Work Text:
“Next, one-point-five mil of essence of hellebore,” Harry read, lifting his eyes from the sheet of parchment to where Malfoy was standing a few feet away.
It had been strange at first to share a laboratory with his former classmate-slash-antagonist. Walking into the well-equipped, surprisingly modern workspace of the Alchemical Research division only to find him standing within, feverishly scribbling into a notebook, had drawn Harry to a full stop.
Unaware of Harry, he’d carried on mumbling to himself, the fingers of his right hand hovering over an array of stirring rods, touching each with a light forefinger as he evidently double-checked his notes. The mumbling had stopped as he’d landed on the final rod and picked it up. Rod held ready in mid-air, he’d rechecked his notes then made a disgruntled sound and, rather than replace the rod, had distractedly shoved it behind his ear before selecting a new one.
It was so unlike the versions of Draco Malfoy Harry recalled (sneering, scheming, sniveling, stoic, and sincere among them) that Harry decided to be a bit unlike the versions he knew of Harry, too.
“That’s unadvisable,” Harry remarked, then barely held his smile when he’d sworn and nearly dropped the second rod. “Also, that flame is too high.”
He’d turned, regarding Harry with a chastising frown. “It’s not. And, what’s unadvisable?”
“It is,” Harry insisted, depositing his bag on the empty stretch of worktop to his right. “Unless you’re trying to boil the licorice root, I suppose.”
A moment of unblinking consideration and then without looking, he’d flicked his wand at the cauldron. As the flame lowered, he raised an expectant brow at her.
“Putting a copper stirring rod so close to your hair,” Harry explained, casting a pointed look to the object. “It might do permanent color damage, which I consider both unadvisable and unaesthetic."
Confused, he’d raised a hand to his ear.
“Oh.” His expression shifted fluidly from chagrin to bemusement as he replaced the rod on the worktop behind himself. He surprised Harry again by chuckling. “Much obliged, Potter. After all, what would I be without my signature look?”
Harry surprised himself by returning his easy laugh.
After that, they’d found accord, working in parallel, each brewing (and rebrewing, again and again) in their own areas of the lab. Eventually, cordial independence had given way to self-exasperated pleas for brainstorming, or begrudging requests for problem-solving aid, or simply a need to break up the hours of monotony when waiting between the active stages of brewing.
After two years, they’d accepted that together, they could accomplish far more, far quicker, and had consolidated their efforts.
Now, they traded off who performed the actual brewing and who recorded the results of a singular potion. And in the year they’d been collaborating, they’d successfully adjusted, optimized, and invented nearly a dozen useful concoctions.
Today’s potion was similarly useful but held the additional threat of being highly dangerous if misbrewed. The ingredients list alone had gotten both their brows up, and the look Malfoy had shot Harry once he’d read the full set of instructions had made Harry grimace apologetically. It would be a brutally difficult brew but—it passed unsaid between them—not one they’d miss out on attempting.
Harry found the recipe in a book so old, it had been practically falling apart. Should the results prove as efficacious as promised on the page, he’d do what he could do to repair or altogether rebind the original text.
(And, should the results be as prohibitively dangerous as it had the potential to become, Harry would tuck it back into the manky cupboard he’d unearthed it from and lock it away for another century.)
“One-point-five mil,” Malfoy repeated, focused on the markings etched into the graduated pipette as he drew up the appropriate amount. Satisfied, he straightened. “Then seven three-second-long rotations?”
“Yes.”
Harry waited, quill poised over their latest experiment’s notes. It had been his turn to perform the brewing, something Harry felt badly about given the complexity and that he’d been the one audacious enough to suggest they attempt it. Though at his offer to swap in, he’d merely clicked his tongue and asked when Harry wanted to begin.
And after three days of ingredient sourcing, they had.
Harry watched as Malfoy dispensed the essence into the narrow necked, round bellied flask he held in his gloved right hand. As the clear drops hit the amber-colored liquid within, they turned a deep purple and began to diffuse into the solution.
Harry let out a hum of interest. That hadn’t been mentioned in the (admittedly scant) instructions.
Intrigued, Harry glanced down to scribble prior to rotation, addition of hellebore resulted in— when a sudden explosion made him startle so violently, ink streaked across the page. Gasping, Harry looked up, the sudden detonation still ringing through him.
At the other end of the workbench, Malfoy appeared similarly stunned, one hand still holding the shattered remains of the flask out in front of him, eyes wide.
Shit.
Shit.
“Oh my god,” Harry blurted, dropping the quill as he rose to his feet, taking in the droplets of potion dripping from the edge of the table and splattered across the floor. “Are you alright?”
Gingerly, Malfoy set the broken glass back on the worktop, shaking out his glove. Tiny shards of glass tinkled as they hit the flagstones. Not for the first time, Harry was relieved he hadn’t put up a fuss when he’d insisted they don gloves whenever directly interacting with new potions. Sometimes, magical protections were enough but they occasionally found that charmwork didn’t always play nicely with the experimental potions they tinkered with.
“Well,” he began, tone wry as he worked the contaminated glove off. “That certainly didn’t—”
A loud sizzling sound cut him off.
Two sets of eyes dropped to the front of his trousers, where a splash of purple was seeping in and turning the grey material a blackish violet. The edges of the stain fizzled ominously.
Another moment of shocked horror, and then they animated, Harry with a bleat of concern and Malfoy with a hissed in breath, a hand dropping to hastily undo his belt and button before tearing at his zip.
“Ah,” he choked out. “Ow—fucking Merlin—”
Harry drew his wand reflexively but didn’t cast; didn’t know what was safe to cast. “Are you alright?”
Ignoring Harry, he shoved his trousers down and kicked them off, a hand jumping protectively to his groin. The light grey boxer-briefs were dark with potion as well. Harry stared at the purple splotch, eyes wide.
Without hesitation, Malfoy tucked his thumbs under the waistband and began to pull downward.
Harry’s brain processed pale skin and a flash of groomed dark blond hair before it kicked back into gear and Harry spun on his heel to give him privacy, thoughts already beginning to scatter in several directions.
It had probably touched his skin, if his reaction was anything to go by. Which, given the brewing stage it has occurred at, was potentially Not Very Good.
Removal was step one, certainly.
But was Scourgify safe to perform? Or perhaps Tergeo was more prudent — outright removal was certainly better than inadvertently scrubbing it into his skin, or worse, introducing the cleansing property to the liquid residue, in case it interacted badly.
Tergeo, then. For sure.
But then Harry faltered. If the potion had broken the epidermal barrier and seeped below his skin, then a Tergeo had the potential to be excruciatingly painful.
Anxious, Harry wrung his hands around his wand and turned his face to the side, speaking over his shoulder.
“Did it touch your skin?” Harry asked, trying to keep his voice calm. “If so, does it burn or feel cold? How are your nerves—are they over- or under-active? That is, if you were to rate your discomfort on a scale of—”
“Potter,” Malfoy interrupted. There was a moment of silence as Harry’s mouth snapped shut and he drew in a measured inhale. “Get the fucking book.”
Oh! Of course—the book. There had been a section on removal for the properly brewed version, but it might help to explain how to nullify the potion.
His head snapped to the workbench, feet bringing him across the distance between them. Up close, Harry could smell the musky scent of hellebore amped up to a thousand.
The book was tucked under a few sheets of parchment covered with his handwriting, still open to the page they’d left it at before the theoretical studies had become practical.
“Okay, okay, hang on…” Harry skimmed the text with a shaky forefinger, the adrenaline of an in-lab accident zipping through him and making his vision swim. Two harsh blinks, and he found the section he’d been looking for. “Here we are, here we are…siphoning!”
A Tergeo would be safe, then, thank Merlin. Harry read on, mumbling aloud as he did.
“Transverse sweep with elevated vertex…” Harry pantomimed the shape of the and frowned. “That’s nearly the wandwork of an anti-Transfiguration spell. Huh. Unexpected. And then a twisting—”
An impatient noise from the right had Harry reading the rest without commentary, piecing it together in his mind and already working to commit the wandless charmwork to memory.
With a decisive inhale, Harry straightened. “It seems easy enough, just a few gestures over the affected area should neutralize the effects.”
Harry chanced a glance at Malfoy, relieved to find him mostly covered, a hand holding his boxer-briefs away from his body and his gaze directed down past the waistband. There was a tightness to his body language, as if he was bracing himself against something horrid.
“Right,” he said, voice tight. “Brilliant. What are the motions?”
Harry’s brows furrowed at his tone, inspecting him carefully. “What’s happening? Is it painful?”
“Hurts like hell.” He glanced up impatiently. “Come on, Potter, what’re the motions?”
Of course—there would be time for analysis post-crisis.
Harry pantomimed the gestures as he spoke. “Essentially, it’s a wandless combination of a Tergeo, Episkey, and Reparifarge. So, a quick upward flick, a circular motion, and a sidelong swoop.”
Malfoy’s jaw flexed. His color was high, a hot red flush that originated at his cheekbones and bloomed downward. Over the course of his life, Harry had seen Malfoy in various states of distress. In pain and trying to cope was unfortunately not a new one, and so Harry compressed his mouth into a flat smile.
“Go on,” Harry encouraged grimly. “Do it, before it gets worse.”
Malfoy snorted a sound of derision and disbelief, jaw working again, but began the motions with a trembling hand. Harry watched with intense concentration as his fingers flicked, then circled, then swooped. Harry’s eyes snapped up to his as soon as the final curve ended.
“Well? Did that nullify it?”
Malfoy shook his head. Sweat was turning his temples glossy. Harry watched as he performed the triad of gestures again. And then again.
He hissed in another panicked breath. “It’s not working. Fuck, it’s— it hurts so fucking badly.”
Harry’s chest clenched at the anguish in his voice. It was shaking as badly as his body had begun to.
“I don’t think I can— I can’t focus. Will you—” He paused to grit his jaw so tightly, the muscles of his cheek popped. “BloodyfuckingChrist,” he ground out. “Potter. Help me.”
Harry wrung his hands helplessly. “I don’t know what else to try.”
“No, just…the motions. You need to do it.”
Harry’s heart was racing through him, beating against the inside of his ribs. His own hands were shaky, but Harry could acknowledge Harry had a higher ability for preciseness than he did at the current moment.
“Of course. Yes. Let me just—”
Harry glanced at the book once more just to be sure, then set it aside and stepped closer. The motions were practically muscle memory and so Harry focused his intention in his hand and performed the quick triad in the air a few inches from his navel.
It was immediately clear that it had zero effect. Nor did Harry’s second attempt, palm hovering right over the front of his fizzling pants.
“I’m not sure—” Harry began but Malfoy cut Harry off with another mumbled swear and Harry softened his tone. “Shh, it’s alright, it’s alright. Let me think.”
“Think fast,” he groaned. “Feels like I dipped my cock in acid.”
“God.” That sounded beyond horrible. A stream of thoughts arose and were summarily dismissed until the obvious solution rose up.
“It’s got to be the proximal-sensorial element of magical theory!” Harry burst out, the sudden understanding sending a wash of relief over him. “The wandless application needs to be more precise—without a wand, the magic has to be both mentally and physically honed to stay proximal to the affected area.”
It was clear he was only barely following along, and that alone indicated just how much pain he was in — Malfoy was nothing if not Harry’s intellectual peer.
Harry heaved in a breath and looked at him. “I need to touch you. That is, directly. Do you consent?”
“It’ll make it stop?” he bit out, pupils blown with the rush of adrenaline likely coursing through him in response to the pain.
Harry was only 99.3% sure but…
“Yes,” Harry said confidently. “I can make it stop. I’m so sorry that it’ll be such a breach of professional and personal boundaries—”
In a single motion, Malfoy shoved his boxer-briefs down his thighs. “Then do it. Do it, Potter, or else just Avada me.”
Harry couldn’t help but look down, but only for a fraction of a second before he realized what, exactly, he’d be looking at. Before his brain had fully processed the image sent to it, Harry was filling his receptors with new inputs: Malfoy’s ashen face, his clenched jaw, the steely resolve in his eyes.
“Sorry,” Harry blurted, cheeks flushing hot.
“It’s fine,” he grit out. “You can look. I don’t care. Just make it stop.”
Right.
Harry could do it. Harry could be professional. Harry had done two full years of training as a Healer, for Merlin’s sake. Harry had seen an unexpected penis a time or two.
Though, not one that belonged to someone Harry already knew.
Not one that belonged to Malfoy.
Harry shut that thought down before it could fester.
“Okay.” Harry nodded and stepped close enough to touch. “Okay, I’m going to—right.”
A sip of breath and then Harry reached down and touched his fingertips hesitantly to his cock. The initial contact with the potion’s residue made his fingers tingle, the nerves lighting up in a way that felt a bit like pins and needles. It was distinctly uncomfortable and made his heart race, but it wasn’t so painful that he couldn’t carry on. Harry exhaled a small sigh of relief and ventured further, trying to discern exactly how the potion had covered him, not brave enough to look.
The potion had a slick, almost oily consistency that slipped through his fingers easily as he gingerly felt around. As far as he could perceive, it covered the entire topside and had slid down around the underside. Harry circled his fingers around him, lifting slightly so that he could send an adventuresome pinky along the top of his sac, praying it hadn’t splattered him quite so far.
Malfoy made a choked sound and his attention snapped up, worried that Harry had hurt him further.
“Don’t just hold it, fix it,” he reminded Harry tersely.
“Right! Sorry.”
Harry averted his gaze, not wanting to maintain eye contact or look down as he began the sequence.
This is a medical emergency, Harry told himself firmly. It’s just a penis. A random, non-excited penis. You’re a professional. You’re helping him.
Harry chose not to unpack why he needed such explicit, fervent reminders of such.
In his soft state, it was easier to slip into a clinical mindset. Which was good. Necessary. It made it so Harry could repeat the motions in quick succession, putting the full intention into every distinct twist and swoop, without associating the motions with the setting in which she typically performed them.
On a particularly enthusiastic upward swoop, his entire body jerked. Harry clucked his tongue sympathetically.
“Sorry, sorry, I know,” Harry murmured, putting most of his attention on keeping his Episkey perfectly circular. “Any improvement yet?”
He grunted an uncertain sound. “It’s not worse. Feels warm.”
“That’s something, at least,” Harry said, trying desperately for a hopeful tone. It had been his idea to test the potion to begin with, and the idea that something he’d done had led to him suffering like this. God. It was horrible. “Episkey often warms the affected area because it works with our natural healing processes, pulling blood to the area in order to—”
Stop babbling, Harry chided himself, and pressed his lips together to stem any more nervous lecturing.
On Harry’s next Reparifarge, his hips shifted sideways, as if trying to escape the movement of Harry’s fist. Briefly, Harry wondered if the direct contact was worsening the effect. Massaging the potion further into his skin did seem like a silly thing to do, but with no other solution to try, it was what the book said until one of them thought up something better.
Which meant he had to let Harry perform the motions with as much accuracy as possible, to eliminate accidental variables.
“Try to stay still,” Harry pleaded. “So you don’t introduce any additional motions.”
“It’s not as if I’m doing it intentionally. It’s—”
Another sidelong spasm had Harry’s hand slipping out of alignment, the residue of the potion having coated Harry’s palm, slippery as oil.
“Malfoy,” Harry pleaded. “Please, you’ve got to stay still.”
“Trying,” he gritted out.
“No, no, I know,” Harry said, trying to soften his tone into something soothing.
Briefly, Harry considered attempting to wipe some of the potion off, in case it was still active, but considering Harry no longer felt the initial numbness in his nerves, Harry disregarded it in favor of refocusing on Malfoy. If he would just stay still, Harry could nullify the effects that were evidently still plaguing him.
“You’re doing great. It’ll be fine. I’m just going to…”
With a deft motion, Harry charmed his shirtsleeves to the worktop. The spell tugged him backward until he bumped against the edge, arse half perching on it.
“There. That’ll help,” Harry said. And then, to be extra safe, he flicked another charm to his shoes, pinning them to the floor.
“I—” The word croaked out of him. But at least this time, when the tension rippled through him, he hardly moved.
“There,” Harry exhaled, bracing a hand on the edge of the table beside his hip and regaining his hold on him. “That’s better, isn’t it? Now I can help you properly.”
“Oh Christ,” he muttered. “Potter—”
“Shh, just breathe.” Harry exaggerated a deep inhale, eyes fixed on his, encouraging him to mimic it.
Pain had knit his brows together but as he drew in a slow, deep breath, Harry watched as the harsh lines softened incrementally.
“Good, Malfoy. That’s good. Keep doing that. Nice and steady.”
But even with the attention on his breath, it was clear he was in agony. Harry refocused, putting every ounce of his concentration into his hand to ensure that the movements were textbook perfect.
Tergeo: an upward flick.
Episkey: a tight, circular rotation of his wrist.
Reparifarge: a sidelong swoop.
Again.
And again.
Harry was close enough that he could feel his carefully measured inhales and the subsequent shaky exhales. Poor thing.
“That’s it,” Harry murmured soothingly, beginning another Tergeo. “That’s it, Draco. Nearly there. You’re doing so well.”
His breath hitched. And because he’d been tracking it, his eyes instantly flicked from where they’d been unfocused over his shoulder to his face.
But instead of an expression of extreme pain, his face showed all the signs of regret and embarrassment. Well, Harry could understand that. If the situation were reversed, then—
Harry’s fist slid a few inches before Harry could properly complete the upward flicking motion, and then there was suddenly quite a bit more to rotate around. Oh. Harry’s own cheeks burned as the reality of why he was grimacing and blushing registered.
“Ignore it,” he muttered, eyes flicking away from Harry’s to the middle distance behind Harry. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”
Just a penis, Harry reminded himself hastily. A random, er, very excited—
“It’s a natural reaction to direct contact,” Harry assured him, then brightened. “And perhaps a good sign? Are you no longer in pain?”
He swallowed hard then met Harry’s stare. “If I say yes, will you stop?”
It occurred to Harry then that Harry was still stroking him, and on the next swooping motion Harry paused. His nostrils flared, though he didn’t move a muscle.
“Do you want me to keep going?” Harry asked hesitantly.
The sound he made was mostly laugh, though strained. “You’re not actually asking that, are you?”
Harry frowned. Of course Harry was. There’d never been so much as a lecherous glance from him in all their time working together. If he’d wanted Harry in any capacity other than the one he had Harry, he’d made no overtures toward it.
That said, he’d been doing nothing but steadily getting harder and harder, filling the curl of Harry’s fist where it was still lingering around his shaft. Which—Helga below, why was Harry still touching him?
“Of course I am,” Harry said, more adamantly. “Just because you’re—” Harry’s cheeks burned “—erect, doesn’t mean you intended to become so. Or that you want this.”
“You’ve pinned me to the table,” he reminded Harry. “You’re stroking me within an inch of my life. Murmuring to me. Telling me I’m—” He exhaled hard and when he spoke again, his voice was plaintive. “Harry. I’m dying for more.”
Harry’s lips parted on a silent breath of surprise.
“But,” he carried on, a thread of warning in the low tone. “If you don’t want this, you should stop. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Promise ”
Harry considered this with a slow assessment of him. Yes, he was flushed and tense. Yes, he was breathless and wild-eyed. But it didn’t appear to be from pain. It was a different sort of agony that wracked through him now, the sort that Harry could feel throbbing within his grip.
Reflexively, Harry closed his fingers around him and his eyelids drooped, nostrils flaring.
“You promise?” Harry said softly, twisting his fist around his shaft, holding their eye contact. “What, this doesn’t ache at all?”
“God,” he breathed. “You actually want this?”
Harry hummed his agreement, heart thudding in his chest. At his words, his eyes slid closed, jaw clenching. When he opened them again, they held fire.
“Then unstick my hands. Now.”
Harry shook his head and slid his fist from the base up to the thick head. It took all his self control not to look down and admire what felt like a gold-standard cock, but the raw need smoldering in his expression kept Harry’s focus up.
“You said you’re dying for more,” Harry reminded him quietly. “You like it—just like this.”
Harry circled his palm over the tip of his cock and he hissed in a breath.
“Don’t you?” Harry prompted, circling again.
He strained futilely against Harry’s charms. “Yes.”
Harry tilted his face up to his, holding his gaze as Harry broadened his strokes. “I do, too. So, be a good boy and enjoy it.”
It was clear he was struggling to keep his eyes open but he fought the descent into pleasure, chest heaving as he practically glared down at Harry. Harry couldn’t help but laugh, soft and fond, at the look on his face.
“Ohh. You are, aren’t you?” Harry mused, trying to temper his delight at having found such a potent button for him. “Letting me help you. Letting me make it all better. Hm?”
He swallowed hard.
Harry raised his brows expectantly, lightning his touch so that only his fingertips grazed up and down his shaft. He bore it for a moment before finally letting his head hang down, watching as he rounded the swollen head with equal lightness.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Harry hummed a note of approval and cinched his thumb and forefinger around the tip of his cock, sliding the head through the snug ring of his fingers again and again. He stammered out a broken swear, hips flexing forward as much as the restraining charms allowed, trying to fuck into Harry’s fist properly.
When Harry didn’t let him, he swore again.
“Should’ve known,” he bit out, head falling back, gaze on the ceiling.
“Known what?” Harry asked, extending his strokes down his shaft again, purely because he could; because he was letting Harry do whatever Harry wanted to him. It was addictive. Harry felt flush with power, potent.
“That you’d be like this.” The knot in Draco’s throat bobbed on another labored swallow. “So perfect.”
The whispered sentiment warmed Harry, tendrils of heat slipping through Harry to collect low in his pelvis.
“That’s nice to hear.” Harry flipped his wrist, letting the ridge of his cock catch in the crook of his thumb and forefinger with every upstroke. He shifted on his feet, throat bobbing. “Though I’m curious. How did you expect me to be?”
“I…” he began, then huffed a soft breath of pleasure as Harry closed his palm over the tip of his cock, beginning to gently circle. “Fuck.”
It was clear he was not in the best headspace for conversation, and for some reason, it only made Harry want to get him talking more. Harry wanted to hear the way his voice caught. The way his sentences would stutter or trail off. Harry wanted to hear what he was doing to his brain, as much as his body.
Harry made a sound of encouragement, resuming the long strokes along the full length of his cock and lifting his other hand to slip under the tails of his shirt. Under his fingertips, the muscles of his abdomen jumped.
His head dropped down, and for a moment Harry thought he was watching Harry touching him again. But then Harry saw that his eyes were squeezed shut.
“Did you think I’d be shy?” Harry prompted, wanting him to stay in the room with him rather than wherever he was trying to hide in his mind.
His head twitched to the side in an aborted shake before dipping on a slow nod.
“Not shy,” he managed. “But…reserved. Cautious.”
Harry hummed understandingly, sending his touch grazing upward to stall at the dip of his navel as he slid his other fist up and down. “Did you like the idea of needing to work me out of my shell?”
Under Harry’s palm, his abdomen tensed into a solid plane. In Harry’s fist, his cock throbbed heartily.
“Oh?” Harry squeezed his fist around him appraisingly. “You did?”
He muffled a sound of agonized pleasure. “You’re going to make me come.”
“That’s the idea, Draco,” Harry reminded him, though loosened the constriction all the same.
When Harry resumed the measured stroking, he exhaled shakily, and then lifted his head. It was instinct to meet his gaze, and all of a sudden Harry realized how close they’d gotten. The grey of his eyes was just a thin ring now, pupils blown wide from pain and pleasure. They were nice eyes, clever and expressive, and at the present moment, full of what she could only describe as desperation.
Seeing his need so unveiled made it easy to hold his gaze, a sense of absolute authority surging through Harry. This capable, confident man had put himself in Harry’s hands, and it was going straight to Harry’s head.
The scant space between them lessened even further as he leaned toward Harry. Those expressive eyes dipped to Harry’s mouth before rising again, a clear though unspoken request held plainly in the grey. A thrill shot through Harry. Oh.
“Would you like a kiss?” Harry asked softly.
“Yes please,” he breathed.
Harry leaned in obligingly, more than happy to honor his request. He held completely still, breath baited as Harry tilted his head to align their mouths. Heat radiated off him, and when Harry touched his lips to his, Harry sighed at the soft warmth of his mouth.
He groaned, holding still for a second longer before pressing forward. Harry let him, lips parting at the first suggestion that he wanted them to.
Kissing him was so distracting that when he drew in a sharp breath through his nose, it took Harry a moment to realize what it heralded.
“Going to come for me?” Harry murmured, letting him feel the words against his lips.
He nodded, whining out a tight exhale before pressing his mouth back to Harry, tongue slipping inside. Within Harry’s fist, his cock swelled and then throbbed hard as he began to come. Harry hummed encouragingly, keeping his fist moving over him in firm, languid strokes, working him through it until Harry was sure he had nothing left to give.
With a tremulous inhale, he broke their kiss to rest his forehead against Harry.
“God,” he panted.
Harry kissed the corner of his mouth, easing his motions to a stop. His cum coated his palm from when he’d stroked it down him and dripped off his knuckles, a sensory mark of how well Harry had done.
It wasn’t until his gaze lifted to find Harry that Harry appreciated the full ramifications of what had transpired. Harry had just wanked his colleague, during the workday, while standing on the puddled remains of a highly noxious potion.
It was so reckless, so irresponsible and unprofessional, Harry flushed.
Apparently his thoughts were similarly aligned because with a low chuckle, he remarked, “This is not how I expected the day would go.”
Harry mirrored the sound, stepping back to give him space to stand. Except — right. Harry had pinned his sleeves and shoes immobile. Bloody fuck, Harry.
“No, nor I,” Harry agreed, shooting him a somewhat chagrined smile before locating his wand and freeing him. “Sorry.”
He slumped more fully onto the worktop, looking worn out. Which was understandable, given the sharp toggle from extreme pain to extreme pleasure he’d just gone through.
Though while he seemed physically depleted, it was with his typical attentiveness that he watched as Harry spelled his hand clean of his release.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Quite alright,” Harry mumbled, casting a careful Tergeo on the flagstones. To Harry’s relief, the glass and remaining potion — which had dried and turned into a fine powder underfoot — vanished without complaint. “It’s my fault this even happened.”
He scoffed, and Harry met his eye. There was careful amusement underscored heavily by incredulity and something like bashfulness.
“I meant the kiss.” He swallowed but held Harry’s gaze. “Thank you for kissing me.”
Harry’s stomach swooped. When had Harry ever been thanked for a kiss? When had Harry even been asked for one?
“Oh.” The word escaped on a soft laugh of surprise. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”
He shook his head once, firmly. “I do.”
Caught in the watchful intensity of his gaze, Harry simply nodded. “Okay. Then, you’re welcome.”
Satisfied, he exhaled through his nose and bent to right his pants and trousers. There was a fresh flush pinking his cheeks when he straightened, fingers busy on his fly, eyes downcast.
Tension hung between them, a sensation Harry resented. After all the work they’d done to build trust, Harry refused to let awkwardness and uncertainty come between them again.
“I really am sorry you were subjected to so much pain,” Harry began hesitantly, and then squared his shoulders bravely when he lifted his face to meet Harry’s eye. “But to be perfectly clear, I’m not sorry about the rest of it.”
There. Harry had said it. Heart racing, Harry awaited his response.
For a moment, he examined Harry. The sincerity in Harry’s eyes, the quickness of Harry’s breath, the way Harry had begun to unconsciously twist his fingers together. At his attention on them, Harry forced himself to stop, and his gaze rose to Harry again.
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Is that so?”
“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t.”
He chuckled. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You’re not one for placations, are you?”
Harry wasn’t.
“And what about you?” Harry asked. “Obviously, you were very on board with everything in the moment but, now…? Any regrets?”
“Regrets.” He rolled the word around, tongue lingering to toy with a canine before the edge of his mouth tensed ruefully. “Only that I got everything and you got nothing.”
“Considerate of you, but I’m quite happy to have been spared most of what you just went through.”
“But not all,” he emphasized, and pushed off the desk to stand.
Habitual manners made Harry want to step back out of his space but instinct kept Harry right where he was. He liked Harry in his space, a fact Harry wouldn’t quickly forget.
“But not all,” Harry agreed, fighting a smile. “The ending seemed rather enjoyable.”
“Oh, it was.” He stepped forward, closer. “It was very fucking enjoyable.”
Anticipation shot through Harry, butterflies collecting in Harry’s gut as he closed the space between them. His temperature was still high from his orgasm and the rush of hormones that had preceded it, radiating from him like a forge. Harry wanted to press close. Wanted to slip his hands under his shirt again and feel the heat of his skin directly. Wanted to tug that shirt off and see what his fingers had only barely begun to map.
“I’ve been trying not to,” he murmured nonsensically.
Harry raised a brow, amused. “Not to…what, spill solution on yourself and then get hard over it?”
He tsked and Harry grinned.
“To not want this,” he clarified, and then gestured between them. “Us. Like this.”
“Oh.” Harry paused. “Because it’s me?”
Malfoy chuckled again, dry and self-deprecating. “Because it’s me. And because we work together. Really, really well. I don’t want to jeopardize it.”
His consideration melted what the first touch of his lips had begun to thaw. He was a brilliant colleague. A true asset to the field of alchemy, and therefore the entire fields of potions, healing, and curse-breaking. How good might it be, to build upon their years of consciously-constructed trust and respect; to take all the aspects Harry valued about him and let them shine in a new way.
It might be very good. Great, even.
It might very well be wholly wonderful.
“And if I said I wanted to?” Harry said, taking a step closer to him.
His brows twitched. “Jeopardize our working relationship?”
Harry snorted and slung his arms around Draco’s shoulders. “No, idiot.”
His hands found Harry’s hips instantly, fingers curving to press into the top of Harry’s bum. “Then I’d say yes, no hesitation.”
Good hands – clever, steady, confident hands. Harry liked the weight of them on his body very, very much.
Harry tipped his chin up, giving him a significant look.
He inhaled slowly, savoring the moment before making a low sound of encouragement in the back of his throat. “Yes. Absolutely, yes.”
“You hesitated,” Harry teased, but before Harry could properly smirk at him, he was kissing Harry.
Harry grinned into it all the same, something he marked with another tsk before sliding his hands into Harry’s hair and angling Harry just so. After that, Harry let him win. Melted into what Harry could already tell was one of his favorite things.
“Should’ve been doing this for ages,” he murmured, lips tracking over Harry’s cheek, down Harry’s jaw. “Mm. You’re delicious.”
“I’m covered in centuries-old book dust,” Harry remarked, but tilted his head to give him better access.
“I’m passionate about centuries-old books.”
The tip of his tongue was hot and wet against Harry’s throat. Harry shivered, and then felt him mark the reaction. When he did it again, to confirm, Harry made sure to moan his appreciation.
God. Feeling the way he put every bit of the hard-working, detail-oriented drive Harry had come to know into it? Yes, Harry was very interested in exploring all the facets of him further. All night, perhaps.
Which – ah. Brought Harry’s focus back.
“We’re still at work,” Harry reminded him, somewhat breathlessly. “And you’re still in technically-contaminated clothes.” Harry let his next blink linger, savoring the perfect pressure of his mouth at his pulsepoint. “And…we have a whole slew of expensive, time-sensitive, and/or very rare ingredients sitting out.”
He made a disapproving sound into the crook of Harry’s shoulder, huffed a sigh, kissed Harry once more, and then drew up to his full height.
“Which of those barriers would you like me to resolve first?”
His voice was raspy, eyes heavy-lidded and fixed on Harry.
It was very, very tempting to say fuck it and pull his mouth back to Harry’s. To Apparate them to Harry’s flat and get every stitch of clothing off him.
Damn his work ethic.
Harry grimaced, and he sighed but nodded.
“You’re right. We’d regret it otherwise. But,” he paused, looking forlornly at Harry’s mouth, throat, pelvis, “I really wish we were more irresponsible.”
“We can be inordinately irresponsible later,” Harry promised. “Just as soon as—”
”I know, I know. Right, you do the liquids, I’ll do the powders.”
Harry laughed. “Wary of the liquids?”
He shot Harry an unamused look which softened instantly when Harry went for a quick kiss.
“I’ll get you a knee-length apron, alright?” Harry said, pecking him once more. “Keep you nice and protected.”
He tugged Harry back for a proper press, then hummed contentedly. “I’d be much obliged, Potter.”