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“Malfoy! My office!”

Draco and Harry jumped as the sharp voice rang out from the corridor.

“What did you do?” Harry muttered with a frown.

“Oh, Merlin fucking knows,” Draco sighed.

“I’ll wait.”

“No,” Draco said in a rush. “If I have to stay late, there’s no need for both of us to miss the pub. I’ll catch you up.”

“Malfoy, what’s taking so long!”

“For fuck’s sake,” Draco muttered, giving Harry a wave as he swept through the bullpen to Robards’ office. “Sir?”

“Sit down.” Draco sat, doing his best to appear polite, subservient, quiet, well-behaved—not really the skillset that had got him hired. Robards tossed a file down onto his desk. “What the fuck is that?”

Draco swallowed, leaning forwards to lift the file and page through it. “The Sanderson file, sir.”

“Indeed. Does it have all its requisite parts?”

Draco stifled a sigh. He’d put the bloody file together that morning. He flipped through the pages. “Dossier, Interview reports, Evidence tracking, Archives records, Potions tes—” Draco frowned. The Potions tests weren’t there. He’d put them there. He’d put the files together, and then he’d handed them off to—fucking Potter.

“You were saying, Malfoy?”

Draco stood. “Sir, I believe the potions tests must be in my of—”

“Sit. Down.”

Draco sat.

“Look at me, you snivelling little brat.”

Draco looked. Gawain Robards was not a paragon of Welsh beauty. His skin was florid and shining with sweat. His hairline was receding, while his beard appeared to be trying to take over his entire face. His skin had gone sallow, and he always smelt of the most hideous cologne paired with the cheapest cigars Draco had ever had the misfortune to smell.

“Do you know why I hired you, Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me why I hired you.”

“Because Kingsley made you, sir.”

“That’s right. Your first act as an auror-in-training was to get me called into the fucking Minister’s office to be ordered to hire you for the sake of some sort of bloody reconciliation bollocks. Do you think I wanted to do that, Malfoy?”

“No, sir.”

“Correct. I didn’t want to hire you then, and despite the fact that you are one of my best aurors”—Draco hated himself for the flush of pride he felt at that—“I would fire you in one second if I thought I would be allowed to make it stick. Tell me, Malfoy,” Robards hissed, his eyes squinting. “Do you think forgetting your potions test in this file was enough for me to be able to fire you?”

“No, sir, probably not.”

“Why not?”

“Because Kingsley likes me, sir.”

Robards rounded the desk and leant in front of Draco, glaring. “That’s right. For some reason that I haven’t yet figured out, the Minister for Magic likes you. As a fucking person. For a while, I thought you were bribing him, even though I know Kingsley’s better than that. Do you know why he likes you?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Neither do I. Because there isn’t anything about you that’s worth liking, is there?”

Draco swallowed down the surge of fury and humiliation—and something else—that he always felt when he was subject to one of these dressings-down. He could feel his face flushing with shame, but didn’t dare look away from Robards.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Glad we agree. So take this, and refile it properly tomorrow. I don’t want to have to see your pathetic face in my office again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco said. He folded the file and stood carefully, nodded once at Robards, and returned to his office.

He breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door when he realised Harry had indeed left for the pub. He walked to his desk—there, sitting next to his biro, was the potions test form. On top of it, on a pink sticky note from the pad Hermione had given Draco, was a note:

I think this fell out of your file when I had them earlier; found it on the floor. Sorry! —H

Draco removed the note, then placed the parchment at the back of the file. He set the file down and stared for a moment.

Then, with a desperate moan, he put his hand over his cock and squeezed.

*     *     *

Draco swept into the pub only forty-five minutes late and just a bit flushed.

“Did you walk?” Harry asked. “You look winded.”

“Yes,” Draco lied, thinking about the way he had sat in Harry’s office chair and edged himself twice before allowing himself to come—it was the weekend, after all. No need to rush. “I just needed time to think.”

“Robards must not have kept you long, then?”

Draco sighed. “Just long enough to remind me that he will always hate me. He did call me one of his best aurors though!”

Harry laughed and pushed the glass of wine next to his pint towards Draco. “You’re so fucked up, you know that?”

Draco grinned as he grabbed his wine. “Unfortunately, my mind healer and I are both well aware.”

It hadn’t always been like this, of course, with Draco and Harry. They’d made it through eighth year being careful and cordial, and then they’d both taken three years to variously fall apart, put themselves back together, have a little bisexual epiphany (Harry), and get a potions mastery (Draco). Then, Kingsley, who was either a machiavel of astounding proportions or just had a bizarre sense of humour, came to each of them, separately, and convinced them to sign up for the aurors. The choice of Harry was obvious—the public relations coup alone was probably worth dealing with his inability to do paperwork correctly.

Draco was a bit more unorthodox.

“You want me to be a bloody auror? Fucking why?” Draco had asked, not even bothering to try to be polite to the Minister for Magic. It wasn’t like Draco had invited him to his lab.

“We need forensics experts. We need people who are good in the field and also with books. We need people who can brew, and brew well. We need people who are smart and who don’t just automatically believe what they’re told.”

“There’s no way Robards would approve this,” Draco had said, thinking about his interactions with the new Head Auror immediately following the war. Then he wondered why he’d chosen that as his quibble. Until about three minutes earlier, he would have said auror was the last job he’d ever want.

“Robards answers to me,” Kingsley said. “You have to get through training on your own, but it will be fair. And you will do it. And you will be excellent at it.”

Draco looked round his lab. He loved brewing, but the fact was he was bored out of his mind never doing anything but brewing. He’d put his head down for the last four years. He’d worked hard, and he’d been good, and he hadn’t done a single thing to be ashamed of or even to make anybody raise an eyebrow at. He’d certainly not done anything impulsive.

“All right,” Draco said. “I’ll do it.”

Of course Harry had been there, the first day of training. When he saw Draco he stood and walked out of the room, then thirty seconds later, walked back in, looking furious with himself, and held out his hand. “Guess we’re in this together, eh Malfoy?”

And just like that—through sheer strength of will, it seemed—Draco and Harry became friends. And training was terrible, but it was manageable, just, with a friend.

All except for one problem, which was Lionel Watkins.

Lionel Watkins had a lot to answer for. He was an absolute bellend, who seemed to be in charge of training for the pure purpose of weeding out people who couldn’t manage to be around arseholes. These days, Draco thought it might be to prepare people for Robards. Watkins cursed often and uncreatively, thought gay slurs were the funniest thing ever, and every time he shouted at Draco (which was often), spittle flew from his mouth.

His greatest crime: unlocking some twisted part of Draco that got off on being berated.

The first time was, ironically, after they’d done a fucking obstacle course and Draco had got the second fastest time (after Harry, of fucking course). They’d just finished, and Harry was slapping Draco on the back and handing him his water bottle, when Watkins appeared behind them like a boggart.

“What the fucking fuck was that, Malfoy? If you hadn’t fucking tripped on that fucking tyre you would have got a better time than Potter here.”

“Er, yes, sir,” Draco said. “I’ll do better next time.”

“Of course you’ll fucking do better next time. It makes me look fucking bad if my fucking trainees don’t fucking improve. Do you understand, Malfoy?”

“Yes, sir,” Draco said, though he really, really didn’t.

“On the fucking ground. Fifty fucking pushups.”

“For … getting second place?” Draco really didn’t mean to sass. He had got remarkably good at holding back his snarky remarks and saving them for when he and Harry were in private.

Watkins stepped close. He was a few inches shorter than Draco, but he was built like a rhinoceros, so the effect was still imposing.

“You listen to me, you poncy little shirt-lifter. When I tell you to get on the fucking ground and do fifty fucking pushups, what the fucking fuck do you think I want you to do?”

It was at that moment that a droplet of spittle was expelled from Watkins’ mouth, landing on Draco’s lip.

It was the next moment that Draco realised he was getting rapidly and disastrously hard.

“You want me to do fifty pushups, sir.”

“Then why the fucking fuck are you standing here?”

Face flaming, Draco dropped to the ground, privately grateful that at least his cock was hidden from view. By the time he finished his pushups, the erection had subsided, but his bewilderment had only grown.

Draco thought maybe it was a one-time thing. Bodies did strange things under stress. But then it happened again the next day. And then the next. By the weekend, he had got out his cup from his quidditch days, charmed it with a tricky one-sided expansion charm, then, worst of all, used a lie about Teddy kicking him in the bollocks as an excuse when Harry raised a brow in the locker room.

The thing was, it wasn’t sexual, not exactly. If anything, Draco had negative interest in Watkins. He almost hoped to uncover some tawdry repressed memory from childhood, but no luck. His mind healer told him, rather kindly, that sometimes people were sexually aroused by certain things, and while it might come from some specific cause, in many cases, it was just the way things were.

“I cannot just get off on being shouted at at work!” Draco replied. His mind healer shrugged and suggested mindfulness exercises.

So, Draco did just get off on being shouted at at work. At least twice a week for the rest of training, Draco stood, red-faced, staring straight ahead, and felt his cock swell as Watkins told him what a miserable waste of space he was.

When they finished training, he and Harry went out to celebrate together, just the two of them.

“Well,” Harry said, handing Draco a shot. “Here’s to no more Watkins.”

“I will drink so much to that,” Draco said, clinking their glasses together.

The next week, they started at the Ministry, and Robards called him into his office to tell him—for the first time—that he was a pathetic insult to his uniform and that no one would ever have any reason to like him. After he waved Draco away, Draco slipped into the toilet and stared down at his cock in horror. What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

The answer, for the first few months, was hiding in the loo and wanking whenever he could manage, and suffering the rest of the time. Then, after those first few months, he realised that “suffering” with an erection that he couldn’t possibly let anyone see was actually really fucking hot. After that, he almost never allowed himself to wank until he got home. He’d sit at his desk doing paperwork, flexing his thighs or his abs to provide the smallest bit of friction. If he were in the lab, sometimes he’d let himself lean against the cupboard under his cauldron for a little relief.

Very occasionally, he let himself get off at work, but only when he was brewing something that required such careful attention that he was worried for his safety. And if, on those rare occasions, the thing that usually made him come was imagining Harry walking into the toilet and staring at him in shock, then lust, well … everybody needed a fantasy, right?

*     *     *

“Potter, Malfoy—Robards wants you to give him a report on your stakeout last night.”

Draco sighed and placed his face on the desk. “He couldn’t have asked in the morning?”

“Why, when he could make us suffer instead?” Harry stood and stretched, the hem of his jumper riding up to show the elastic waistband of his pants peeking out from inside his jeans. Harry sighed and grabbed the file.

“Come on, faster we go, faster it’s done, faster we get the fuck out of here.”

“Spoken like a real testament to the uniform.” Draco stood, mirroring Harry’s stretch.

“Sod off, I got about ninety minutes of sleep last night and I’ve got a splitting headache. And we’re getting a takeaway for dinner—you promised me.”

“Yes, all right, all right, fine.” Draco trailed Harry to Robards’ office. He watched while Robards gave Harry a nod that might be somewhere in the realm of affable, then flared his nostrils at Draco. As always when they were both present, Robards ignored Draco after that, acting like Harry was the only one in the room.

The lights in Robards’ office were so bright it was like he wanted to be prepared for an emergency interrogation—Draco saw Harry wince, place a hand to his temple, then look down at the report as he began to speak. Draco frowned. He’d like to take over—he was perfectly capable of giving a bloody report—but he had a feeling Robards would not take kindly to it, so he sat and watched as Harry stumbled, rubbing his eyes whenever Robards asked to see a document or stopped to think about something.

“And what about the residue samples from the door?” Robards asked. Draco saw the moment Harry froze, and he knew without doubt that Harry had forgot to do it. He also knew, as well as Harry, that it did not matter one whit that Harry had been taking the samples; Draco would be blamed for the error. Without a headache, Harry might have been able to make up some story that would distract Robards, but Draco could see him floundering. He sighed. If he was going to be blamed, he might as well be fully blamed; better than being shouted at for not babysitting Harry well enough.

“Apologies, sir,” Draco said, wincing as two heads snapped to look at him, one in dislike, one in shock.“I think I forgot to take that sample.”

It was silent for a moment. Then Robards slid across his desk to face Draco.

“It hasn’t even been a fortnight since the last time we discussed your uselessness, has it, Malfoy?”

“No sir,” Draco said. He could feel Harry watching. He could feel his face heating earlier than usual—this had never happened in front of Harry, not with Robards.

“A week ago, I think? And what did I tell you, a week ago?”

Draco felt his cock thickening already and willed it to please, just once, give Draco a fucking break. “Well, sir, you told me I’m one of your best aurors.”

Draco heard a quiet snort from Harry.

“Think this is funny, Malfoy? A joke? Think you’re going to make me laugh?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t like me, sir.”

“Are there any reasons for me to like you?”

Draco clenched his thighs together, suppressed a moan, and took a deep breath. “Not one single reason, sir.”

“Not one. You’re nothing more than a pathetic sympathy hire that I was forced into and I would throw you out if I thought I could.”

“Yes sir,” Draco said. His cock twitched.

“Now both of you, get the fuck out of my sight. I’ll send Patil to clean up your mistake.”

“Thank you sir,” Draco said. He stood to see Harry staring in shock. He felt his cock throb so hard he felt lightheaded. Harry opened his mouth, but Draco gave him a fierce look and grabbed his arm, shepherding him out of the office.

“What the fuck, Draco, he can’t—”

“Not here,” Draco hissed, marching Harry back to their office. The whole way, his body was thrumming, with the hot flush of humiliation and the knowledge that he was touching Harry whilst rock hard and fuck, he didn’t think anything had ever felt better or worse than being berated while Harry watched.

Draco shoved Harry into their office and shut the door, resting his head against the wood for a moment and taking a deep breath. This was a new test, that was all. Just a new thing to overcome.

“Draco, what the fuck was that?”

Draco turned. “Let me take you home and get your your takeaway and a headache potion. You’re not—”

“That was my fucking mistake, Draco!”

Draco took a deep breath. They might be friends now, but that didn’t save Draco wanting to throttle Harry at least thrice a day. “And if you had said that, do you really think that Robards would have turned to me and said, ‘Goodness, Malfoy, my apologies. I’ll go harangue Potter now, and don’t worry, I take back everything I said about your general worthlessness.’”

“How are you not angry?”

On one level, Draco was. He was furious, that there was, so far as he could determine, nothing he could do to overcome the choices he had made as a teenager. He was furious that despite that, he adored his job. He was furious that he didn’t really want it to stop, because he was some sort of fucking sex freak who got off on his boss hating him. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Being angry wouldn’t do me any good. It’s not going to change unless I quit my job. And I rather like my job.”

“Even the part where Robards says things like that to you? Don’t pretend that was the first time. You knew what was going to happen. I saw the look on your face.”

“Honestly, it’s worth it,” Draco said, ignoring how heartily his cock agreed with him. “Can we go?”

Harry sighed and trailed Draco out of the office. The whole way back to Draco’s flat, he was quiet, save occasional questions he asked Draco.

“When did it start?”

“Our first week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought you might deck him, and as much as he deserves it, unlike the things I’ve done, that would constitute a firing offence.”

“He’s wrong, you know.”

Draco turned at the counter of the kebab shop. “Wrong about what?”

“He said there was no reason to like you. I like you. I think there are lots of reasons.”

Draco swallowed as Harry stared at him with those earnest eyes. His cock, still mostly hard—funny how an extended conversation with Harry about his humiliation would do that—gave a hopeful little twitch. He sighed and turned back to the till. “You’re just saying that because I’m bribing you with falafel.”

Harry scoffed, but took the hint and didn’t speak again until they were at Draco’s flat.

“You go change, I’ll get this set up.”

Draco paused, then headed to his bedroom, panicking a bit. It would be substantially more difficult to hide his erection in joggers, but given the number of times he had lectured Harry about the importance of house clothes for one’s comfort and cleanliness, he wasn’t sure he could avoid it. He shucked his clothing quickly, hissing a little as his fingers brushed his cock. He wondered, for one moment, how inappropriate it would be to wank while Harry waited—his cock throbbed and he knew it wouldn’t take long if he did.

No. He could wait. He would be good. Then he’d deserve it.

Harry frowned to himself as he walked into the office to find Draco there already. There was a pastry and a cup of tea on Harry’s desk; Draco was scribbling away on a report; his brewing robes were draped over the back of his chair, which meant he’d already been to the lab.

“Early start?”

Draco didn’t look up. “We’ve got all those meetings this week, plus that second stakeout; I don’t want to get behind.”

Harry hummed as he sat.

“Good weekend?” he asked. Draco had been odd when they’d had dinner on Friday; stiff and uncomfortable in a way he hadn’t been with Harry for years. Harry assumed he was embarrassed about the way Robards had upbraided him, but he still didn’t quite understand. It didn’t seem like Draco, to not be more furious about it.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, it was lovely. Sorry to have missed Puddlemere losing pathetically, by the way, but I had plans.”

“Can’t help but notice you never have plans when they lose pathetically to the Falcons.”

Draco smirked and continued writing. Harry sighed, took a sip of his tea, and pulled his own report closer. He bloody hated paperwork, but it was manageable, somehow, to do it with Draco sitting alongside him, scratching steadily with his biro. Unfortunately, the mindlessness of Harry’s current report gave him plenty of opportunity to think.

Things were good with Draco. Really good. Harry had been furious, at first, when Draco had walked into the auror training room for the first time, tall and haughty and devastatingly beautiful. Then he’d remembered something Kingsley had said to him when Harry’s agreed to join the aurors.

“Training won’t be easy, you know. You’ll be fine with the practical elements, but seeing how you do with mental pressures and stresses will be interesting. Yes, I’m very curious to see how you respond to the unexpected.”

Harry had been confused, by the words and by the twinkle in Kingsley’s eye when he’d said it. Hadn’t Harry proven himself at being pretty fucking good at responding to the unexpected? Then Draco had walked in, and Harry knew exactly what Kingsley had meant. He wanted to throw a fucking fit, but instead he allowed himself a few seconds in the corridor to let out one furious groan and tell himself he’d beat Kingsley at this stupid game, and then he’d walked back in and shaken Draco’s hand.

And then, it turned out, he liked Draco. A lot. Draco was smart and funny and infuriatingly good at nearly everything he did. Watkins was an arse to everybody, of course, but he was far worse to Draco, and Harry had been surprised and gratified to see the way Draco didn’t quit, and didn’t snap back, but he also didn’t fold in on himself or, that Harry had seen, even sulk (once they were friends, Harry got to see the sulking). He simply stood, back straight, and worked even harder (and then, later at the pub, often reenacted the scene with all the ripostes he had choked down at the time). Harry had been happy during training, and then he’d been happy to be partnered with Draco. And at some point, even Harry, oblivious though he was, had realised his feelings went far beyond partnership or even friendship. He thought Draco might feel the same. But they both loved working together, so it had stayed unspoken, and their friendship had deepened. In many ways, he was closer now to Draco than he was to Ron and Hermione.

And yet somehow, they’d been partnered together for two years, and Draco hadn’t once told Harry that Robards spent their meetings verbally humiliating him. Harry wondered if he’d been naive, to not consider it. It wasn’t like he didn’t know that Robards detested Draco. He just assumed Robards was cold and snappish like he always was when Harry was present, or when they were in large groups.

Harry frowned to himself. It would probably get worse if Harry spoke to Robards. Draco would probably murder him if he spoke to Kingsley. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as Harry feared. He should probably keep his nose out of it.

His resolve lasted until the end of the day.

Harry was sitting on the worktop out of the way in the potions lab, ignoring the paperwork he had to finish in favour of chatting to Draco—or, more realistically, sitting in comfortable silence as he watched Draco work. Draco was methodical and attentive, and happy to let Harry prattle at him when he wasn’t working on things that required intense focus. For things that did require focus, he wasn’t above using a silencing charm, then giving a little smirk that made Harry’s heart leap in his throat before returning to his work.

He’d been watching Draco brew potions long enough to know that he was almost at a point where he could lay a stasis charm for the night when the door crashed open, making both of them jump. Robards stalked in, his face ruddier than usual, nostrils flared. He glanced over at Harry—who was violating about four safety regulations and clearly not working—then turned to Draco.

“Malfoy, tell me, what the fuck is your problem?”

Draco sighed, not looking up from his potion. “May I have one moment to finish this first, sir? Only, I don’t fancy it exploding in all our faces.”

“Don’t you try to get out of this—”

For the first time, Harry saw annoyance flash across Draco’s face in response to Robards’ jibe. “I am most happy to list my faults for you, sir, or to listen to you list them, but this potion is dangerous and unstable for another two minutes. You may not like me, but you seem to like my brewing skills well enough, so may I?”

Robards swelled with indignation but nodded. Harry was frozen on the worktop. He could see Draco flushing already.

“Er, should I—” Harry wanted to ask Draco what he wanted, but he wasn’t sure how to manage it. Even if his legilimency weren’t total shit, Draco was avoiding his eyes.

“No, Potter, stay where you are. No need for you not to hear this. You’re the one saddled with this pathetic partner, and Kingsley won’t let me reassign you.”

Harry felt a flash of panic at that. “I don’t want to be—”

“Shut up, Potter,” Robards snapped.

Draco raised one hand in a subtle quelling gesture at Harry; clearly he didn’t want Harry fighting this battle. He cast a stasis charm, then lifted his goggles from his face and sighed.

“All right, Robards. The potion is stabilised. Proceed.”

“Don’t hide behind it like a coward. Get over here.”

Harry watched Draco step around the work table and directly in front of Robards. Robards was tall, but Draco was taller; Robards seemed to realise he didn’t have a physical advantage and flicked his wand, drawing up a chair. “Sit.”

Draco looked at the chair for just one moment, then sat, hands folded in his lap, and looked up at Robards. His face and neck were very red. “Ready, sir.”

“You submitted a series of reports this morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And yet you neglected to include the samples from Patil’s poisoning case.”

There was a brief pause. “I … sorry, sir, which case is that?”

Harry made a small sound, horror-struck. Robards had given him the case file on Friday, when he’d had that fucking migraine. He’d gone back to the office, and set it on his desk, and set about looking for a potion … fuck, that was twice he’d accidentally fucked Draco over last week.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Malfoy? What the fuck do I pay you for if you don’t know what cases you’re assigned?”

Harry saw Draco’s eyes flash to Harry, then back to Robards. His jaw set. “Just to make Kingsley happy, I suppose.”

“Do you think it makes Kingsley happy, when his favourite little pet”—Harry saw Draco flinch at that—“is such a resounding, pathetic fuckup?”

“No sir, probably not.”

“Do you think it makes me happy…”

Harry tuned Robards out, watching Draco with a frown. Draco’s face was a mask. Harry saw that mask when other people were around, but it still felt odd—when it was just the two of them, Draco was so expressive, so quick to smile or roll his eyes or smirk or bite his lip around that devious grin he got when he was about to say something witty.

But mask or not, something seemed odd about Draco. Maybe it was just him holding back his ire, but Harry didn’t think that was quite it.

Harry tuned back in to hear Robards give what must be a refrain in these little diatribes. “And tell me, Malfoy, what is there about you worth liking?”

Harry saw Draco swallow, his throat bobbing. “Absolutely nothing, sir.”

“And I won’t ever let you forget it,” Robards hissed, before turning and sweeping out of the room without a glance at Harry.

Draco stayed in the seat after the door slammed shut, letting his eyes fall closed, his body slumping a tiny bit. Harry slid to the floor.

“It’s not true,” Harry said, feeling pathetic with how desperate he was to make sure Draco knew it. Draco let out a sigh that sent a shiver through Harry, then made him hate himself. Draco didn’t need Harry’s pathetic little obsession right now, he needed a friend. “Draco, it’s not true.”

Draco sighed again and shook himself.

“I know it’s not true, Harry. But thank you.”

“Can I take you out to dinner? I don’t want you to go home and sulk.”

“I don’t sulk,” Draco said, which was abjectly untrue and they both knew it.

“And no, I think I’d rather—” Draco broke off as he stood, putting his hand on the table and taking a deep breath, as though to steady himself. “Actually yes, I think dinner would be good. I think I’d like that.”

Harry smiled. “Great. Do you want me to leave you to finish up?”

“No! No,” Draco said, still looking unsteady. “You can … I’d like you to stay.”

*     *     *

Harry continued to puzzle over Draco’s behaviour for the next several days. He’d been relatively normal at dinner on Monday, though much more fidgety than Harry thought he’d ever seen him. Harry asked about it, and Draco brushed him off, looking embarrassed, but he calmed himself after that. Harry wondered if the lambasting from Robards had unsettled him even more than Harry realised.

Harry walked Draco home afterwards, and there was a moment—just a brief moment—at Draco’s door when Harry thought Draco might invite him in. When Harry thought, “Maybe I should just kiss him.” As soon as he thought it, he realised how much what they’d done was like a date, and while Harry very much wished to take Draco on a date, he’d rather they both knew it was a date first. He couldn’t have their first kiss come at the end of an accidental date. Draco would never let him hear the end of it. So Harry left him there, and went home to ponder.

Everything became a bit more confusing on Thursday afternoon. They had spent most of the day separated, with Draco in the lab and Harry working with Padma in the archives doing research for her newest case. Harry rushed back to their office, hair dusty, to prepare for their report to Robards before they headed off for their shift on a stakeout that was to last until half two.

When he got to the office, Draco was already there looking intently through a pile of files.

“Get a wriggle on,” Draco said. “I don’t want to be shouted at because you were late.”

“Sorry. Found it, though, so at least I have something to report.”

Draco hummed. Harry set down his boxes and pulled the single file he needed, then watched as Draco continued going through his files. He peered at one, then pulled it from the stack and set it on his desk. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, Draco was flushing, Robards was shouting, and Harry’s mind was spinning.

“I appear to have misplaced the Levinson file,” Draco had said, swallowing hard, fanning out the files in his hands as though confused. “I’m sure it must be on my desk, sir.”

It was on his desk, Harry knew. Harry had seen him put it there. Intentionally. After reading it. It took Harry a few moments to process that Draco had intentionally left the file behind. He’d known they’d discuss Levinson. He’d looked through his files and pulled one that he knew Robards would want. Why?

Harry watched Draco sit in front of Robards, nodding as Robards spewed insults. Once more, Draco had that mask on his face. But Harry had years of experience examining Draco’s face. He was flushed red with humiliation, but there was something in his posture that gave Harry pause. His breaths were short. And his posture was stiff, but—there. Harry looked at Draco’s legs. He was clenching them together. His eyes darted to Draco’s face. He saw, as Draco clenched his legs again, Draco’s eyelashes flutter, just for one moment.

If Harry didn’t know better—if he didn’t know that it was impossible, what he was thinking?—he’d say that Draco was aroused.

At that moment, Robards said, “Tell me, Malfoy, are you good for anything at all besides shouting at?”

Harry watched, suddenly intent, and he saw the way Draco’s stomach tightened, and he heard the slightest gasp before Draco ground out, “No, sir. Nothing.”

Harry didn’t hear what Robards said next. His mind was buzzing. He stared at Draco’s crotch; he couldn’t see anything different, but then again … Draco had prepared. This was not a surprise. Harry’s mind flashed to the previous week; the strange look that Draco had darted him when he’d taken the blame for Harry’s mistake. The desperate little sigh he’d given, his face against the door, before turning to talk to Harry.

He let his thoughts flick back farther, to Watkins, shouting in Draco’s red face, and Draco always seeming just a bit off-kilter afterwards. Harry watched now and noticed the slight glazed look in Draco’s eyes, the way his plump lips were parted. How did Robards not see it? How had Harry not seen it? He stared, stunned and confused and more than a little bit turned on himself, as he understood that Draco was getting off on being shouted at by their boss, and he’d done it on purpose, and Harry was watching.

Eventually, Robards snapped at them to leave. Harry stood in a haze and walked back to their office, Draco following behind him. He stepped just close enough to Draco’s desk to be certain: yes, even from several feet away, he could see “Levinson” clearly written in Draco’s pristine handwriting. His mind raced.

Draco sat gingerly—because he had a fucking erection, Godric’s malfunctioning left testicle—and set his files down on the desk. He took a shaky breath.

“Should we … get dinner, before we go to relieve Jones and Jameson?”

“What?” Harry shook himself. “Er, yeah, sure, wherever you want.”

“Do you need to do anything else?” Draco’s voice was measured, like he was trying to keep control of himself.

“No, we can go,” Harry said. “Er, do you need a minute? Loo, anything?”

Draco was staring very hard at the stack of files. He shook his head. “No. No, I’m fine. I’m quite all right. Yes,” he said again, as though to convince himself. “I’m quite all right. Let’s just go.”

With a lurch, Harry remembered dinner with Draco on Monday. The way he had fidgeted, right after being harangued by Robards for fifteen minutes. The way he had only stopped when Harry had commented on it.

And that was when Harry realised that while he was contemplating his first kiss with Draco, Draco was rock hard all though dinner. That Draco wanted to make himself wait. That he had chosen to stay hard instead of wanking; that he was choosing again now. Harry felt a rush of something complicated. Lust, thinking about Draco hard at the dinner table. Jealousy (and perhaps disgust), knowing that Robards had caused it. And a sudden wicked desire.

He grabbed both their jackets from the door. “Let’s go, then.”

Draco stood slowly and reached for his jacket. Harry watched with care, then timed it perfectly; when Draco opened the door and stepped forwards, Harry stepped forwards too, jogging Draco against the door. Harry heard a ragged gasp.

“Sorry about that,” he said, ignoring the blood thundering in his ears as he saw Draco’s flushed face. “You all right?”

“Great,” Draco said.

Harry smiled. Draco got hard when Robards shouted at him? Fine. He liked to torture himself afterwards rather than letting himself get off? Good. Harry could work with that.

Harry wondered if Draco had taken into account their routine on stakeouts. The tiny Ministry tents had extensive charms to prevent them from being seen, heard, or even smelt, but apparently, that limited the efficacy of extension charms, so they were always huddled together, so close that Harry had often pretended they were cuddling by choice. At some point early in their partnership, they’d both given in to the slight awkwardness, and with the comfort of several years of friendship, they’d sit close together for hours, thigh pressed to thigh. When it was chilly, like it was that evening, Harry often conjured a blanket round both their shoulders. When he was feeling particularly brave, he’d rest his head on Draco’s shoulder; sometimes he’d feel Draco press his cheek to Harry’s head. It was comfortable, and surprisingly not awkward, given the feelings Harry had for Draco, and the feelings he thought Draco had for him. It had never been strange, somehow.

But he thought tonight might be different.

Draco had got increasingly antsy all through dinner, shifting in his seat, several times darting his eyes towards the back of the restaurant where the loos were. Harry didn’t want to show his hand just yet, so he tried not to poke too much. He did kick lightly at Draco’s feet when he was distracted—that wasn’t out of the ordinary, though Draco’s reaction was. Normally, he glared and told Harry to learn decorum. Tonight, he flushed, shook himself, and then mumbled something about Harry’s rudeness before changing the subject. He didn’t, Harry noticed, move his legs out of Harry’s reach.

When they got to the tent to relieve the previous shift, Harry saw Draco hesitate. He swallowed, then crawled into the narrow space. Harry watched as Draco settled himself. His expression was blank when he patted the ground next to him; an invitation. There was no avoiding the way their bodies pressed up together, even if Harry had wanted to. He felt Draco’s leg tremble against his, and he decided to take a chance. He stroked his hand down Draco’s thigh in what he thought might be plausibly friendly. Draco made a very small sound.

“All right?” Harry asked. “You seem tense.”

“I’m just out of sorts. Because … because of Robards.”

Harry smiled, his face turned away. So Draco wanted to talk about it, did he? He stroked Draco’s leg again.

“I know you said it started at the beginning, but how often? How often does he take you aside to tell you you’re nothing?”

He heard Draco swallow in the quiet. They both stared straight ahead at the darkened office they were observing. “Once a fortnight, once a week, maybe.”

“Does he always make you say it?”

A pause. “Say what?”

Harry was quiet. Was it the same, if Harry said it? Harry didn’t believe it; Robards did. But he supposed he could pretend, for Draco.

“There’s nothing about you worth liking.”

A soft hum. Then silence. Harry thought perhaps Draco was trying to pull himself together. Harry, meanwhile, was very quickly falling apart—he reflected that it wasn’t the first time he had been hard in this little observation tent with Draco, but it was the first time he’d had any reason to think Draco was hard, too.

Draco shifted again. “I always say it. I always say that I’m nothing.”

“Is it hard?” Harry paused just long enough to feel Draco’s swell of anxiety at the obvious double entendre, before adding. “Saying it. Out loud. Saying out loud that you’re nothing while Robards stares down at you in disgust. As Robards looks at you like you’re filth on the bottom of his boot and you disagree. Is it hard?” Harry felt an odd thrill in himself at saying the words. His cock twitched, as if to say, obviously it’s hard.

“Yes,” Draco said, voice quiet. “It’s hard.”

Harry hummed and settled back, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. “I’d think it would be hard. After all, you’re so proud. For you to allow someone to debase you like that. To debase yourself.” Harry closed his eyes and squeezed Draco’s leg again. “If you wanted to make it stop, you know I’d help, right? But I’m not going to step in. Not yet, anyway.”

Draco placed his hand over Harry’s and squeezed, just once, then rested his head against Harry’s with a sigh. “Thank you, Harry. Now stop talking. Let’s just sit.”

They sat like that for the rest of the evening without speaking. Harry kept his hand on Draco’s leg, and he felt Draco squirm from time to time, but they didn’t discuss further. When they were relieved at half two, they stood awkwardly side-by-side for a moment outside the hidden tent.

Draco swallowed. “Well. I’ll see you tomorrow. I need—I need to go rest.”

Harry nodded, wondering if he was about to overplay his hand. “Go home, Draco. Relax. You’re—you’re good.”

Draco blinked. “What?”

Harry cleared his throat.

“Putting up with Robards. With Robards demeaning you. In front of me. And you just took it.” He nodded, feeling a little flush on his own face at the memory. “I would have lost my temper. You were good. You were really, really good. So now, go take care of yourself.”

Draco nodded slowly, a tinge of pink on his own cheeks. “All right. Yes. Okay.”

*     *     *

Harry went into the office the next day anxious. Surely Draco knew that he knew now. Surely he’d taken things too far. Harry couldn’t do subtlety—Draco had pointed it out a dozen times.

But if Draco knew that Harry knew, he was hiding it—and since Draco could do subtlety, Harry figured he’d be clueless. But if Draco knew, Harry thought he must like it. Because if he didn’t, there was simply no way that he wouldn’t be furious with Harry. Harry kept stealing glances over at Draco’s desk; eventually, Draco dropped his biro with a sigh and turned.

“Out with it, Potter. Why do you keep looking at me like I’m sort of fragile creature?”

“I don’t think you’re fragile,” Harry said. “I think … I think you’re strong.”

Draco’s brows arched, but he looked pleased. “Is this about Robards? You think that’s strength?”

Harry frowned. He tried to figure out how to put it into words. “I think … I think it’s strong to know what you want. Like … being an auror. And to recognise what you need to do to get what you want.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, then nodded slowly. “So if me letting Robards tell me I’m not worth him wiping his boots on me helps me get what I want. If me agreeing helps me get what I want  … you think that’s okay.”

“To be clear, I think the fact that Robards believes it is repugnant. But I support you responding however … however makes you happy. If it’s not hurting you, then I support it.

Draco swallowed, then nodded again. “What I’m doing now is what makes me happy.”

Then keep doing it,” Harry said.

Harry first had the opportunity to help Draco do what made him happy that very afternoon. Draco’d been in the break room when he popped his head back in.

“Potter, Robards wants my reports on those unidentified powders we found, what did you do with the files?”

Harry scrabbled around on his desk while Draco tapped his foot impatiently by the door. He opened the file, paging through it, then paused. Draco said it was usually once every week or two. Would it endanger Draco’s job, to have it happen three times in one week?

“Any day now, Potter, do you want him to bite my head off for being late?”

“No, sorry,” Harry said, pulling two sheets of parchment from the file before turning and handing it to Draco. Not for being late, anyway. “Do you want me to join you?”

“It’s handing him a fucking file, how hard can it be?” Draco snapped.

Just over ten minutes later, Draco stepped back into the room, looking flushed.

“Well?” Harry asked. “How hard was it?”

Draco fluttered his eyes, then gave Harry a hard look. “There were two sheets of parchment missing. I put them in that folder when I gave it to you to read. I know I did.”

“Really?” Harry spun his chair and picked up the two sheets of parchment on his desk. He knew Draco would see how easily he found them. “Guess you’re right about my clutter. Here they are.”

Draco was very still. He held out his hand without moving.

Harry smirked, then stood and stepped close, handing Draco the parchments. “Is that what you need?”

Draco flared his nostrils, then looked down at the parchment and gave a crisp nod. “I’m going to drop these off, then.”

“Right, yeah. Sorry. Oh, and Draco?” Draco paused halfway out the door, back very straight. “Come straight back to the office afterwards. No stops.”

Draco didn’t move. He hardly seemed to breathe. “I was going to—”

Harry let his voice get firmer. “No stops. Straight back here.” He waited, curious to see what Draco would do. He half expected Draco would tell him to fuck off.

“Okay.” Draco’s voice was breathy. His neck was pink. “Okay.”

Robards must not have kept him longer—he was back in less than two minutes. Harry didn’t look up from his desk. Harry heard the door click shut; heard Draco’s head thunk against the door. Harry smiled to himself as he felt Draco’s eyes on him, but Draco didn’t speak. Finally, Harry set down his biro and turned.

Draco was flushed, eyes on Harry. He didn’t move as Harry looked him up and down.

“You have brewing to do, yeah?”

Draco was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Always.”

“Then let’s go.” Harry stood and stepped close to Draco, feeling him stiffen as Harry reached for his brewing robes. “I want to watch you work for the rest of the day.”

“I—Okay.”

Harry looked at him carefully; Draco’s eyes were a bit glazed. “Is that okay? I mean, do you want—”

“Yes.” Draco nodded again. “That’s good. That’s very good.”

“And you’re capable of brewing in your condition?” Harry winced as he said it, and saw Draco’s nostrils flare, he rolled his eyes and turned, clearly still capable of being a tetchy sod.

“You’ll have to try much harder than that to get me in such a state that I’m incapable of brewing,” Draco snapped, grabbing his robes out of Harry’s hand.

“Challenge accepted,” Harry said with a smile, then gestured at Draco to lead the way.

Draco did his best to check his watch without Harry noticing. It wasn’t easy, considering that Harry was perched on the worktop, watching Draco with care.

Draco returned to his potion with a sigh, stirring the fingerprinting solution ten times anti-clockwise, then setting down his wand to wait for the steam to stop and the potion to turn clear. Just a few more minutes, and then it would be finished.

And then … Draco didn’t know what.

He glanced over at Harry, who was watching him with more patience than he’d ever had for a stakeout. Harry licked his lips. Draco raised his chin, stubborn. Harry had hardly spoken since they’d got to the lab. In fact, the only words he’d said were, “Stop leaning against the cupboards,” when Draco pressed his hips in hope of relief while he was mincing rat toenails. Draco had straightened with a flush, and Harry had said, “That’s good.” Draco had let out a little sigh, and Harry had laughed, and Draco had returned to his prep work, face hot.

It had been surprisingly comfortable, considering. Draco hadn’t expected he’d like it so much, Harry toying with him.

Harry was watching him now, a little smile on his face. Draco’s heart raced as he held eye contact. Eventually Harry slid off the worktop. “Almost done?”

Draco turned his eyes to the potion; it had reached a muddy salmon shade. “Just a few more minutes,” he agreed.

“What then?”

Draco looked up, his heart rabbiting again. He could do this, for Harry. He thought that for Harry, he might want to. “I don’t know, Harry. What … what do you think?”

Harry stepped round the table and stood very close to Draco. Normally, Draco would chastise him for standing so close to an active brew, but he was incapable of coherent thought, mind buzzing.

“You want me to choose what’s next?”

Draco swallowed. “Not always, you understand. Not always. Just … just right now.”

Harry nodded slowly; then, just as slowly, he let a smile spread across his face. “Say ‘please’.”

Draco couldn’t help his answering smile. He should have known Harry would enjoy this. He should have known Harry would somehow manage to be sweet about it. Draco dared to reach his hand out to brush Harry’s. “Please, Harry. You choose what happens next. Just for tonight?”

Harry watched him for another moment, then nodded. He turned his hand to meet Draco’s, letting their fingers brush before he pulled away. “Okay. Just for tonight. After that, we’ll talk.”

Harry turned and peered at the potion with Draco. They watched as the last tinge of pink vanished, leaving a perfectly clear potion.

“Better get that bottled up,” Harry said. “The fingerprinting solution has to be decanted hot, yeah?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Have you actually been paying attention when I natter on at you about potions? I’m impressed.”

Harry smiled. “I’m always paying attention to you.”

Draco felt his cheeks warm. He gave Harry a sharp look, then turned away to grab a case of tiny bottles. He worked in silence, enjoying the feeling as his anticipation grew. When the last bottle was filled, capped, sealed, and labelled, he lowered his wand to the table with a sigh.

“So. What next?”

He felt a hand on his lower back, pressing him against the cupboards. He let himself lean in. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a warm hand, or Harry’s hot mouth, or the tight heat of—it wasn’t nearly enough. But it offered a tiny relief, and Draco sighed again. Then he gasped as he felt Harry’s hips press against him. He could feel Harry’s cock, very hard, nestling between his cheeks as if it were meant to go there.

Draco felt his hips cant backwards, and Harry gave an approving hum. Then that warm pressure was gone.

“What’s next, is that I take you to dinner. Maybe Italian? And then I’m going to walk you home, like I did last night, except this time, I think I’m going to kiss you.”

Draco felt his cheeks warm with pleasure. “And then?”

“And then you’re going to get into bed and wait for me to text you further instructions.”

Draco couldn’t help the small noise he made. “Okay. Yes, that sounds … yes.”

Draco allowed himself a moment to shiver at the thought of lying in his bed, naked, not touching himself, waiting for Harry to text him. Maybe if Draco got desperate enough he’d call. Draco pulled himself together with a little shake, then began cleaning up his workspace. He wouldn’t let Harry see him scattered at work, so he didn’t rush. He cleaned and put away all his tools at the same careful pace he always used, and he felt a little burble of excitement when he felt Harry shifting, both of them antsy with anticipation, even if Harry was the only one showing it.

“All right,” Draco said, as he stowed the bottles in the cupboard and logged them. “All done. Italian, you said?”

Harry was just opening his mouth to speak when the door to the lab banged open and Padma appeared.

“Bad news—Montgomery’s had an accident. I know this is shit, but we need someone to take tonight’s stakeout. I can’t—I know you probably have plans too, but—”

“It’s fine,” Draco blurted, before he realised what he was saying. “Go, Padma. Harry and I don’t have plans—we were just discussing how I was going to go home and go to bed early. I’m sure we can manage another late night.”

Padma looked at Harry, who shrugged. She gave them a grateful look. “I owe you.”

“Don’t tell him that, he will make you pay,” Harry muttered.

Padma grinned. “Relief in forty-five? Felix and Mac will relieve you at half two.”

With that, Padma was gone, and Draco slumped against the table with a distressed sigh. Harry huffed.

“No plans, hmm?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re not going to enjoy this.”

Harry smirked. “Come on; there’s an Italian place a few blocks over from the tent. We’ll get a takeaway.”

*     *     *

Lasagna and carbonara eaten, packaging vanished, Draco and Harry sat side by side in silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence—at least, Draco didn’t think it was.

“D’you think we’d get fired if I gave you a hand job in the surveillance tent?” Harry asked at last, and Draco laughed.

“Yes, I think probably you would delight Robards if you gave him that opportunity.”

“I have no interest in giving him a happy ending.”

Draco snickered and wriggled a bit; Harry took the hint and pressed his head to Draco’s shoulder. His hand was on Draco’s leg again, a bit higher than before. Draco tilted his own head to press against Harry’s as he reached for the thermos of coffee.

“How many times do you think we’ll be hard together in this little tent before we get to do something about it?” Draco asked as he handed a cup of coffee across to Harry.

“You knew? That I was—you knew that I knew?”

Draco grinned and sipped at his own cup. “‘Is it hard, Draco? It is hard when Robards says that you’re nothing? Is it hard when you say that you’re nothing?’ Did you think that passed for subtlety?”

Harry huffed. “I’m a lot better at subtlety than I used to be.”

“Better than you used to be is a low bar, considering that you used to have no subtlety whatsoever. Anyway, yes, I knew. And I knew you wanted … I could tell that you liked it, toying with me.” Draco took a deep breath, watching Harry’s fingers twitch on his inner thigh. “I liked it, too.”

Harry shifted, then cleared his throat. “Do you … do you want me to say things like that? Like he does?”

Draco frowned down at Harry’s hand. “I don’t think so. Maybe? It’s different if you—I’d know you didn’t mean it. It’s not about—I don’t think it’s about what’s said. It’s about the fact that Robards is a worthless piece of shit, and he thinks he’s getting one up on me. But he’s not. He has no power over me, not anymore. Ironically, I think on some level he knows that, and he hates it, and it’s his own obsessive attempt to continue to exert power over me that keeps him doing it.”

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

Draco laughed. “Yes, it is. And I like it, so.”

“You’re right, you know. I wouldn’t mean it. But if you wanted, I could probably pretend.”

Draco tilted his head to one side. He’d honestly never considered it. He didn’t hate the idea. “Hmm. What would you say, then? What would you say, if you wanted to humiliate me?”

Harry was silent for a long moment. “Well, you’re … bossy.”

Draco bit his lip on a grin. “Keep going.”

“You’re bossy and you’re … kind of a priss. And you used to be really mean—but you’re not anymore, I guess. I mean, you’re still quite mean, but, in a kind way? No, that’s bad. Erm. You always look so put together. Even when you’re mussed, you look so—what?”

Draco could hold it in anymore. He burst into giggles. “Darling, don’t get me wrong, I love to hear you tell me how kind and put together I am, but is that really the best you can do? You were meant to be humiliating me.”

“Well, let me keep trying! I mean, if you like it—”

“I don’t know that I will like it if you do it. Like I said, the point is that Robards means it. Watkins meant it. I like it when people say what they mean. I rather like it when you say what you mean, too.”

Harry sighed. “Okay, well. I’ll say what I mean, then: I like you. A lot. And it turns out I like fucking around with you, but maybe not so much humiliating you.”

“Hmm, you just want to observe other people do it.”

“I think I like to observe you getting off on it, mostly.”

“How voyeuristic of you.”

Harry jogged Draco’s shoulder. “And I’d like to take you on a date. Tomorrow night.”

Draco turned his head in surprise at the subject change; Harry was watching him, face serious. Draco gave him a soft smile.

“You’re really, really bad at telling me I’m worthless, you know.”

Harry laughed. “Romance isn’t dead. Is that a yes?”

Draco pressed his head against Harry’s. “That’s a yes.”

*     *     *

They passed the rest of the stakeout in comfortable—save Draco’s continued erection—companionship. Harry broke the silence occasionally to offer another attempt at insulting Draco. He was not improving.

“You’re no good at … erm … quidditch?”

“I beat you the last two pickup games.”

“Shit, you did. Okay, erm… I bet you’re bad at cooking.”

“I’ll make you dinner and prove you wrong. Do you like fish?”

Harry huffed and grabbed his notebooks, staring at the empty storefront and pretending to take notes on nonexistent observations.

“You’re totally anal about paperwork, you know.”

“Hmm, that’s not the only thing I’m anal ab—”

“Please stop.”

Draco snickered. “You started it.”

At last, they were relieved and sent back to file the week’s surveillance reports. Draco smiled to himself as Harry kept bumping his shoulder on their way through the corridor. They both slowed as they saw Robards’ open door, light filtering out into the hallway. Then they heard a muffled curse and stopped in their tracks.

Draco rolled his eyes. Robards working late on a Friday night was a recipe for a bollocking.

“Hand them over,” he said with a sigh.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said. “We’ll never get out of here otherwise, and we have a date tomorrow.”

Draco gave Harry a long look, then shook his head. “Give me the files, Harry.”

Harry paused and swallowed. He nodded his head slowly. “Do you want all of them?”

Draco’s heart fluttered at the question Harry didn’t ask. He smiled. “You choose.”

Harry’s eyes flicked down Draco’s body. He nodded once, as though to himself, then pulled one file free of the others. Draco let out a shaky exhale.

As Harry handed all the files but one to Draco, he reached out one hand and wrapped it round the nape of Draco’s neck and pulled their foreheads together.

“It’s not true, what Robards says. None of it is true.”

Draco let himself melt, just a bit, into Harry’s embrace. “Some of it is true.”

“None of it.”

Draco leant back, smirking a bit as Harry let him go. “Well. I am one of his best aurors. Wait here.”

It turned out that Robards, in his office late on a Friday, having had to cancel his date night with his wife (Draco assumed she was probably relieved to have a respite from him) because of Montgomery’s accident, was, indeed, primed to tear into Draco. He’d started before he’d even seen the missing file, insulting Draco’s parentage (fair, he supposed), his clothing (patently unfair, he thought, staring down at Robards’ horrible loafers), and his life choices (Draco restrained himself from agreeing that yes, choosing to work for Robards was a ridiculous choice).

He’d only seen the missing Friday file when he’d been packing his satchel to leave, and he’d leant down over Draco, spittle flying in his face just like that very first time with Lionel Watkins. Draco took a deep breath, raising his chin to look Robards in the eye.

“Anything else, sir?” he asked.

Robards flared his nostrils. “Clean up my fucking office before you go home. I want every inch to be pristine when I come in on Monday morning, do you understand me?”

“Happily, sir.”

Robards gave Draco a suspicious look. He’d long ago given up on making Draco lose his temper—he seemed to understand that it wouldn’t happen unless Robards were to cross a line he wasn’t willing to step over—but he seemed distrustful of Draco’s equanimity. Draco hoped he’d chalk it up to it being so late.

“You don’t think you’re better than a house elf, do you, Malfoy?”

“No, sir, I do not.”

“Good. Because you’re not worth anything at all.”

“No sir, I am not.”

“Just get this place cleaned up,” Robards snapped, cuffing Draco on the head with his satchel as he stalked out of the room.

Draco was still trembling in his seat when Harry slipped into the office. Draco shuddered as Harry wrapped his fingers around the nape of his neck again. He sighed as Harry tugged him up to standing. He moaned when Harry pulled their hips together and he felt Harry hard against him.

“I’m not the only one who’s fucked up,” he mumbled.

Harry chuckled; his lips brushed against Draco’s throat. “No, you’re not. In fact, I think I might be the more fucked up one.”

“I’m about to kiss you for the first time in our boss’s office at three in the morning, because I am wildly turned on by him telling me I’m worthless,” Draco said.

“Yeah, that's pretty fucked up,” Harry replied with a smile. “So do it.” 

With a desperate moan, Draco pulled Harry’s face to his. He felt Harry’s hands on his hips as his mouth opened, oh so eagerly, for Draco’s tongue. Harry shoved, and Draco let him; in seconds, his arse was pressed up onto Robards desk, Harry’s hips between his knees. Draco yanked Harry’s hair to pull him away, just long enough to see the wild look in Harry’s eyes.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Yes, Draco. Yes.” 

Draco looked down, realising he was perched precisely where Robards had been a few minutes before. He let out a helpless sound, not quite a laugh, and tugged Harry close again.

He took his time with their second kiss, tasting Harry, letting himself suck that fat lower lip that he so adored into his mouth, letting Harry respond by sucking Draco’s entire tongue into his own, letting himself make a ragged, needy sound. 

The kiss was wet—far more so than Draco preferred, if he were honest, but when weren’t things different with Harry? As he felt Harry’s tongue lick along his gums, he moaned again. Watkins’ saliva had been a sign of his general poor comportment. Robards’, Draco thought, another attempt at making Draco lose control—or perhaps a sign of him being close to losing his own.

Harry’s saliva was a benediction. Draco moaned into his mouth wanting to take, take, take everything Harry was offering him. Wanting to let go of the control he so cherished and say to Harry, “No, here I am. I am not worthless—I am priceless. And you can have me.”

What he did instead was better. Instead, he took, then gave, then took more, then offered everything. For one moment, when they broke apart, a long string of spit stretching between their mouths before snapping back and hitting Harry's cheek, Draco thought he might cry.

“Yes,” Draco said softly, “I think I might be a little fucked up.”

 Harry gave him a delirious look.

“Well,” he said, breathing hard, “I’m about to fuck you for the first time on our boss’s desk, so that every time you’re in here you can look at where he's sitting and know that you got off there. So that you will never once, not for one second, believe that he could ever be anything compared to you. So that you always remember, that no matter what that fool thinks of you, I’m fucking obsessed. So I think i’m a little fucked up, too.”

They stared at one another for a moment, and Harry suddenly looked worried.

“Unless you want to fuck me on his desk,” he added hastily. “That’s good too. Whatever—whatever you—”

Draco grabbed Harry by the shirt and pulled him close.

“Fuck me rough. Fuck me hard and sloppy and messy, like Robards probably wishes he could. Fuck me until I’m completely incoherent. Fuck me so hard that I’m still limping on Monday. Fuck me like you fucking own me, Harry. Because he never, ever will. Because I want you to.”

Harry stared at Draco so long that Draco wondered if he’d said something wrong. When he finally exhaled, he sounded like he’d been punched.

“Circe’s tits, the things you say. I’ll do all of that, as long as you promise not to fucking shut up while I do.”

Draco laughed as Harry’s hands dropped to his belt. “If you’re fucking me like I just asked you, what makes you think I’ll be able to ta—oh, fuck!”

Draco let Harry shove him backwards onto the desk as his fingers wrapped around Draco’s cock, his other hand scrabbling to tug down Draco’s trousers. Draco was no help at all, reaching overhead to grab at the desk as Harry replaced his fingers with his mouth. In seconds, Draco’s trousers and pants were round his calves and Harry was pulling off with a wet noise. Draco shuddered at the sound.

“Talk to me, Draco. I want to hear. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I think I have a spit kink,” Draco blurted, which wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say.

Harry raised one eyebrow, then, with hardly a blink, he turned his head down and let a long line of spit drip down onto Draco’s cock. Draco moaned and his cock twitched violently before the saliva even touched it. Harry’s thumb began to spread it around, mixing it with the precum that was dripping from the slit.

“Yeah, sure seems like it,” Harry said in an assessing tone. Draco let out a wild laugh as Harry stared down at him. “Get up.”

Draco sat up, grabbing Harry by the hair and wrenching their mouths together as Harry wanked him just this side of too rough. He responded by pulling Harry’s hair just this side of too hard, then laughed again when Harry cursed and yanked Draco to standing.

“C’mon.”

“Wasn’t the whole point to do this here?”

Harry grinned. “I’m going to prep you sitting in his chair.”

Draco made a shocked noise. “Merlin, you are more fucked up than me. You fucking love this, don’t you?”

“If I’m going to be half hard in Robards’ presence until he retires, I figure might as well make it really worthwhile.”

Draco had to shuffle a bit, but they got to the other side of the desk. Harry kissed him once, fiercely, then shoved Draco down so that his face was pressed into the desk. He could smell that terrible cologne and cigar combination and shuddered.

“Merlin, he stinks,” Draco mumbled.

“Blue Stratos,” Harry murmured. “It’s awful, yeah. Think we can make it so that you get hard whenever you smell it?”

Draco laughed again as he felt a tingling spell and then Harry’s lubed finger pressing into him. “Fuck, Harry.”

“Too much?”

“Not enough. I told you what I wanted. Don’t chicken out.”

Harry was silent for one moment before saying, “Whatever you want, Draco. Whatever you want.”

Draco gasped as two fingers pressed into him and stroked his prostate with laser precision. Harry’s movements were firm and confident, but somehow remained gentle.

“Darling, do I have to start berating you to get you to be rough with me? I told you—oh, fuck, yes, like that, Salazar’s scrotum, I knew you had it in you,” he added when Harry’s fingers began to piston into him.

“You’re about to have it in you, actually.”

“I really must insist on better puns. Now stop with the chitchat and fuck me, that’s enough, I’m ready,” Draco hissed.

“One more,” Harry said, adding a third finger without slowing his pace.

“I’m, ready, come on. Do it hard. Please don’t tell me you don’t know how to have mean sex. I’m fine with the sweet flowery stuff, I promise, you can plait my hair and paint my toenails and tell me how pretty I am tomorrow but right now I want—oh, that is—oh fuck, you’re huge, aren’t you?” Draco gasped as Harry’s cock pressed into him, slick and wide and hot.

“Jesus, you feel good, I’m going to embarrass myself here.”

“If you come right now I will murder you in this office and leave your body for Robards to deal with,” Draco managed, biting his lip against the sting as Harry paused, then continued sliding into him.

“Not a great plan. Lots of forensic evidence,” Harry said, his voice sounding strained as his hips met Draco’s arse..

“I’m the one doing the testing, don’t you recall? It’ll be the perfect crime.” Draco’s arms stretched up and over the desk to hang on. He felt so fucking full. Harry had paused, trying to pull himself together. Draco could feel Harry’s hands trembling on his waist, and he needed more. “Oh fuck. Fuck, yes. Merlin. Please, move, Harry, please, I need—fuck, I need more.”

Draco waited, trembling, for a few seconds, then whimpered as he felt Harry pull out slowly. He heard a whispered charm and felt more lube dripping down his crack. He tried to press back, but Harry was holding him steady.

“You want it rough,” Harry said, sliding back in not even a little bit roughly.

“That’s what I fucking said.”

“You want me to fuck you like Robards would?”

“I can only assume that he’d be bollocks at it, so no. I want you to fuck me like Robards wishes he could.”

“You want me to ruin you.” Harry pulled out again, just as slowly as before.

“If you fucking can.”

“You were right. I’m only doing this properly if you’re not capable of speech anymore.”

Draco wasn’t a fucking idiot—it wasn’t like he didn’t know what Harry was doing—but he was still shocked by the force with which Harry slammed into him, knocking the air out of his chest.

“Oh, fuck,” Draco blurted, and then he was beyond words, for the most part, gasping out the occasional curse as his fingers curled around the edge of the desk and Harry railed him. His cock was fucking divine—Saint Potter, indeed. Draco didn’t think he wanted to go another day without that cock filling up some part of him. Mouth, arse, hand: Draco wasn’t choosy. He got flashes of the room around him—hints of cologne, a glimpse of the stack of files he’d brought in right next to his face, a bronze plaque that Robards certainly hadn’t earned for himself—but most of his consciousness had narrowed to the sensation of Harry sliding in and out of him, stretching him, rubbing against his prostate with every thrust in and out.

“Shit, Harry, I’m close,” he managed, and Harry’s only response was to wrap a firm hand around Draco and squeeze the base of Draco’s cock. Draco let out a frustrated, desperate laugh and did his best to press his arse back against Harry’s thrusts.

After what felt like an eternity, Harry yanked Draco up, wrapping an arm around Draco’s chest and biting down where his neck met the shoulder. He didn’t slow his thrusts, and somehow, despite the loss of leverage, he didn’t seem to be thrusting any less viciously.

“You want to come for me? You told me I got to choose?”

“Fuck, that was today,” Draco said. “Yes, you choose. But please, choose making me come all over myself.”

“No,” Harry said, and Draco had one moment to contemplate Harry being cruel enough to not let him come at all before Harry’s hand was wanking him in time with his thrusts, and he hissed, “You’re going to come all over Robards’ desk.”

“Oh, fuck!” Draco cried, watching as he did, indeed, come all over his boss’s desk. He could feel his cock twitch in Harry’s hand, trying to offer more. When he’d come back to himself, Harry was still moving inside him, but slowly now, making every nerve zap. It might have been even better than before.

“Look,” Harry said, breathing hard. “Look at that. Every time we’re in this office until Robards retires, I want you to think about this. That man will never own you. You’re worth twelve of him.”

“And I’m yours,” Draco breathed.

“And you’re mine,” Harry agreed. He pressed Draco down into the mess; Draco felt his cheek smear into it, and the smell of cheap aftershave blended with the smell of sex. He whimpered, oversensitive and spent, as Harry mumbled something about Robards under his breath, then said, “I own you, not him.”

“You do,” Draco said, and he moaned as he felt several more sharp thrusts and then a pulsing as Harry came inside him with a ragged gasp.

There was another, longer pause, Harry leaning over Draco as he caught his breath, and then Harry lifted Draco again, stumbling a bit and pulling Draco down into his lap in Robards’ chair. Draco felt a kiss on his neck, and a hand stroking his hair. They looked together at the mess they’d made of the desk. Then they looked down at themselves.

Draco’s trousers and pants were round his ankles, his shoes not even untied. His shirt and tie were askew and smeared with cum, both otherwise intact. His long, pale legs were straddling one of Harry’s (still in his trousers), his cock lying half-hard over one thigh. He could feel Harry beginning to soften inside him.

“So,” Harry said. “Which of us is more fucked up, do you think?”

Draco felt a delighted laugh bubbling up. He couldn’t help the beaming smile he could feel spreading across his face, so wide it hurt. “I think it might be a tossup.”

“Next time, you can fuck me until I come all over the desk.”

“Are we going to make a habit of fucking in here?”

“We could, if you want.”

“At the risk of you thinking that wasn’t one of the top five shags of my life, I think I’d prefer if next time we fucked was in one of our beds. Or on one of our sofas. Or, well, in our office would be fine too.” Draco let his head fall back against Harry’s shoulder. “Actually, turns out I’m not too fussed, we can fuck in the middle of Trafalgar Square if you want.”

“We could, you know, I’ve got the cloak.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Draco said, bumping his forehead against Harry’s jaw. They were silent for a few minutes.

“Only top five?”

Draco turned to find Harry eyeing him with humour, and perhaps a bit of jealousy. Draco’s cheeks ached from his smile. “Have to give you something to aspire to, darling.”

“I do like a goal.”

“Hmm. I have a goal for you.”

“What’s that?”

“Help me clean up this office so that we don’t get fired. Then take me home and pamper me, because that’s what I deserve after getting fucked like that.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but smiled, his face fond. “And then what?”

“And then spend the night with me.. And then spend all day Saturday with me. And then take me out on that date you promised.”

Harry swallowed. “And then?”

“And then the next day. And the next. Because it’s what I want. You’re what I want.”

Harry pulled Draco close: the kiss promised as much tenderness as he could have dreamt of. As much sweetness as he could take. Softness enough to counter all their rough edges. “Anything else?”

Draco kissed Harry back, rough, sharp, biting: they could have both. They deserved both. “Nothing, love.”