chalk.”

Harry crossed the room, taking in the full scope of the damage as he went. Just like the classroom itself, the desk had been divided down the middle. Everything that had been on Malfoy’s newly claimed side had been shoved onto Harry’s, and the drawer on the left had been emptied out entirely so Malfoy could begin sliding his own things into it with revolting neatness.

“Why,” Harry asked again, dropping into his chair, “did you have to wake me up at six to see this?”

Malfoy gestured around them. “I thought you might want to organise your side of everything before breakfast.”

“I don’t want to do bloody anything before breakfast.”

Malfoy gave a tiny shrug. “Suit yourself.”

Harry closed his eyes.

He was exhausted, annoyed, and being judged before sunrise, which felt excessive even for Malfoy. But there was no point trying to go back to sleep now. He might as well get some coffee and make the room look vaguely fit for students.

There was, in fact, only one thing in the world that could improve this situation at all. Harry pulled out his wand.

“Accio coffee.”

A mug came flying down from his office at the top of the stairs and straight into his hand. He muttered a warming charm over it, then took a long, grateful sip.

When he looked up, Malfoy was staring at him like he’d just licked the floor.

“When,” Malfoy asked, voice dripping with horror, “did you make that?”

“Er…” Harry frowned into the mug. “Yesterday? I hope.”

Malfoy looked revolted. “That is revolting.”

Harry shrugged. “It still has caffeine.”

“Yes, and quite possibly mould.”

Harry took another sip, partly because he needed it and partly because annoying Malfoy was one of life’s few pure pleasures. “A risk I’m willing to take.”

“Honestly, go ahead,” Malfoy said. “Maybe then I’ll get the classroom to myself.”

Harry laughed, which surprised him a bit, then finished the coffee and got to his feet. He began using his wand to levitate books, dark detectors, and assorted bits of equipment back into some kind of order on his side of the room.

“By the way,” Malfoy said coolly, “the line is sacred. If you so much as cross it—”

Harry glanced over. “You’ll hex me?”

Malfoy looked almost offended. “Worse.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Got it.”

“I mean it.”

“I can tell. You’ve got your mad little dictator face on.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “I don’t want this arrangement to be any more unbearable than it has to be.”

Harry snorted. “Take that up with your Slytherins, then. They’re the ones who did this to you.”

Malfoy grimaced. “I’m considering disowning them.”

“That seems fair.”

“And besides,” Malfoy added, “you only ended up in this situation because you were thinking with your stomach.”

Harry paused mid-levitation and looked at him. “Godric, was I really that obvious yesterday?”

Malfoy gave him a flat look. “Painfully.”

Harry pulled a face. “Brilliant.” Then, because optimism had never fully died no matter how many times life tried to beat it out of him, he waved his wand at a stack of parchments and said, “Well. Anyway. How bad could today possibly be?”

The answer to Potter’s question became clear within the first class.

Very, very bad.

As it turned out, forcing two separate year groups into one room and expecting them to learn two wildly incompatible subjects without incident was a level of optimism that bordered on criminal negligence. The students kept distracting one another, Potter’s class kept firing hexes and jinxes about with all the restraint of caffeinated squirrels, and every time some idiot shrieked or a spell hit the wall with a bang, Draco’s students jumped over their cauldrons.

Which, in Potions, was not ideal. Students should never be startled while brewing. That was how disasters happened. How students got poisoned. That was how one ended up with black sludge coating an entire classroom. It was also an excellent way to lose the will to live.

Potter, meanwhile, taught as though chaos were a valid educational method. His lot were loud, reckless, and forever waving their wands around—seriously, they were ought to give each other casual concussions. Draco had always known Defence was an absurd subject, but being forced to witness it at close range only confirmed his view that the entire discipline was basically organised nonsense with a wand.

Worse, he and Potter seemed capable of disagreeing about absolutely everything. Volume. Desk arrangement. Draco was almost entirely certain Potter had begun taking personal pleasure in bothering him.

Annoyingly, Draco was beginning to return the favour. There was a shameful thrill in drawing Potter’s focus, even through irritation; apparently his subconscious was willing to accept attention from Potter in whatever form it could get.

He would, obviously, never admit this out loud.

It was during one of the quieter lessons that things escalated. Draco happened to glance up from marking and saw Potter absently writing with a quill that very distinctly did not belong to him.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Is that my quill?”

Potter looked down at it in his hand as if the answer might be written on the side. “Er... maybe?”

Draco set down his parchment with pointed care. “Well, I certainly don’t recall leaving it across the line, so I can only assume you’ve already broken the one rule.” He leaned back slightly. “Don’t. Cross. The. Line.”

Potter shrugged, with that infuriating little smirk of his. “Take me to the Board of Governors and have me tried.”

That, quite honestly, was enough to make Draco want to commit several felonies. Potter was sitting there with his sleeves rolled up, forearms on display, using Draco’s quill with those unfairly nice hands, and then had the gall to be all smug about it.

“Fine,” Draco said coldly.

Potter, idiot that he was, clearly did not hear the danger in that.

Draco confiscated Potter’s chair. Not permanently, of course. He was not deranged. Merely making a point.

Though, the chair was better than the makeshift monstrosity he’d been using since this arrangement began, and if Potter wanted to be cavalier about other people’s things, he could learn what it felt like to have one taken in return.

Potter came back to find Draco seated quite comfortably in it and stopped dead.

“That’s my chair.”

Draco didn’t even look up from the essay he was pretending to read. “And that was my quill.”

Potter stared at him. “Those are two very different things. You’ve got, what, ten quills?” He gestured wildly to the neat row lined up on Draco’s desk. “Look at them. They’ve got their own little family.”

Draco finally lifted his gaze. “And you have a chair.” He nodded towards the other one. “Look at that. Problem solved.”

Potter looked personally offended. “This is so petty.”

Draco gave him a thin smile. “You should have thought twice before messing with me.”

“I accidentally took your quill!”

“And then, you should have apologised instead of getting clever.”

Potter snorted. “I swear to Merlin, Malfoy, I would never grovel to you. Now give me my chair back.”

“No,” Draco said.

Potter folded his arms. “Fine. I’ll just take it back next time you have to get up and help a student.”

Draco glanced down at his timetable with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “How unfortunate. My students are doing written work and exams for the rest of the day.” He looked back up. “Looks like you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed.

Then Draco added, with bright malice, “Oh—and I get here much earlier than you do. So really, it seems I’ll have this chair for the foreseeable future.”

Potter looked like he wanted to strangle him.

Draco, unhelpfully, found that thought less threatening than it probably ought to have been. Under the right circumstances, and with proper negotiation, he might not even object.

For now, he just smiled up at Potter, pleasant and entirely insufferable.

It was the second time that week Harry had been dragged out of bed at an absolutely deranged hour because of Malfoy. This time, it was five in the morning.

Five.

At that point it was barely even a real time.

Harry stumbled into the classroom in a state that could only generously be described as awake-ish, and felt a flash of relief when he saw Malfoy wasn’t there yet. Good, because this was his cut off point, he would not be getting up at four.

He made a beeline for his chair—his chair, thank you very much—reclaimed it, sinking into it with a long-suffering sigh.

Then he pointed his wand vaguely in the direction of his office and muttered, “Accio coffee.”

Two cups came flying down. Desperate times. He drank both of them in quick succession, because at this point his bloodstream was probably more caffeine than blood anyway, and if he stopped drinking it for too long he was fairly sure he’d simply die.

Feeling mildly less like a corpse, Harry pulled a stack of marking towards him and tried to get on with it.

He fell asleep face-down on the desk almost immediately.

He woke to the sound of slow, mocking clapping.

Harry jerked upright, blinking stupidly. “Huh? What—”

Malfoy was standing in front of him. And of course he looked unfairly good for whatever time in the morning it was now. He had that smug, infuriating expression on his face, his robes were perfectly in place, and his hair, long and pale, annoyingly glossy, was falling over his shoulders like he’d stepped out of some ridiculous posh painting. Harry, still half asleep, had the deeply unhelpful thought that he’d quite like to know what it felt like to run his hands through it.

“Well done,” Malfoy said, strolling closer.

Harry sat up straighter at once, trying to shake the sleep and all his more catastrophic thoughts out of his brain. “Yes, Malfoy,” he said, voice rough with sleep, “I’ve won.”

Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. “Not the first time you’ve underestimated me. Now can we drop it?”

“Hm,” Malfoy said, lowering himself into the chair beside him. “We’ll see.”

Which, in Malfoy language, meant absolutely not.

The rest of the day, however, was surprisingly, and therefore suspiciously, normal.

Well. Their version of normal. There was plenty of bickering, naturally, because apparently neither of them knew how to speak to the other like a person, but there were no major arguments, no explosions, no mass casualties, and the classes actually seemed to be going reasonably well. Which was unsettling in its own way.

Harry, meanwhile, was functioning entirely on caffeine and spite. By his free period, he was practically vibrating.

He went up to his office, made himself another coffee, and headed back downstairs with it in hand, cutting through the classroom while Malfoy had a practical going with his students.

Malfoy, who was in the middle of helping one of them with a cauldron, glanced up, spotted the mug, and moved with terrifying speed. He snatched it straight out of Harry’s hand.

Harry blinked. “Oi—”

“No food or drink in the potions lab,” Malfoy said crisply. “Especially not while things are actively brewing.”

Harry barely had time to register what was happening before Malfoy tipped the entire contents of the mug into the bin. A few students made noises that sounded suspiciously like stifled laughter.

Harry stared in horror at the empty mug, then the horror became rage.

“You cannot be serious,” he said. “What the—” He stopped himself just in time from swearing, mainly because there were students watching and he was technically meant to be a responsible adult. “Are you mental?”

“Perhaps a little, but that's unrelated,” Malfoy said, looking revoltingly pleased with himself.

Harry could have killed him. “That,” Harry said, pointing accusingly at the bin, “was the only thing keeping me alive.”

“I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m not a bloody student, Malfoy.”

Malfoy raised one elegant eyebrow. “Potter, are you implying the rules don’t apply to you?”

Harry opened his mouth, then shut it again, because the students were staring intently between them.

“I just need caffeine,” he said instead, throwing up his hands. “That’s not a crime.”

Malfoy gave a careless little shrug. “Then perhaps you should have enjoyed it in your office.”

Then he turned to the class with all theatrical self-importance. “Let this be a teaching moment for everyone,” he said. “Nobody is above the rules.”

Several students now looked openly entertained.

Harry was abruptly, profoundly sick of Draco Malfoy. He wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face. He wanted to shut him up. He wanted—

Well. He wanted several things, actually, and at least half of them were not appropriate for a classroom.

Draco thought, in hindsight, that he might possibly have taken the coffee thing a touch too far. Only a touch, mind you.

Potter had been carrying on as though Draco had personally poisoned him, when in reality he had merely enforced a perfectly sensible classroom rule and sacrificed one disgusting mug of what could barely pass as coffee. If Potter insisted on living like a raccoon, that was hardly Draco’s fault.

Still. Perhaps pouring it out in front of the students had been a bit much. Oh well.

The rest of the week carried on in much the same fashion: endless bickering, minor territorial disputes, and both of them being general nuisances to one another. Potter, obviously, was the greater nuisance. Draco was simply reacting with dignity and restraint to provocation.

By Friday afternoon, during the final class of the week, Draco was thoroughly exhausted. He was already mentally halfway into the weekend: perhaps a drink or two with Neville, some reading by the lake if the weather held, and, if the gods were merciful, not having to see Potter for two whole days before all this nonsense started up again on Monday.

He was just reaching for the chalk by the board to explain a concept to his class when his hand ran straight into someone else’s.

Draco looked up. Potter. Apparently Draco had been so deep in his own thoughts that he had completely failed to notice Potter stepping up beside him to do the exact same thing for his own class.

Their hands had only brushed for a second, but it felt absurdly, unhelpfully noticeable. They both went still.

Then Draco jerked his hand back. Potter did the same.

“I need that,” Draco said, staring pointedly at the chalk in Potter’s hand.

Potter looked down at it, then back at him. “Okay. So do I.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I’m getting rather sick of you taking things that belong to me.”

Potter gave a lazy shrug. “Actually, everything in this room belongs to me.”

“Actually,” Draco said coolly, “everything in this room belongs to Hogwarts. And besides, what exactly do you need to explain? Defence is barely a subject.”

Potter stared at him. “Oh, yes, brilliant. Say that in front of all my students, why don’t you?”

“I’m happy to say it in front of anyone.”

“I’ll have you know,” Potter said, stepping closer, “Defence is a lot more useful than Potions in actual real-world situations.”

By now they were standing far too close. Draco was aware of that with painful clarity. Aware of Potter’s face, Potter’s mouth, Potter’s stupidly distracting glasses and the way his hair was falling into his eyes. His gaze dropped, just for a second, to Potter’s lips.

Merlin. He could end this argument very quickly, he thought wildly, by shoving Potter back against the desk and kissing him senseless. The thought was so vivid it nearly made him light-headed.

And then, horrifyingly, Potter seemed to notice. His eyes flicked to Draco’s mouth too, and suddenly the entire room felt strange and charged and difficult to breathe in.

“Well—I—” Draco started.

A loud, pointed cough cut through the moment. One of the Ravenclaw fifth-years raised a hand and said, with far too much interest, “Are we interrupting something?”

“No,” Draco and Potter said at the exact same time.

That only made it worse. Whispers broke out instantly across both halves of the classroom, followed by a ripple of laughter. Potter looked deeply sheepish, which was almost enough to distract Draco from the fact that he had just heard one student whisper, quite audibly, I think they were having a domestic.

That shocked Draco firmly back into himself.

“Right,” he snapped. “Silence from all of you.”

Nobody stopped.

Draco drew himself up. “Silence, or I will assign every one of you essays and detentions for the next month.”

That did it. The room fell silent so abruptly it was almost impressive. Potter gave him a brief, grateful nod, and they both turned back to their classes, carrying on as though nothing had happened.

Which was absurd, really, because this week had very obviously done something alarming to both their brains.

At dinner, Draco noticed far too many students glancing between him and Potter, whispering behind their goblets and trying, badly, not to look obvious about it.

A domestic. Salazar preserve him. The rumours were clearly spreading already, and at speed.

The idea of him and Potter as some bickering old married couple was objectively ridiculous. Draco allowed himself to imagine it for half a second anyway and was faintly alarmed to discover that he did not, in fact, hate the thought, not wholly.

After dinner, he headed back to the classroom to finish his marking and sort out lesson plans, on the very sensible principle that if he got it over with now, his weekend might still contain a few hours of actual peace. Potter was already there, standing in front of the blackboard with a defeated look.

Draco followed his gaze. Someone, or, more likely, several someones, had drawn two stick figures on the board. One had Draco’s hair. The other had Potter’s glasses and scar. They were holding hands. Underneath, in large enthusiastic letters, someone had written: bloody old married couple!

Draco stopped dead. “For Salazar’s sake.”

Potter turned, grimacing. “Yes. Apparently this is what they think of us now.”

“Mm,” Draco said, stepping closer and examining it despite himself. “I imagine it may take a while to recover from this one.”

Annoyingly, it was rather well done. They had got his hair right. Potter’s glasses were unmistakable. Under different circumstances, Draco might even have found it funny. But because it was about him, and because his mind was already proving itself catastrophically unhelpful, the whole thing landed in his stomach with a strange, uncomfortable twist.

This was doing absolutely nothing to help the alarming new fantasy in which he and Potter were, in fact, married.

He pulled out his wand. “That’s quite enough of that,” he said, and cast, “Scourgify.”

The drawing vanished from the blackboard.

Potter let out a long breath. “Brilliant. One week with you, and now my class—and probably the rest of Hogwart —thinks this little of me.”

Draco turned to him sharply. “Oh, I see. It would be beneath you to be married to me, would it?”

Potter blinked. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No, no, I understand perfectly.” Draco folded his arms. “Death Eater’s son. Former enemy. You’d never want to be associated with me like that.”

Potter looked completely thrown. “Merlin, Malfoy, where is this even coming from? I don’t think that of you.”

Draco laughed, though there was no humour in it. “Then what do you think of me?”

Potter opened his mouth, shut it, then said, “I don’t know. That you’re exasperating, for one.”

Draco gave a sharp little nod. “There we are, then.”

“Oh, come off it—”

“No, really, it’s fine. I understand—”

“Malfoy, you right tosser—”

“I do. Believe me, I get it.”

“Merlin, Malfoy,” Potter said, throwing up his hands, “what do you want me to say? That you’re pretty?”

Draco stared at him.

“Pretty?” he repeated, appalled. “You think I’m pretty?”

Potter immediately looked like he regretted having been born. “That’s not—”

“Well, sue me for taking care of my appearance.”

Potter made a helpless noise. “Oh, here we go. You can’t even accept a compliment.”

“What I cannot accept,” Draco said hotly, stepping forward, “is how deeply irritating it is that you seem able to roll out of bed looking better than every other man in England.”

Potter froze. “I—Malfoy—what?”

Draco’s heart was hammering now, but there was no taking it back. “I said what I said.”

Potter just looked at him, stunned. “How is it,” he said at last, “that you’ve just given me the nicest compliment I’ve ever had, and somehow it still sounded like an insult?”

Draco crossed his arms tighter. “Oh, please. Haven’t you had enough compliments from the world, Chosen One?”

“Yes, but not from—” Potter broke off.

Draco’s stomach dropped. “Not from whom?”

Potter looked at him for one long, dreadful second. Then he said, a little hoarsely, “Not from someone I fancied.”

Draco blinked.

“Fancied?” he echoed. “Goodness, Potter. What are we, prudish third-years?”

Potter made a strangled noise. “Fine. Wanted to shag, then. Desperately. Happy?”

Draco stared at him. Potter stared back.

And then they were kissing.

It happened so fast Draco barely registered who had moved first. One moment they were standing there, both looking shocked and furious and half out of their minds, and the next Potter was in front of him, hands fisting in his robes, and Draco was kissing him like he’d been trying not to for years.

Which, in fairness, he had.

Potter kissed like he did everything else: with alarming intensity and no sense of self-preservation. Draco, who had spent an absurd amount of time imagining this exact scenario, found reality far superior to fantasy, which was really saying something.

He tugged Potter closer by the collar, breathless and grinning against his mouth.

“How long have you been wanting to shag me?” Draco asked between kisses.

“Six years,” Potter said immediately.

Draco made a noise that was half laugh, half groan and kissed him harder, messier, all sharp breaths and barely-contained urgency. Draco pressed forward, impatient, sliding his tongue against Potter’s lips until they parted for him, and then he was in, deepening this kiss, taking.

Potter made a low sound against his mouth, biting at his lower lip, one hand already tangled in Draco’s hair, gripping just enough to make something hot curl low in his stomach.

They broke apart for a second, both breathing hard.

Draco’s gaze dragged over Potter’s face, flushed, lips swollen, pupils blown wide in those ridiculous green eyes, hair even more of a mess than usual. He looked undone, but not completely, so Draco needed to do a better job.

Draco shrugged out of his robes with quick, efficient movements, already unbuttoning his shirt. Potter followed suit, fumbling slightly in his haste, which Draco found both deeply satisfying and unbearably distracting.

And then they were kissing again. This time Draco got his hands on him properly, on warm skin, on the lean muscle shifting under his palms. Potter felt solid, real in a way Draco had spent far too long imagining. He was unfairly gorgeous.

Draco wanted him spread out beneath him on the desk, ruined and breathless and entirely his.

He broke the kiss again, but only to drag his mouth down Potter’s jaw and along his neck.

“Malfoy—fuck.” The sound went straight through him.

Draco’s hands followed, mapping Potter’s body with growing impatience, sliding down his sides, over his hips. Potter’s hands were everywhere in return, in his hair, along his back, pulling him closer like he couldn’t quite decide what he wanted to hold onto first.

Draco bit lightly at his neck, just to hear the reaction, and then let his hand drift lower, over Potter’s thigh, until it was settled just over the hardness at his crotch.

Potter made a strangled, helpless sort of noise. “Malfoy, don’t tease,” he breathed. “I need you.”

Draco huffed a quiet laugh against his skin, entirely too pleased with himself. “Mm. Six years is a very long time to wait. What’s a little longer?”

Potter actually laughed, breathless and disbelieving. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“No,” Draco said simply. He pulled back just enough to look at him again, properly this time, flushed and wanting.

Then, deciding he had absolutely no interest in waiting any longer himself, Draco dropped to his knees. Potter’s expression shifted instantly, something darker, full of heat that made Draco’s pulse jump. Honestly, it was going to be very difficult to behave himself.

“What’re you—?”

“I’m going to suck you off, Potter. Ever had sex before?” Draco rolled his eyes, already unzipping Potter’s trousers and freeing his cock.

He took a moment, just a moment, to look. Dark, flushed at the tip, already leaking. Exactly as good as Draco had imagined. Possibly better.

“Obviously, just—I—fuck—” Potter’s attempt at a sentence collapsed entirely as Draco spat into his palm and wrapped his hand around him, stroking in unhurried pulls, using the slick at the tip to ease the movement.

“Just—I—” Draco mimicked, voice dry. “Fascinating. Do go on. Finish the sentence.”

Potter braced himself against the desk, head tipping back, teeth worrying at his bottom lip as his entire body betrayed him. He shook his head helplessly.

Draco raised a brow. “I’m not putting you in my mouth until you manage a coherent thought.”

Potter’s eyes snapped open, shooting him an irritated look that dissolved almost immediately when Draco tightened his grip and sped up, just enough to make a point.

“I don’t—even—ah—remember—” Potter managed, breath catching.

Draco hummed, considering him, still moving his hand with maddening precision. “Pathetic. Don’t worry. I’ll have you so thoroughly fucked you won’t remember your own name.”

And with that, he leaned in and took him into his mouth. Potter tensed at once with a sharp inhale, hands tangling in Draco’s hair like he needed something to hold onto or he might come undone entirely.

Draco let himself enjoy it for a second, the weight of him on his tongue, before he started moving properly. He swirled his tongue around the tip, lazy yet precise, licking at the slit, collecting the taste of him, while his hand worked the rest in steady strokes.

“Fuck—” Potter breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “I love—fuck—your hair—”

Draco smirked faintly around him, pleased, and sank down further, taking more of him in, forcing Potter to feel it, tearing more of the sounds out of him.

Draco kept going, more confident now, more steady. He set a rhythm, mouth and hand working together, sucking, licking, dragging it out just enough to keep Potter teetering on the edge without quite letting him fall.

He let himself get a little lost in it. In the taste of him. In the sounds Potter was making, wrecked and breathless. And, distantly, he noted with a flicker of satisfaction that yes, Potter was exactly as impressive as expected. Long and thick. A handful, even for him. Draco adjusted his grip slightly, swallowing around him again just to hear what noise it would pull out next.

It didn’t take long before Potter’s fingers tightened in his hair, tugging him back with a breathless sort of urgency. Draco let himself be pulled off with a quiet, annoyed sound, lips brushing once more over the tip before he leaned back.

“Why?” he asked, genuinely put out.

Potter was a mess, chest heaving, face flushed, glasses slightly askew. “I’m gonna—ah—” Draco, unhelpfully, leaned in and licked over the head again, just to see what would happen.

Potter’s entire body jolted. “—I’m gonna come before you get to fuck me,” he finished, voice shaky.

Draco paused, considering that for half a second. “Can you go twice?”

Potter blinked at him, clearly not expecting that. “I—um. Probably?”

“Good,” Draco said simply.

And then, because he had absolutely no interest in delaying his own gratification, he put his mouth back on Potter's cock. He set a faster pace immediately, taking him deeper, working him harder, hand and mouth in perfect coordination. Potter made a broken sound above him, fingers tangling tighter in his hair.

Draco hummed faintly around him, pleased, and shifted his grip, one hand sliding lower to cup his bollocks properly, thumb brushing, squeezing just enough to make Potter gasp.

“Fuck—Malfoy—”

Draco doubled down on it, sucking, licking, swallowing around him, pushing him steadily closer. Potter’s reactions were immediate, completely unfiltered, and Draco found himself chasing them, greedy for every moan he could pull out of him.

“I’m gonna—” Potter choked out. “I’m gonna—”

Draco didn’t let up. He took him deeper, held him there, and felt it when Potter finally tipped over. He swallowed it down, every bit of it, not missing a single drop, dragging it out just enough to make Potter’s grip tighten helplessly in his hair.

Only then did he pull back and stand up. Potter looked wrecked, absolutely wrecked. Flushed, glasses slipping down his nose, staring at Draco like he’d just discovered something life-altering.

“Merlin, Malfoy,” he said hoarsely. “You’re so bloody hot.”

Draco allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk at that. “I know.”

He leaned back in before Potter could recover, catching his mouth in another kiss, more pointedly now. He slid his tongue in, tasting him, making sure Potter tasted it too.

“Turn around,” Draco said.

Potter did, immediately, which Draco noted with a flicker of satisfaction, bracing himself against the desk and shifting his hips back, pressing himself against Draco’s still-clothed cock in a way that was anything but subtle.

Draco’s breath hitched, just slightly. He glanced down and saw Potter already hardening again, leaking against the edge of the desk.

“Wow,” Draco drawled. “So compliant now. Couldn’t you have managed this at any point over the past week?”

Potter shot him a dark look over his shoulder, hair falling into his eyes. “Don’t start. Not now. Just—get on with it.”

Draco hummed thoughtfully, stepping closer, letting his hands settle on Potter’s hips. “What if I don’t feel like following your orders?”

His fingers slid over warm skin of his arse, mapping the shape of him. Draco let his hands linger, then spread him open with a lazy sort of curiosity, taking in the sight of him.

Potter made a small, impatient sound. “I’m—I'm a professor, I’ll have you know, Malfoy.”

“So am I,” Draco said lightly. “Which, if anything, suggests you should be addressing me properly.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Try Sir. It might improve your chances.”

Potter huffed, looking like he wanted to argue further, but couldn't find the words.

He pulled out his wand and conjured some lube, flicking it open with practised ease before slicking his fingers. Then he pressed them against Potter's hole, dragging them just over, not inside yet, spreading the warmth of it.

Potter made a strangled sort of noise, hips pushing back instinctively, seeking more. Draco didn’t give it to him, not yet.

“I thought we’d established,” Potter managed, voice strained, “that I’m not a student.”

“And I thought we’d established,” Draco replied smoothly, “that you’re not above the rules.”

He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss between Potter’s shoulder blades, then another, trailing down his spine with unhurried precision, enjoying the way Potter’s body reacted to every small touch.

“But, I'm—” Potter started, breath catching.

Draco, growing just a little bored of the resistance, pressed a finger inside him. Potter cut off with a whimper, body tightening, then pushing back again almost immediately.

Draco worked his finger in and out of him slowly, far too slowly for Potter’s liking, if the way he was already trying to push back told him anything. Potter rocked against him, impatient, chasing the movement.

Draco stopped him immediately, a firm hand clamping down on his hip. “Don’t.”

“More—more, please—” Potter was already slipping, voice breaking into something needy.

Draco exhaled softly through his nose, entirely too pleased. “Well,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “since you asked so nicely.”

He added another finger, easing it in with careful pressure, stretching him properly now. This time, he set a steadier rhythm, deeper, more purposeful, and it didn’t take long before he found exactly what he was looking for.

Potter’s hips kicked up with a startled cry, his whole body jolting forward before pushing straight back again.

Draco smirked; there it was. He pressed there again, with a crueler sort of precision, curling his fingers just right, and Potter fell apart for him, a steady stream of broken sounds spilling out, his entire body flushing deeper, heat rising under Draco’s hands.

He held Potter steady, one hand firm on his hip, the other working inside him with precise, easy movements, pressing and dragging in a way that made Potter shake.

“Fuck—inside me, Malfoy—fuck you—”

Draco let out a quiet, amused breath, pressing deeper just to hear what that did to him. “I think you’ve got that backwards, darling,” he murmured, the word slipping out easily, like it belonged there. “And if you want me inside you…” He curled his fingers again, more pointed. ”…you’ll do as you’re told.”

Potter went very still at that. His breathing went uneven, hitching, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

Draco took that as encouragement. He added a third finger, stretching him further, finding that same spot again with practised precision.

Potter didn’t last long under that. Any remaining resistance cracked almost immediately, small, helpless sounds slipping out as his body gave him away completely.

Draco leaned over him, mouth brushing lightly down his spine, barely there, just enough to make him shiver. “It’s really very simple,” he murmured. “You want it. So say it.”

“Please—inside me,” Potter managed, voice trembling, dragged out of him. “Malfoy, please.”

Draco hummed, unimpressed. His hand slid up into Potter’s hair, tangling in it, tugging just enough to pull his head back, to arch him further.

Draco leaned in close to his ear, voice dropping. “Please what?” he said softly. “I already told you.”

Potter made a frustrated sound, somewhere between a protest and a whine, but it didn’t last, not when Draco’s fingers moved again, precise and unrelenting, pressing just right. It took him a moment, then, broken and breathless, “Fuck—please—fuck me… sir.”

“That’s more like it.”

He withdrew his hand, slow enough to make Potter feel it, before straightening. He unzipped his trousers, freeing himself and giving himself a few measured strokes, not for necessity, but because Potter was watching him over his shoulder like that, flushed and wanting and entirely gone.

Draco let him look. Then he reached for the lube again, slicking himself properly, taking his time, just to drag it out a little longer. He stepped closer, lining himself up, one hand settling firmly at Potter’s hip.

Draco pushed in slowly, watching Potter as he did. Every reaction, the catch of his breath, the way his shoulders tightened, the way his body seemed to go taut around him before yielding, Draco took in with greedy attention.

“Malfoy,” Potter groaned, voice low and ruined.

Draco exhaled, just as affected despite himself. He stilled for a moment once fully seated, hand firm at Potter’s hip, the other braced against the desk, giving them both a second to adjust, or, more honestly, giving himself a second not to lose control immediately like an absolute amateur. Potter, bent over the desk, flushed and open and taking him so well—

Draco forced himself to move, without hurrying at first. Potter’s grip on the desk tightened visibly, knuckles whitening as Draco set a steady rhythm, dragging it out just enough to make every movement count.

Potter’s hand moved to his cock and Draco caught it immediately, knocking it away.

Potter made a frustrated sound.

“Can’t you come on my cock alone?” Draco said, breath a little thinner now.

Potter let out a rough laugh that broke halfway through. “Maybe—maybe if you stopped being insufferable and actually went harder—”

Draco stilled, and smiled. “Careful what you ask for, darling.”

He shifted his grip, adjusting Potter’s stance just enough to open him further, and then he obliged to Potter's request.

Potter cried out, the sound punching straight through Draco’s composure, his body responding without permission as Draco drove into him harder, faster now, abandoning the earlier restraint.

“You're so perfect for me,” Draco breathed, almost to himself, one hand sliding up Potter’s back, tracing the line of his spine before moving over his chest, wanting desperately to memorise the feel of him.

Potter was unraveling beneath him, completely. Every thrust pulled another sound out of him, whimpers, broken gasps, and Draco, who had not expected this, found himself chasing more of them without thinking.

Potter felt incredible, warm, reacting to every movement in a way that made Draco’s thoughts blur at the edges. It was too much and not enough all at once, and he found himself pushing harder, faster, chasing the edge with very little concern for anything else.

He caught Potter’s hair again, pulling him up just enough to see his face, unfocused, entirely gone.

Draco’s grip tightened. ”Look at you,” he said, voice low and almost disbelieving. “Completely ruined, just from this? You love this, being bent over a desk like a whore, don't you?”

Potter made a broken sound that might have been his name and came apart again with a sharp cry, the tension in his body snapping all at once.

And the feeling of it, the way he tightened, the way he reacted, the sound he made, Draco swore under his breath, control slipping properly now.

“Inside?” he managed, voice strained, barely holding together.

Potter nodded immediately, desperately.

That was all the permission Draco needed, and he followed him over the edge a second later, grip tightening as he came, so hard perhaps he'd leave bruises on Potter's skin.

Draco let go of Potter slowly, his hands lingering for half a second longer than strictly necessary before he stepped back. Potter immediately slumped forward onto the desk, breathing hard, completely spent. They stayed like that for a moment, still close, still connected, both of them catching their breath in the quiet that followed. Eventually, he pulled back properly.

They’d actually—

Draco blinked, as if that might reset his brain.

Potter, if he was having a similar revelation, seemed far too exhausted to properly react to it. He just lay there, looking thoroughly used up in the prettiest way, eyes half-lidded. Draco found that deeply satisfying.

He cleared his throat and reached for his wand, and with an accio, one of the clean cloths from his potions supplies came flying neatly into his hand. He used it with surprising care, cleaning Potter up first, more careful than he might have expected of himself, before sorting himself out and tucking everything back into place with some attempt at dignity.

Potter pushed himself upright a moment later, wobbling slightly. “Your chalk line’s gone,” he said, a faint, breathless laugh escaping him. He gestured vaguely at it on the desk, or where it had been.

Draco followed his gaze. Potter had, quite literally, been lying right over it.

Draco huffed a quiet laugh. “I think we’re rather past chalk lines at this point, don’t you?”

Potter hummed, still catching his breath, and gave him a look that was far too soft for Draco’s peace of mind. “Mm. I don’t think personal space is necessary anymore.”

Draco didn’t think about it. He stepped forward and pulled him back into a kiss, less frantic but no less passionate.

“We are,” Draco murmured against his mouth, amused despite himself, “going to have to pretend otherwise during lessons. Unless you’d like us to become the main source of entertainment for the entire school.”

Potter shrugged, still far too relaxed for someone who should, frankly, be panicking. “Let them talk.”

Then he paused, glancing towards the door with dawning realisation, and grimaced. “Actually… that might not be entirely hypothetical. We didn’t lock it.”

Draco considered that for approximately half a second, then dismissed it entirely, pulling Potter back in again, hand settling at his waist, mouth curving slightly.

“That,” he said, before kissing him again, “sounds like a problem for tomorrow.”

“I fucked Malfoy,” Harry said, grimacing into his glass like he might be able to drown the words before Neville fully processed them.

Three Firewhiskies in, Harry’s tongue had clearly decided loyalty was overrated. He took another sip anyway, as if that might somehow improve things.

Across from him, Neville was staring, mouth slightly open, expression somewhere between shock, delight, and horrified fascination.

Harry had come to the Three Broomsticks on Sunday evening for their usual weekend drink, and notably, Malfoy had not been there. In fact, Malfoy had avoided him all of Saturday and Sunday.

To be fair, Harry had not exactly gone out of his way to seek him out either, but still. Malfoy had thoroughly fucked his brains out on Friday, they’d kissed afterwards, laughed, acted weirdly normal about the whole thing, and then apparently decided the best next step was to pretend the other no longer existed. Which felt, in Harry’s opinion, a bit rude.

He’d gone to bed on Friday night sort of dazed and stupidly happy, and then woken up the next morning with a creeping sense of guilt he couldn’t really explain. Since then, he hadn’t been able to stop wondering if Malfoy felt the same way.

Neville finally found his voice.

“Just recently,” he said, still looking mildly scandalised, “I was trying to get you two to be friends, thinking it would never happen, and now suddenly he's in your bed?”

“Desk, actually,” Harry corrected automatically.

Neville barked out a laugh.

Harry shoved at his shoulder. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m trying not to,” Neville said, which was a complete lie, because he was absolutely laughing. “Sorry, but—Harry. Come on. There’s been that rumour all week about the two of you, and now I find out it’s actually true?”

Harry groaned and slumped further over the table. “The married one? We are not married.”

Neville raised an eyebrow.

“We’re not,” Harry repeated. “And we never will be. It was just a one-night thing.”

Neville gave him a look.

Harry hated that look. It was the exact same one Hermione used when he said something stupid and she wanted to give him a chance to realise it on his own before she stepped in and did it for him.

“Do you really want it to be a one-night thing?” Neville asked.

Harry took a long drink, mostly so he wouldn’t have to answer immediately.

Which did not help, because unfortunately the question stayed there afterwards.

Did he? He didn’t know.

That was the problem. The sex had been, well. Ridiculously good, for one thing. Annoyingly good. Inconveniently good. The sort of good that made future decisions significantly harder than they ought to be. But that wasn’t really the issue, and he knew it.

“It was great sex,” Harry admitted at last, staring into his glass. “Brilliant, actually. Which is annoying.”

Neville made a small, deeply amused noise.

“But,” Harry said quickly, before Neville could get any ideas, “It should stay a one-night thing. No relationship or whatever-this-is. Right?”

Neville looked him up and down in a way that made Harry feel transparently foolish. He felt judged, which was fair, but still irritating.

After a moment, Neville sighed into his drink. “Honestly, I’m past interfering. Whatever I say, you won’t listen to me anyway.”

Harry considered objecting to that, but they both knew it was true.

Neville pointed at him with his glass. “What I will say, though, whatever you decide, is that you should talk to him.”

Harry let out a breath and nodded, because yes, obviously. He’d been avoiding the fact that this required an actual conversation, which could either end well or very badly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I probably should.”

By Monday lunchtime, Draco and Potter had managed not to speak at all.

Well, not properly. There had been the usual muttered morning after breakfast when they arrived at the classroom, but that was the extent of it.

On paper, Draco supposed this was for the best. The less they gave the students, the less fuel there was for whatever absurd theory mill was currently tearing through Hogwarts.

In practice, however, it was unbearable.

He missed Potter. Not in any dramatic, tragic, mooning-about-the-castle way, obviously. He simply found the complete absence of Potter’s presence in his immediate orbit deeply irritating. He missed the petty arguing. He missed being annoyed every five minutes. He missed the stupid little looks Potter gave him when he was about to say something insufferable. Apparently Draco had become so used to Potter being a nuisance that silence now felt distinctly wrong.

Potter, for his part, wouldn’t even look at him half the time.

Which was rich, really, when Draco could barely use their desk without remembering Potter bent over it.

He had skipped lunch in favour of writing fifth-year mock assessments, partly because they needed doing, and partly because it kept his hands busy and his mind from being entirely useless, when Potter walked in.

Their eyes met for one brief, charged second. Then Potter came over and sat beside him as if this were perfectly normal, pulling out his own work with an almost theatrical attempt at casualness.

Draco stared at his parchment for several more seconds, not reading a word of it, then he cleared his throat. He really ought to say something. He was an adult. Allegedly.

“We should probably speak about…” He gestured vaguely, hating himself a little. “You know.”

It was not often Draco Malfoy found himself at a loss for words, but apparently being recently entangled with Harry Potter on a shared desk was enough to reduce even him to incoherence.

Potter looked over then. “Er. Yes. We should.”

He ran a hand through his already untidy hair, making it worse. “I’m sorry,” Potter said. “For not bringing it up, I mean. I thought you wouldn’t want me to.” He exhaled. “Which, now that I say it out loud, does make me sound like a complete coward. I just, didn't know how to feel about it.”

Draco looked down at his parchment, because looking at Potter directly felt suddenly dangerous.

“I understand,” he said, keeping his tone as even as possible. “You don’t want it to happen again, and it won’t.”

He heard the flatness in his own voice and hated it.

Really, he did not know what he had expected. A heartfelt declaration? Another spectacular lapse in judgement over the desk before the next period? It was embarrassing, how quickly his mind had apparently leapt from one regrettable encounter to wanting another.

Potter was staring at him.

“Do… you?” Potter asked.

Draco frowned. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not about to pressure you into anything, obviously.”

There was a beat of silence, then Potter burst out laughing.

Draco turned to him, offended and baffled in equal measure.

“Circe’s tits, no,” Potter said, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

Draco blinked.

Potter was still laughing a little, though there was something nervous under it now. “I want to have sex with you again, Malfoy.”

He said it so plainly that for a moment Draco genuinely wondered if he had misheard.

“What?”

Potter shrugged. "We should keep doing this. Casually, I mean. Obviously."

Draco looked at him. That was what he wanted too, wasn't it? Something uncomplicated. "Obviously," he said at last.

Potter's shoulders loosened slightly. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

Draco frowned. "Why wouldn't I?"

Potter gave a small shrug. “I didn’t really know how to behave myself, after Draco Malfoy, of all people, turned out to be the best shag of my life.”

Draco stared at him, momentarily speechless. This was not where he had expected the conversation to go.

Potter gave him a look. “Tell me I wasn’t the best one you’ve had.”

Draco, annoyingly, could not. A brief and deeply inconvenient review of his past experiences confirmed that no, none of them had been remotely comparable.

He folded his arms. “We’ll see about that.”

Potter snorted. “Oh, come off it, Malfoy.”

Draco allowed himself a smirk. “Fine. It was mind-blowing.”

Potter’s grin broke across his face at once. “See? We do agree on things.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “One thing. Do not get overexcited and assume this is about to become a pattern.”

Potter leaned a bit closer. “Well, we do have fifteen minutes before class starts.” The grin on his face had turned distinctly dangerous.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Do you agree,” Potter said, far too innocently, “that we could make very good use of those fifteen minutes?”

That sent an immediate heat straight through Draco. Still, he refused to let Potter see the full effect of that.

“The question,” Draco said coolly, “isn’t whether I agree. It’s whether you’re capable.”

Potter’s smile widened. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Before Draco could reply, Potter had already drawn his wand and cast a locking charm on the door, before disappearing beneath the desk.

Draco looked down. Potter, on his knees between Draco’s legs, glanced up at him through messy dark hair with an expression that was going to do absolutely nothing for his concentration.

This was either going to be an excellent idea or an incredibly stupid one, possibly both.

Potter didn’t waste any time, he was unzipping Draco’s trousers just enough to free him, and then, without hesitation, putting his mouth on him like this had been the plan all along.

“Greedy,” Draco muttered.

Potter only hummed in response, and the vibration of it sent an unexpected jolt through him.

Draco sucked in a breath. Potter was good at this. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just confident movements. Licking, sucking, taking him in with a kind of focused enthusiasm that made Draco’s thoughts start to slip out of order almost immediately.

“Potter—” he breathed, one hand coming up instinctively to thread through Potter’s hair, holding, guiding without quite meaning to.

And then, unhelpfully, a thought crept in. Other people. Other people who had had Potter like this. Draco’s grip tightened slightly. He did not examine that thought, he refused to. It was irrelevant and entirely beside the point.

Fortunately, Potter gave him something far more pressing to focus on. He took him deeper, steady and controlled, until Draco felt it, the flex of his throat, the way he adjusted so he'd hit the back of his throat.

“Oh, fuck—”

Draco’s head tipped back, the jealousy evaporating instantly under the sheer force of it.

Potter’s tongue moved lower, inch by inch, dragging along him, then further still, and Draco’s breath hitched sharply as sensation layered over sensation in a way that made it very difficult to think about anything at all.

His hips twitched, then pushed forward despite himself. He was close.

Draco forced his eyes open, looking down at him.

Potter glanced up briefly, hair a mess, glasses slightly fogged, mouth working around him, completely absorbed in what he was doing, and, frankly, looking devastatingly gorgeous about it. There was a smear of saliva at the corner of his mouth, his expression focused and a little dazed already.

Draco’s stomach twisted.

“Potter,” Draco said, and it came out far less composed than he would have liked. Wrecked, actually.

He tugged lightly on Potter’s unruly hair in warning, but Potter only made a soft, pleased sound and kept going, entirely unbothered.

“Potter,” Draco tried again, sharper this time, breath catching, “I want to come on your face.”

That got his attention. Potter pulled off him immediately with a quiet, obscene little sound, looking up at him and nodding far too eagerly.

Draco’s mouth curled. “Oh,” he said, teasingly, “you like that, do you?”

“Yes—please,” Potter said, voice hoarse, words catching slightly. Draco felt a flicker of pride at that.

He brought his own hand down, wrapping it around himself and stroking faster now, chasing the edge properly. His eyes stayed on Potter, on the way he was sitting there, flushed and open and waiting, lips parted slightly, glasses slipping down his nose.

“‘Please’ what?” Draco pressed, voice tightening as he got closer, each movement faster than the last. “Use your words.”

Potter swallowed, eyes dark, fixed on him.

“Please, sir.”

Draco’s breath broke as he came. He watched, fixedly, as he spilled over Potter’s face, across his cheeks, his glasses, catching at his lips where they were still slightly open.

For a second, Draco just looked. Potter, beneath him, flushed and blinking behind smeared glasses, looked utterly ruined, and Draco found himself wanting to take in every detail.

Draco’s hand slid from Potter’s hair to his jaw, tilting his face up, thumb brushing through the mess he’d just made.

He pressed his thumb to Potter’s lips, and Potter opened immediately, taking it into his mouth without hesitation, tongue circling, licking it clean with an eagerness that sent another pulse of heat through Draco.

Potter finished the rest himself, leaning in again to clean his cock, far too thorough for Draco’s current state. The sensitivity hit him all at once, enough to make him twitch, a quiet, involuntary sound slipping out despite himself.

“Careful,” Draco muttered, though without much conviction.

Potter only hummed again, pleased with himself.

He slipped back out from under the desk and dropped into his chair looking thoroughly self-satisfied. Smug, actually.

Draco, meanwhile, was left tucking himself back into his trousers and attempting to recover some scrap of dignity, which Potter had very clearly just taken as a personal challenge to destroy.

Across from him, Potter cast a quick cleaning charm over his face, much to Draco’s private disappointment. It had been a very good look on him, after all.

Potter then checked his watch. “Aaaand,” he announced, in a voice that was mimicking a Quidditch commentator, “he finishes in eight minutes, with seven left to go!”

Draco turned to stare at him. He aimed for withering and truly devastating. The sort of look that had reduced first-years and seventh-years alike to silence and visible regret.

Potter only grinned wider, the infuriating man. “I hope you realise you’re paying me back tonight.”

Draco kept his voice cool, leaning back in his chair as if this wasn't the best news he’d heard all day. “Only if you ask nicely.”

By the end of term, things were, rather alarmingly, going smoothly.

Which was not at all how this arrangement had started back in November, when the shared classroom had felt like a war zone. But now? Now they mostly got their tension out through very good sex, taught their classes without incident, made Neville unbearably pleased with their apparent “friendship”, and even started spending weekends together like some sort of deranged little trio.

It was all going far too well, really, and that was the problem.

Because term was nearly over, which meant that after the winter holidays Malfoy’s classroom would be back to normal, the Defence room would be properly Harry’s again, and this whole strange, brilliant arrangement would probably end.

Harry found that thought a lot more disappointing than it had any right to be.

He didn’t know what happened after Christmas. Maybe nothing. Maybe they’d go back to being colleagues who occasionally bickered and occasionally had drinks with Neville. Maybe Malfoy would meet someone else over the break who was prettier, posher, more his type, and be done with Harry entirely. That thought made something unpleasant and hot stir under Harry’s ribs.

He shoved it down with a sigh.

Even if it did end, they’d still be… friends, probably. Which was better than nothing. Considerably better than where they’d started. And it wasn’t as if they were going to end up in some actual relationship. That was ridiculous, probably.

Harry frowned to himself.

Anyway. There was no point panicking about it now. What mattered was that they still had a week left, and Harry fully intended to make the most of it.

Which was why, the second dinner ended, he went looking for Malfoy with the very straightforward goal of getting thoroughly fucked into the desk before bedtime.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, the moment he found him. “I need you to fuck me.”

He was not going to pretend subtlety had ever worked for him.

Malfoy looked up from the cauldron with an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to seem pleased.

He was wearing his glasses tonight, which Harry found unfairly attractive, and his long hair was tied back out of his face, which was somehow worse. Or better. Hard to say. He looked absurdly put together, with the neat sleeves of his silk shirt and his sharp profile and elegant hands moving between quill and cauldron like he was starring in a particularly niche fantasy of Harry’s.

Harry wanted to Malfoy to bend him over the desk. Actually, no. He wanted Malfoy to shove him onto the desk and then loom over him looking like that, and then fuck him senseless.

“Maybe not tonight, darling,” Malfoy said.

The pet name sent the same stupid little warmth down Harry’s spine that it always did. Malfoy had said it enough times by now that Harry should have got used to it, but apparently his body remained pathetic.

“What do you mean, not tonight?”

Malfoy peered at him over the top of his glasses, which ought to have looked ridiculous and instead made Harry want to climb him like a tree.

“It’s exam week for both of us, is it not?” Malfoy said. “Do you not have preparations to do?”

Harry shrugged. “Defence is sort of… you turn up and do it. I’ve got a few written exams, and for the practicals they just need their wands and some of the stuff I’ve already got lying around. No prep needed.”

Malfoy gave a soft hum. “Mm. That does rather suit you.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Malfoy only smirked, and Harry had the immediate and unhelpful urge to kiss it off his face.

Instead, he hopped up onto the nearest desk and sat there, watching him work. “What if I help, then? You’d get it all done quicker.”

Malfoy glanced over. “I seem to recall you were not exactly gifted at Potions, Potter.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “If you tell me what to do, I can manage it. And we both know I’m very good at taking orders, Professor.”

That, at least, got a reaction. Malfoy’s ears went a little pink, though the rest of him stayed infuriatingly composed.

He sighed, like Harry was being terribly inconvenient instead of enormously generous. “Fine. If you help, and we finish at a reasonable hour, I’ll fuck you.”

Harry grinned at once. “Deal.”

“Get the jewelweed,” Malfoy said, nodding towards a shelf, “and a grater. I need it finely shredded. Several batches. It’s the most irritating part.”

Harry slid off the desk and got to work.

After that, they settled into a surprisingly comfortable silence, Harry doing whatever Malfoy asked without complaint for once, and Malfoy carrying on with his brewing with that same concentrated look he always got.

Harry liked watching him like this. More than liked it, probably. Malfoy looked different when he was brewing. More himself. Harry found him weirdly beautiful. Actually, no, not weirdly. Just beautiful.

“How’d you know you wanted to be a Potions Master?” Harry asked eventually, still grating.

Malfoy thought for a moment before answering. “I didn’t, exactly. I just knew I liked Potions, so I took the apprenticeship.” He stirred the cauldron once. “I like teaching. More than I expected to, really. But one day I’d like to make some potions of my own. Publish research, perhaps. Take on an apprentice.” He shrugged, though there was something a bit softer in his voice now. “Do something worthwhile.”

Harry looked at him.

“You know,” Malfoy added lightly, “make a difference.”

Harry smiled faintly. “I thought being an Auror would do that for me.”

Malfoy glanced over. “And it didn’t?”

Harry made a face. “Not really. I’m much happier here. Being an Auror was bloody stressful.”

Malfoy hummed. “Why didn’t you leave sooner?”

Harry scraped the grater a bit harder than necessary. “I don’t know. Ron left straight after training, but I’d already put all that time into it, and I didn’t want it to feel wasted.” He snorted. “So naturally I stayed and wasted another six years instead.”

He handed over the shredded jewelweed.

Malfoy took it, not looking up. “You gained experience, didn't you? That isn’t wasted.” Then, because he was incapable of leaving anything alone, he added, “Besides. Six years. Didn’t you spend most of that time wanting me? Hardly a waste.”

Harry felt his whole face heat up. He hated that Malfoy knew that. “I really regret telling you that.”

“I don’t,” Malfoy said promptly. “And you gave it up so easily. You could have lied, you know. Mr Almost-Slytherin.”

Harry pointed the grater at him. “It was a moment of weakness, all right? Anyway, you still haven’t told me when you first wanted to shag me.”

Malfoy immediately shook his head. “You do not want to know.”

“Well, now I definitely do.”

“No.”

“You have to tell me. It’s only fair.”

Malfoy sighed like this was all a terrible burden. “If I tell you, you are not allowed to laugh. Or react, ideally.”

Harry straightened. “I solemnly swear.”

Malfoy was quiet for a long moment.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “You can’t lie.”

Malfoy shot him a look. “Eighth year.”

Harry fought very hard not to react. He really did. But apparently his eyebrows had their own opinions, because they betrayed him immediately by raising up his face.

“You swore you wouldn’t react,” Malfoy said sharply.

“I didn’t!” Harry said, trying and failing to force his face back to normal. “Honestly, Malfoy, why would I laugh? That’s—” He grinned despite himself. “That’s very cute.”

Malfoy looked deeply unimpressed. “Yes. Cute. Exactly the word I strive to inspire.”

Harry laughed. “All right, maybe not cute. But if I’d known men were an option for me back then, I definitely would’ve wanted you too.”

Malfoy snorted. “You didn’t know? I’m fairly certain everyone else did, Potter. The ridiculous eyes you used to make at Oliver Wood alone were enough to convict you.”

Harry stared. “Excuse me?”

“And every other broad-shouldered Quidditch captain you encountered,” Malfoy went on mercilessly. “And of course Cedric Diggory. A true classic.”

“You sound jealous.”

“I am not.”

“Sure you didn’t like me before eighth year?”

Malfoy went back to stirring with exaggerated care. “I hated you.”

Harry laughed. “That’s not really a denial.”

Malfoy sighed. “Fine. I hated you in a way that, in hindsight, may have had certain... obsessive qualities.”

Harry thought about all the time he’d spent at school being weirdly fixated on Malfoy, and winced.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Same, actually.”

It was, in retrospect, quite embarrassing.

He went quiet after that, watching Malfoy work again.

The candlelight caught on the edges of him, on his sharp profile, his pale hair, the grey of his eyes behind his glasses. He looked distractingly perfect, like something carefully arranged to ruin Harry’s life in a very specific and targeted way.

Harry realised, not for the first time, that he could probably watch him forever. Which was... not ideal. He was in trouble, wasn’t he.

Malfoy looked up suddenly and caught him staring.

Harry was fairly sure his face had gone a bit soft and stupid about it too, which did not help.

Malfoy raised one eyebrow. “What?”

Harry blinked. “Oh. Er. Nothing.”

Malfoy kept looking at him.

Harry cleared his throat. “Just wondering when you’re going to be done, so we can get to the desk.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Malfoy said, not even looking up. “You’ll get my cock inside you soon enough.”

That was, unfortunately, a terrible thing to say to Harry, because now Harry was thinking about it, vividly. Malfoy, pushing him down over the desk again, slow at first and then not slow at all, completely wrecking him—

“Merlin,” Harry muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. The fantasy was good. Very good, actually. But it still didn’t compare to the real thing, which was the problem.

“I’m getting bored over here,” he said, louder.

“I have a couple of things left to do,” Malfoy replied, maddeningly calm.

Harry groaned. “Ugh, still?”

He pushed himself off the desk and crossed the room in a few quick steps, grabbing Malfoy by the collar and dragging him into a kiss before he could protest.

Malfoy made a surprised sound that got swallowed immediately as Harry kissed him properly, biting at his lower lip, then sliding his tongue in, pressing in close enough that Malfoy had to feel exactly how invested Harry was in this idea.

For a second, Malfoy gave in. His eyes fluttered shut, and his hand came up like he was about to pull Harry closer, and then he pulled back.

“I’m not that easy,” Malfoy said, slightly breathless but still infuriatingly composed.

Harry snorted. “Seem easy enough to me.”

He shifted closer, just enough to press against Malfoy’s leg, letting him feel exactly what this conversation was doing to his cock.

Malfoy inhaled sharply. “Fuck, Potter—” He dragged a hand down his face. “I know you think you’re irresistible, but I do actually need to finish this.”

Harry rolled his eyes dramatically. “You’re no fun. Live a little.”

Malfoy shot him a look over the rim of his glasses. “If you’re so desperate, why don’t you get yourself off?”

Harry blinked. Now, Malfoy clearly thought that was a joke. Which, to be fair, it probably should have been, but instead, it gave Harry a brilliantly terrible idea.

“Oh,” Harry said slowly. “Fine.”

He turned and walked back to their desk, hopping up onto it and settling himself there like he had all the time in the world.

Malfoy was watching him. Not obviously, but Harry knew. There were those little quick glances, like he couldn’t quite help himself and then immediately regretted it.

Game on, Malfoy.

Harry unbuttoned his shirt, in no hurry whatsoever, dragging it open inch by inch like he had all the time in the world. He let his hand wander down his chest as if absent-minded, fingertips brushing over warm skin, then pinching a nipple just enough to make himself suck in a breath and let out a soft, embarrassing little sound.

Malfoy’s quill scratched a bit too loudly against parchment. “You can't get me that easily.” he said.

Harry huffed out a quiet laugh under his breath. Right. “Can't I?”

He popped open the button of his trousers and slid his hand inside, dragging his cock out, already hard, already aching. He gave it a slow, testing stroke, thumb catching at the tip, and let his head tip back just slightly as a quiet whimper slipped out.

He drew his wand, casual as anything, and pushed his trousers and pants down in one smooth motion. They pooled at his ankles; he kicked them off impatiently along with his shoes. Then he spread his legs, open and unashamed, planted on the desk.

Harry looked and saw Malfoy was looking back, openly now. He smirked faintly to himself and conjured the lube, quick and efficient, warming it between his fingers before slicking them properly. One hand drifted lazily back up his body, over his stomach, his chest, like he was distracting himself, while the other moved lower, sliding between his thighs.

He took his time. Dragged it out.

Fingers slipping back, letting himself sink onto them, letting himself adjust, then adding another, stretching himself open with a quiet hiss through his teeth. He leaned back on one arm, head tipping against his shoulder as he exhaled, letting the feeling settle, then deepen.

He let himself get lost in it just enough to make it real, hips shifting, breath going uneven, soft sounds slipping out of him without much effort. And then, because he knew exactly what he was doing, he pushed it further, louder, higher moans that he knew Malfoy liked.

When he hit that spot, his whole body reacted, a sharp jolt that made his head fall back properly this time. “Fuck—”

He let it linger, worked his fingers there again, dragging it out.

“I need—” Harry breathed, voice rough and a bit ragged; he wasn’t entirely faking it anymore. “Your fingers, Malfoy. Wish it was yours.”

Hands, warm and firm, landed on his thighs, pushing them wider without asking. Harry’s eyes snapped open, breath catching slightly as he looked up.

Malfoy was there. His gaze was dark, fixed on Harry like he’d finally given up pretending he wasn’t watching.

Harry’s mouth twitched, breath still uneven. Took him long enough.

“You’re such a needy fucking slut, darling,” Malfoy said, voice low and edged with something pleased. “Can’t wait a few minutes?”

Harry shook his head dumbly, a bit dazed, a bit gone, a completely useless sort of noise tearing out of him the second Malfoy’s hands were on him properly. Everywhere at once, it felt like, his thighs, his hips, dragging him closer, holding him open like he’d been waiting for it.

And then Malfoy was kissing him, mouth on his, and then his jaw, his neck, teeth catching just enough to make Harry’s breath hitch.

Harry let out a low, fucked out sound and pulled his fingers out instinctively. Of course Malfoy would take over. Of course he would—

Malfoy clicked his tongue.

Harry blinked, confused.

“You started this,” Malfoy said, voice light and utterly infuriating, “so you’re going to finish it yourself.”

“What—but—”

Before Harry could even properly argue, Malfoy had his wrist, guiding it back, firm and unyielding, pressing his own hand down between his legs again.

Harry made a weak, frustrated noise, but pushed his fingers back in anyway, a bit clumsy this time, a bit desperate.

“If you want me,” Malfoy went on, right by his ear now, “you’re going to fuck yourself. And you’re going to come.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

“Then,” Malfoy added, almost thoughtfully, “I’m going to make you come again. Is that clear?”

Harry swallowed, his fingers moved again, slower at first, then deeper, chasing it properly.

“’S clear, sir,” he managed, voice rough.

He set a rhythm, pushing in and out, trying, and failing, to keep it steady as everything kept slipping out of his control. His other hand came up almost automatically, wrapping around his cock, stroking in time with it.

It was not nearly as good as Malfoy would be. But, luckily, Malfoy was still there, pressed in close, kissing his neck again, as though testing exactly what would undo him, biting just enough to make Harry’s hips jerk forward. His hands moved everywhere, over Harry’s chest, his stomach, gripping his hips when he got too impatient, keeping him exactly where he wanted him.

It was too much.

Harry’s breathing went uneven almost immediately, his whole body tightening as he pushed his fingers deeper, searching, pressing against that spot.

“Fuck—”

He didn’t even try to be quiet about it now. He sped up, both hands moving, losing any sort of rhythm as he chased it properly, fast and messy and entirely obvious about what he was doing.

“Are you going to come on your fingers?” Draco asked.

Harry let out a broken sort of laugh, breath catching as he nodded.

“Mmhmm—yeah—but I wish it was—mmh—yours.”

“Do you, darling?” Malfoy murmured, right against his ear, and Harry could hear the smile in it. “You need my fingers to get off?”

Harry made a helpless sort of sound that was probably meant to be a yes.

Malfoy hummed, pleased with himself. “Next time,” he said, almost generous, “I promise you’ll have them.”

Harry’s fingers stuttered inside him.

“But this time,” Malfoy went on, softer now, closer, “you’re going to do it all by yourself.”

His hand slid up into Harry’s hair, tightening just slightly.

“Be good for me, hm?”

That did it, and Harry’s breath broke completely, the last thread of control snapping all at once. He came with a wrecked sound, his hand tightening around his cock as he spilled over his own stomach, some of it catching on Malfoy’s shirt where he’d leaned in too close.

Harry slumped back slightly, breathing hard, fingers still inside himself, head a bit fuzzy around the edges.

Malfoy didn’t move away. Harry barely had time to come down from it before Malfoy was moving again.

One second he was still riding out the aftershocks, breath uneven, and the next Malfoy’s cock was out, pale and hard and leaking, and his hand was wrapped around it, stroking like he had absolutely no self-control left.

Harry made a soft, needy sort of sound and shifted his hips up without thinking, pressing against him. His arse ached a bit, he could feel it, the stretch, the oversensitivity, but it didn’t matter. He just wanted Malfoy inside him.

Malfoy didn’t make him wait.

He pushed in in one smooth, decisive thrust, all the way to the hilt, and Harry’s breath punched out of him in a broken gasp as that awful, brilliant pressure of oversensitivity gave way to something better.

“Fuck—”

Relief flooded through him so fast it made his head spin, his cock twitching back to life almost immediately, oversensitivity tipping right back over into something pleasurable.

Malfoy started moving, and Harry couldn’t help it, he moaned, open and unfiltered, eyes dragging up to his face.

And, oh. Right.

This was different. They’d never—this was the first time they’d done it like this. Face to face.

Malfoy above him, flushed, hair coming loose around his shoulders, glasses slightly askew, looking, Harry’s brain helpfully supplied: beautiful.

Malfoy met his eyes. There was something there. Not just lust, not just that heated, pleased look he always got, something softer, or maybe deeper, something Harry couldn’t quite name but felt anyway, low in his chest. It made his stomach twist.

Malfoy’s hand came down to Harry’s chest, steadying him, fingers splayed, grounding him there, while his other hand wrapped around Harry’s cock like he couldn’t leave it alone.

“Salazar’s sake,” Malfoy breathed, already losing that polished composure of his, “can’t keep my hands off you—”

Harry huffed out a laugh that broke halfway through into a moan as Malfoy’s pace shifted, harder now, more purposeful.

“You’re gorgeous,” Malfoy went on, voice rough, words slipping between breaths, “and so fucking needy too—”

Harry loved it. God, he loved it. The praise went straight to his head, straight to his stomach, coiling tight and hot until he couldn’t quite tell where one feeling ended and the other started. He rocked up into it without thinking, chasing more, chasing him.

He looked up at Malfoy, really looked, and something in his chest went a bit strange. He wanted—He wanted this. He wanted Malfoy. Not just like this, not just now—he wanted—

Harry’s brain stalled out entirely on that thought, like it had hit a wall it wasn’t prepared to deal with, and then it didn’t matter, because everything else hit him all at once.

His body tensed, breath catching hard, and then he was coming again, whole body shaking through it, Malfoy’s hand still on him, still fucking him through it like he meant to ruin him properly.

Somewhere above him, distantly, he heard Malfoy swear under his breath, felt the way his pace stuttered, then broke.

“—fuck—”

Malfoy came a second later, buried deep, the heat of it flooding through Harry and dragging another helpless sound out of him as he went boneless beneath him.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry just lay there, breathing hard, limbs loose, brain pleasantly empty for once.

Eventually, Malfoy pulled out carefully, and Harry made a quiet noise at the loss before he could stop himself.

“Malfoy,” Harry started, voice a bit rough around the edges.

Malfoy was already reaching for his wand, summoning a cloth and cleaning them both up with surprising care, careful where Harry was sensitive.

Harry watched him.

“Hm?” Malfoy said, glancing at him, still a bit worn out himself, eyes half-lidded, hair slipping loose, glasses slightly crooked.

There were about a hundred things Harry could say. I don’t want this to stop. I don’t want anyone else. This isn't just sex, right?

All of them got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

So instead, because he was an idiot, he went with—

“You’re easy as fuck,” Harry said, grinning at him.

Malfoy didn’t even blink. “For you,” he said, just as easily, matching the smile.

It was the last day of term, and five days before Christmas.

Draco was dreading it.

He dreaded Christmas every year, really. Spending it with his mother and father was always an exercise in endurance. He loved Narcissa, obviously, but Lucius was rather harder to enjoy in extended doses. Christmas at Malfoy Manor tended to be dry enough to kill a lesser man. There was always strained conversation, and at least one moment where Draco seriously considered faking his own death to escape.

This year, however, they were going to France, which was marginally better. At least there would be a change of scenery, and Blaise and Pansy were coming too. Or rather, Draco was going to ensure they came, whether they liked it or not, because he had no intention of being left alone with his parents and a six-course holiday meal.

Still, he was dreading it more than usual this year, because Christmas also meant the end of this.

The end of the shared classroom, the end of the endless petty arguments, the end of Potter being annoyingly, distractingly everywhere. Once term started again, Draco’s classroom would presumably be restored, Potter would reclaim his space in full, and whatever strange, wonderful, completely unplanned thing had happened between them over the last month would probably dissolve into nothing.

They would go back to normal. Whatever normal meant now.

Draco was packing things from his office into his trunk, parchments, books, when Potter came in, probably intending to do the same.

Draco looked up at him.

“I suppose that’s it, then,” he said.

Potter shoved his hands into his pockets and grinned. “Yes. I’ll be happy to get my room back to myself.”

Draco sniffed. “I’ll have you know, if there’s still anything wrong with mine, I’ll be returning at once.”

Potter’s grin widened. “I’ll make sure to leave the door open.”

Draco hummed, because he did not trust himself to say anything sensible to that.

Potter rocked back slightly on his heels, suddenly looking less casual than he had a second before. “I... er. I’ve got something for you.”

Draco paused. “What?”

“A present.”

Draco blinked. “A present?”

“Yes. You know. The little-known thing people give each other at Christmas?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Obviously. I mean why?” He frowned. “I didn’t get you anything.”

Potter shrugged too quickly. “It’s nothing special, honestly.”

That, naturally, made Draco suspicious at once.

Potter pulled out a small wrapped box tied with a bow and held it out. Draco stared at it, then at Potter, who gave him a hopeful sort of smile that made Draco’s chest do something unhelpful.

He took the box and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a set of keys. Draco lifted them out and let them jingle in his hand, frowning. “What exactly am I looking at?”

Potter rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve got a cottage up here. In Scotland.” He glanced away for a second, suddenly almost nervous. “I was thinking... after Christmas, maybe we could spend the rest of the break there.”

Draco looked up sharply.

Potter kept going, clearly before he could lose his nerve. “If you’re free,” he added. “And if you want to. Obviously.”

Draco could only stare at him.

Potter wasn’t offering him a night. He was offering more.

Draco felt something in his chest swell so suddenly it was almost painful. Because yes, he wanted more. More of this. More of Potter being impossible and funny and infuriating and unexpectedly kind. More weekends. More arguments. More kisses. More everything, really, though Draco was only just beginning to admit that to himself.

Potter, misreading his silence entirely, started rushing in to fill it.

“If you can’t, or you don’t want to, that’s completely fine, I just thought—”

Draco crossed the room in two strides and kissed him.

That shut him up nicely.

Potter made a startled sound against his mouth, then kissed him back at once, warm and eager and very definitely not objecting. Draco kissed him properly, deeply, because apparently words had failed him and this was all he had left.

When they finally broke apart, their foreheads rested together.

Potter was smiling.

“Is that a yes, then?” he murmured.

Draco laughed softly against his mouth and kissed him again, just because he could.

“Yes,” he said when he pulled back. “Definitely yes.”

Potter’s grin turned a bit wicked. “I’ve got a desk there, you know.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Do you.”

“Think of all the things we could do.”

“Do you also have a bed?” Draco asked dryly.

Potter pretended to think very hard. “Mm. Yes, I believe so. But we’ll have to divide everything up properly. My side, your side.” He gestured vaguely. “Maybe draw a chalk line down the middle.”

Draco smiled. “You could, but we both know we'd cross it.”

Potter laughed and kissed him again, and Draco, having apparently abandoned all instinct for self-preservation, let himself be backed up against the desk for it.

The classroom door swung open and Draco and Potter sprang apart with all the dignity of two men who had very clearly not been doing anything remotely dignified.

A pair of sixth-years had stopped dead in the doorway, both staring at them with identical expressions of wild triumph.

There was a beat of absolute silence, then one of them said, in a tone of deep personal vindication, “I knew it.”

The other grabbed his friend’s arm and shook it. “I told you they were married!"

“Out,” Draco said at once, with all the authority he could muster while still slightly breathless.

They fled, though not before exchanging the sort of look that suggested the whole of Hogwarts would know soon enough, and subsequently be completely insufferable about this.

Potter stared at the closed door for a second, then looked back at Draco. “McGonagall’s going to be fun to deal with.”

Draco exhaled slowly. “That sounds like a problem for January.”

Potter leaned in again, smile softening. “So. Where were we?”

This time, when Draco kissed him, he made certain the door was locked.