Chapter Text
In the end, it didn’t take a year.
Ron was back home within a week—though not before September the 1st, so Harry sent apologies ahead to McGonagall explaining that he would be tardy for the semester start but available to ensure the First-years were zipping around and ready to start being plucked from obscurity by their Heads of House for early placement on their House Quidditch teams by the end of the first week of school.
As the Healers put it, Ron had suffered psychic damage as the unfortunate victim of someone using Legilimency on him to prise sensitive information from his mind that he wasn’t otherwise willing or able to share. This, Harry surmised, had been how the Unspeakables had learned of the cottage’s location, and Ron felt absolutely stricken that he’d been the unwitting reason Harry and Draco’s location had gotten out.
It had taken the combined efforts of both Harry and Hermione to reassure him that the events had been in no way his fault, and in the future, Harry resolved to place an actual Fidelius on his home if he really didn’t want anyone finding it. “Good,” Ron had said, unduly giddy at the prospect, “They’ll have to kill me next time before I spill!”
Thanks to the pocket Pensieve memories and Hermione’s—and even, as Harry heard it, Draco’s—official statements, the Essence Room was eliminated. Its research teams were disbanded, and its head—005 a.k.a. Hortensia Vogelbaum, a Muggleborn witch who had been (perhaps understandably, from certain perspectives) only too delighted to exact a bit of extrajudicial justice using Death Eaters in her experiments—was presently occupying a cell in Azkaban awaiting trial come the new year when the Wizengamot reconvened.
Hermione admitted to being disappointed it had come to this, realising that the Department of Mysteries had been more interested in building an army of magical creatures that ought not to exist than in implementing Transmogrification for more benign uses, like learning to help humans regrow limbs and perhaps even fight cancer. Still, she took the downfall of the DOM in stride and resolved to focus her talents elsewhere—and as of her last Owl, she was about to interview for a research position at St Mungo’s, who were very interested in the medicinal applications of Transmogrification. Draco, she reported, had even agreed to help ‘within reason’ (“He refused to quote ‘be my magiscience project’. As if he’s got better things to do than sit on his arse and watch the paint dry while they restore the Manor!”)
And as for Draco—well, his record was finally expunged, the Ministry agreeing to sweep under the rug any crimes he might or might not have committed under duress during the war provided he also agreed not to press charges for four-plus years of unlawful detainment, and he was allowed to return to Malfoy Manor, with full ownership restored and a mountain of repairs to enact. Hermione had apparently considered offering to let Draco stay in their spare room while Manor restorations were ongoing, but Ron had vowed to see if a second Killing Curse wouldn’t stick this time if Draco got within fifty feet of him, so apparently Draco had taken up temporary residence in the mother-in-law suite on the Zabini property somewhere in Brighton.
Which left Harry at Hogwarts, where he had found himself every September for several years now. He could not be acknowledged for his role in bringing justice to the Department of Mysteries, of course, but what did he need another Order of Merlin, First Class for anyway? It was enough most days that he had his Nimbus 2020, a bright blue open sky, and a free afternoon. A First-year broke both legs the first day of Flying Classes, McGonagall tried for the fourth year in a row to convince Harry to take up a staff position permanently, and the dungeons flooded when the glass wall in the Slytherin Common Room sprang a leak, so Harry helped the students decorate the Room of Requirement until repairs could be made.
He was happy, he was fulfilled, and he didn’t think (too much) about Draco at all (at least in his waking hours) for three whole months.
And then, one chilly winter morning in December, the last day before the Christmas holidays started for Hogwarts students—which meant the last day Harry had to be in residence—Harry awoke in his warm bed under a mountain of blankets in the spare room he was presently renting from Aberforth above the Hog’s Head to a little silver stoat doing a very impressive war dance on his chest and drawling in Draco’s superior tone, “I’m in your sitting room and you aren’t. Fix that.”
Harry didn’t bother dressing, Apparating direct from his bed back to the cottage, where he found Draco sat in Harry’s armchair, looking very fashionable in an all-charcoal suit over a black dress shirt, sipping a cup of coffee and placidly flipping through one of Harry’s children’s books (“Thom the Gnome Makes a Friend”).
“It’s not August the 27th,” Harry said, a bit breathy with excitement and smiling far too toothily for someone who probably wanted to avoid coming off too strongly. Bit late for that, though.
“Did you know you aren’t wearing any clothes?” Draco asked, still studying the book and nursing his coffee. Thom the Gnome—the book character, not the git who lived in Harry’s garden—was presently learning a valuable lesson on not making snap judgements about others as he took tea with a smart-mouthed Jarvey named Jimothy.
“I’ve got pants on,” Harry protested weakly. These ones even had barely any holes in them.
“So you do. Let’s rectify that.”
He snapped the book shut and was on his feet with that breathtaking preternatural speed Malfoy had demonstrated in rare moments where instinct took over and a feral drive pushed him to take what he wanted without asking nicely. Harry wished that sort of thing didn’t make his cock half as hard as it did in retrospect, but here he was, getting walked-slash-shoved back onto his own couch, where the backs of his knees hit the edge of the cushions and he went down.
“Oh,” was all he got out before Draco took one knee in each hand and shoved them apart, sinking into the conveniently Draco-shaped space between them.
“Now, I recognise this might not be the fellatio you’re accustomed to, but you’ll quickly learn that men are much better at sucking someone off than women. This is because women—at least generally—are not endowed with cocks of their own, so they can’t rightly tell if their technique is crupshit horrible or the best thing since wool socks. Me, though? I know just what makes a prick rise to the occasion, as I’ve got a handsome specimen of my own down there—play your cards right and maybe you’ll get to see it again some day—so I think you’ll find that the skills I bring to the metaphorical table are quite substantial and ought to weigh heavily in my favour when certain considerations are being made.”
Harry let his head fall back against the cushions. “I think I liked you better when all you could say was ‘Arry’.” He wriggled in place, sliding further down and spreading his legs wider. “Think we might could get on with it? I haven’t had breakfast yet, is all.”
“You jest—but this is vital information I’m sharing with you, out of the goodness of my own heart.”
“Mm. Does that mean you’ve decided you are good, then?”
Draco propped his elbows up on Harry’s thighs. “It means that should Harry Potter be planning to spend his Christmas holiday with the Weasleys, as I have it on very good authority he does most every year, he should remember that darling though she may seem with her ghastly red hair and smattering of freckles and pert, pink rosebud lips, and fond though your times together might have been, Girl Weasley will never—ever—suck your cock as expertly as I’m about to. So some leeway concerning aspects of my personality you may find…difficult—perish the thought—would not go amiss, all the benefits of my warming your bed being considered.”
Harry straightened, frowning down at Draco. “Wait, do—do you think I’m going to get back together with Ginny over the holiday? Is that why you ambushed me—well, tried to at least—in my own home at the arsecrack of dawn?”
“I suggested no such thing. I simply offered an unbiased review of the top-rate services I have on offer in comparison to the primitive fumblings you’re likely to have to endure at the literal hands of the less-experienced.”
“…Listen, it’s too early for this. I’m not sure if you’re here to suck me off or to lecture me.”
“My good man, I’m here to do both, pay attention.”
“Well all I’ve gotten so far is the lecture, so it’s difficult to tell.” He settled back down, lips twisting into a faint little smile, because it was a very tiny bit endearing, Draco being so earnest instead of prickly and bitter. He could get used to this—though he probably shouldn’t. “…And Ginny’s seeing someone already, or didn’t your very good authority tell you that?”
“Fucking Weasley…” Draco ground out under his breath.
“Mmhmm. But—all the same, I reckon you do make a good point. I’ve never been blown by a bloke, and you have every opportunity now to ruin me for all others, male and female.”
Draco rested his chin on Harry’s thigh, nose wrinkling. “…Have you been blown by anyone?”
Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I mean—maybe I don’t have as much experience as you, but…”
“Do you have any experience? At all? Like, even with women?”
“I—have some experience.” Sure, maybe all that experience had been within the confines of a fantasieve he’d mistakenly been delivered via Owl order instead of the new four-top of dishware he’d actually purchased, but it still counted, he thought.
Draco made a face. “Oh good. That fills me with so much confidence.”
“I’ll fill you with something,” Harry muttered darkly under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing,” he covered quickly, waving at Draco. “Anyway, were you gonna—you know?”
“Mm, well I don’t know now. The idea I might ruin you does hold a certain allure. But you also won’t be able to appreciate all the absolutely amazing things I’m able to do with my tongue or how hard I worked to tame my gag reflex.”
Harry swallowed thickly and spread his legs a teeny-tiny bit wider still. “…Yeah, probably not. But I for sure will after repeat performances.”
“Repeat performances? You’re under the impression this isn’t simply an early Christmas present? A ‘thank you for not throwing me out on my arse despite knowing I would absolutely not have done the same for you’?”
Harry waggled his brows. “Hey, what memory did you wind up using for your Patronus?”
And Draco snorted, a terribly inelegant thing that suited him tremendously. “I’m not telling you.”
“Was it about me? Is that why I’m getting an early Christmas present, a ‘thank you for not throwing me out on my arse despite knowing I would absolutely not have done the same for you’?”
“Why on earth would you think anything involving you would be a happy memory for me?” Draco said, words entirely belied by the ghost of a smile curling at his lips. “Fuck you, let’s get this over with.” He snapped his fingers, his wand instantly appearing in his casting hand, and slashed it through the air—and Harry’s pants vanished with a pop! leaving him sitting arse-naked on his couch.
He yelped and immediately reached for a throw pillow, placing it over his lap. “What the hell?!”
“I’d remove that unless you want it Vanished, too.” Draco raised his wand in threat, and Harry chucked the pillow at his head. It collided with a whomp, hitting a black scaly shield that rippled over his person and then disappeared just as quickly as it had manifested. “That was rude—and stupid, assaulting someone who’s about to put your prick in their mouth.” He snapped his jaws. “Maybe I have got a taste for man-flesh after all.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Harry grumbled, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes—it’d been one thing to rut against each other in the darkness, it was another to sit here in the bright light of day with your altogether hanging out, having a conversation.
“That’s the best thing to threaten someone with. Pricks and carrots and all that.”
“Pretty sure it’s sticks and carrots.”
“Why would anyone fellate a stick? You’d get splinters.” Silence fell between them—and then a hand was drawing his arm back down. “Don’t do that.”
Harry blinked, wincing. “Wh—leggo.” He jerked his arm back, but Draco held fast. “What’s your problem?”
“What’s your problem?” Draco was frowning at him and not in the playful little pouty way he had been, which Harry had also not found fond at all. “What are you doing? Don’t cover your face.”
“Shove off, I’ll cover my face if I want to—”
Draco stood up, leaning fully into Harry’s space, noses almost brushing. “…Don’t. Don’t look away.”
And he looked so earnest, so desperate—this meant something to him. It wasn’t a matter of pride or shame, and Harry remembered Draco in the memories, so caught up in self-hatred, unable to let anyone know the secret, shameful things he felt for people he wasn’t allowed to feel them for and the lengths to which he’d gone to make sure no one ever knew. And here was Draco again, asking Harry not to try and ignore or forget who was doing this to him. He’d come full circle. The least Harry could do was indulge him.
“…Then give me something to look at.”
A low, rasping growl began to well up from deep in Draco’s chest, and he crushed his mouth against Harry’s, the force nearly putting him through the couch. Harry quickly brought his hands up, cupping the base of Draco’s skull as he held on tight, gentling Draco’s attentions, but only a touch—just enough he could really enjoy it, more heated coupling than frantic, desperate groping.
They kissed and loved each other’s tongues with a hard insistence until Draco finally—finally—drew back and pressed a last kiss to the corner of his lips and began working his way downward. He licked the vee of Harry’s neck, tweaked a nipple gently between his teeth on the way down, and breathed in deep at Harry’s navel, running his fingers through the thick thatch of hair snaking downward. He was back on his knees now, and he grabbed hold of Harry’s hips like a pair of handlebars he was about to ride.
He looked up and over Harry’s belly and chest, gaze hooded from this angle, dark and stormy. “Shall I?”
Harry licked his lips and nodded, a little too energetically for his pride, and Draco chuckled against his heated skin, not a cruel thing—only amused, like he found Harry’s reactions genuinely fond. He really, honestly wondered what Draco had learned about himself in these three months that had him acting like this—spontaneous, adventurous, actually hopeful. Had he looked at the Pensieve memories after all? Certainly not—they wouldn’t have brought this out of him.
Maybe Hermione had just punched some sense into him again, like in Third Year.
Speaking of which, Harry recalled there being some saying about hippogriffs’ mouths and not looking in them, so instead, he looked at Draco.
Draco drew in a deep breath, exhaling along the shaft as he began to work it, slowly and gently and with a loving care Harry doubted he’d ever shown anything else in his life except maybe his own prick. He didn’t lick it, not just yet—he seemed to be studying it for the moment, with an admiring eye that Harry was too turned on to be embarrassed by right now.
“If I’d known you had this trapped inside those tight Quidditch leathers, I might have tried this back in school.”
Harry chuckled gruffly—having witnessed those Pensieve memories first-hand, he very much doubted that, pleased though he was with the compliment. “I probably could’ve used it—I was carrying quite a bit of stress back then.”
“Weren’t we all?” Draco said, though even he seemed to realise Harry’s struggles had probably outweighed his own, at least barring their final two years of schooling. “Perhaps we could have…helped each other out.”
“Pretty sure if I’d tried to even talk to you, let alone touch your prick, you’d have Hexed me sideways.”
“Mm, true, because I would’ve been convinced you’d been exposed to a Fwooper and were tragically and irreparably deranged.” He gave a teasing, appreciative squeeze. “Trust I would have properly mourned the loss of this impressive specimen, though.”
And though Draco made these remarks in jest, Harry was not yet so blitzed on arousal that he could not detect the faint hint of longing in his words—as if some part of him yet remembered how desperately he’d wanted to be Harry’s friend, longed for Harry’s protection, ached for Harry to just give one single fuck about him.
Harry took a haggard breath, rubbing Draco’s shoulder with the inside of one thigh. “Sounds like we’ve got, what—ten years? Of fooling around like teenagers to make up for.”
Draco’s lips curled up at the corners. “…Quite. We ought to get started right away.”
Harry had to admit, despite never having received a blowjob before in his life, he was pretty damn sure that Draco’s boasts of a particular prowess with the act were well founded. He seemed in no short supply of saliva, which he laved along the shaft of Harry’s prick before kissing the tip until it flared red and peeked up from its hood. The tight channel of his fist was slick and hot as he shoved Harry’s prick through it, refusing to take him fully into his mouth to test that gag reflex he’d claimed he’d tamed, instead treating the head with his undivided attention.
Harry slumped down against the back of the couch, legs spread uncomfortably wide, and watched as Draco’s pink tongue swirled around the tip, head cocked to one side and white-blond hair, trimmed a bit now such that it hung just past his nape and artfully tousled, falling in a curtain over his eyes and nose and cheeks. Through the swinging locks, he caught tantalising glimpses of Draco’s sharp eyes, locked on Harry’s and pulling him in like a siren’s call.
And then Draco straightened, pushed his hair back, and pressed a kiss to the slit of Harry’s crown, lips widening around it, impossibly tight and warm and wet, and he began to swallow Harry downdowndown until he felt himself brush up against the back of Draco’s throat and his hips spasmed, lifting off the couch.
Draco had honed those Seeker reflexes back into prime condition, though, and his hands snapped to Harry’s hips, holding him in place as Draco worked his throat. Harry released a pained grunt as stars flashed in his eyes, and his breath came in great heaving pants. He imagined he could see the outline of his prick where jaw met throat, and it was quite the hottest thing he thought he’d ever witnessed in his life—Draco’s throat convulsing around him, the ever-faint threat of Draco’s teeth brushing along his hard, hot shaft, and the insistent press of Draco’s fingers over the joint where thigh melded into torso, sure to leave marks once this was over.
And it was stacking up to be over shamefully quickly. Maybe Draco would take it as a compliment—or maybe he’d be delighted to have an excuse to jeer at Harry for his short fuse. Wanker had probably been getting himself off three times a day the past few months just to build up his tolerance so he’d have one more thing to lord over Harry when they found their way back to one another.
Fuck, Draco was here. It wasn’t August the 27th—it was December the 20th, he was warm and naked in his cottage, and Draco-fucking-Malfoy was swallowing his cock in a most excellent fashion that Harry really wished he were skilled enough to reciprocate. Draco probably wasn’t expecting anything in return—but it was always fun to surprise him. To see unabashed delight flash across his features, before it was whisked away under the expertly tailored mask he always kept in place. Malfoy had been fun, which meant Draco could be too—and Harry was all right if he was only fun around Harry. He just wanted Draco to know he was safe. He was someone Draco could lean on and put his faith in and bare his heart before, and Harry wouldn’t—would try not to—betray it.
“Please…” he begged, voice gruff and husky with a mixture of morning bleariness and edge-of-glory arousal. “Fuck, Draco, please…”
Draco hummed something in response and sent electricity jolting through Harry’s cock and up his spine to the pleasure centre of his brain. He slammed his legs shut, locking Draco in place, and grabbed the back of his head. He didn’t want to spill in Draco’s mouth—that much he knew was something you didn’t do without asking—but if Draco didn’t get off of him right the fuck now, he was going to all the same. “Fuck—fuck, lemme go, lemme go, shit, I’m gonna—”
But Draco braced himself, held Harry down, and swallowed—
And Harry saw white, back arching off the couch as his bollocks drew up tight under him, like hard little walnuts, and forced their contents down his prick to shoot in great dribbling spurts against the back of Draco’s throat. He shuddered once, twice, three times before he held there, locked in place, until a final wave of relief washed over him and sent him slumping back down against the couch. Draco followed him down, still swallowing, one hand on Harry’s still-hard prick and the other holding his hair back, tucked behind one ear. His eyes were closed now, brows knit—in discomfort or concentration, Harry couldn’t tell, and he didn’t have the energy to shove Draco off anymore. If he’d hurt Draco, well Draco was a grown-arse wizard and could well let him know.
Draco continued to hold him down, though, suckling on Harry’s prick until he’d wrung just about every drop of spunk that had been building up in Harry’s bollocks for, well, not three months—but at least a good week. He was only human, after all, and he had a very good imagination these days, even if he usually wound up thinking of encounters on Enlarged sofas in darkened studios at midnight while recovering from abdominal trauma.
At length, Draco drew off him, delivering a final smacking kiss to the inflamed head of Harry’s prick and wiping a delicate finger over his lips. His cheeks were flushed a deep cherry red, and his lips were puffy and pink. When he cleared his throat and spoke, there was a faint rasp in his voice now that Harry knew he was responsible for, and it did things to him that registered as a coiling, smouldering something just behind his navel. He wasn’t fifteen anymore, but he was still pretty proud of his refractory period. Maybe he could surprise Draco yet.
“That took longer than expected.”
“‘S that a compliment for me or self-directed criticism?”
Draco draped himself over Harry’s thigh, arms crossed lazily under his chin. “Bit of column A, bit of column B.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I was trying not to pop.” He laid a hand over his stomach, stroking the sensitive muscles. “You just looked so nice down there. Didn’t want it to end.”
“I believe the object is for it to end.” Draco let a hand drop down between his own legs, lids fluttering shut as he massaged himself through his trousers. It seemed a shame to ruin them, as they looked like they cost a pretty Knut, and Harry didn’t know how much the restoration of Malfoy Manor was costing Draco. “Doesn’t mean we can’t go again.”
Harry licked his lips. “…Need some help there?”
Draco’s gaze swept up to meet Harry’s, a lacy white brow arching. “Are you offering?”
“Well,” Harry hedged. “I…dunno that you’d much appreciate my own attempts at whatever magic you just worked on me—but I’ve pulled off a prick or two in my time.”
“And how many of those pricks you pulled off were your own?”
“…Most of ‘em.” Draco’s other brow joined the first. “…All of ‘em. But I never heard any complaints from myself.”
Draco’s lips twisted into a ghost of a smile. “…Put your hand here.” He patted Harry’s thigh. “Palm up.”
Harry frowned but did as ordered—and then he frowned even harder when Draco hacked up a dollop of spit into it. “Wh—gross!” he cried, trying to wipe his hand on Draco’s very nice suit. That would show him.
But Draco grabbed his wrist and held him in place. “Make a channel. Not too loose—but not too tight either.”
And oh, Harry saw what he was about now. He nodded, angling his wrist down a bit so Draco could slide in and seat himself easily.
Draco shrugged out of his jacket, draping it carefully across the back of Harry’s armchair so as not to get it wrinkled, and then off came his waistcoat and dress shirt, until he was just standing in his fancy trousers and polished loafers. “I’ve still got your Weasley jumper, you know,” he said as he unclasped his belt. “Would you like it back?”
Harry chuckled, a bit loopy. “Don’t need to wear my clothes anymore?”
“Never did.” He whipped the belt off and began picking at the buttons on his fly now. “The creature just liked your scent. It made it feel safe—and wanted.”
Harry swallowed. “Y-yeah?”
Draco nodded. “…I’ve learned, though, that I needn’t endure your ratty old Quidditch jerseys and pyjama shirts just to smell like you.” He swiped at a wet spot on his cheek—then licked his fingers, tugging down the hem of his briefs with the other hand and drawing out his hard, wanting prick. The angry red colour contrasted beautifully with his pale complexion as he stroked himself gently, tugging the hood up over the head and back down again. He stepped closer, eyes locked on Harry’s. “…May I?”
“…Fuck yeah.”
More appropriate permission had never been granted. Draco took him by the wrist, straddled his thigh, and pressed the tip of his cock to the channel Harry had made of his fist, pushing in slowly and clamping his hand over Harry’s to show him the pressure he craved. Harry caught on quick, and shortly Draco had his back arched, hands resting on his hips, as he pumped into Harry’s fist, down to the root, and then slowly drew back out again. It was an odd feeling, pulling someone else off—there was no tactile feedback to key off of, no way to know if his grip was too tight or too loose or too dry but to watch the emotions flitting over Draco’s face. So he watched, really looked, studied the quiver to his lip, the hitch in his breath, and flare of his nostrils, and learned Draco liked it a little loose going in but really fucking tight going out. He wanted to be gripped and held, and he made such noises when Harry swiped his thumb over the tip when he pulled all the way out, punching back in with a punishing grunt.
“Harder,” Harry said, bringing his other arm up to grab Draco by the back of his neck and draw him down. “I won’t break.”
“I do like a challenge.”
“Fuck me.” He squeezed Draco just shy of painfully to press home his point. “I’ll watch.”
“Ffffff—uck,” Draco hissed, pressing his forehead to Harry’s and bringing both hands up to brace against the back of the couch as he began pumping his hips harder and faster with a punching intensity. The couch wobbled with each thrust, and Draco’s panting breaths rushed over Harry’s lips, fogging his glasses. All his senses were filled with Draco—the sound of his bollocks slapping against Harry’s thigh, the lingering scent of mint on his breath before Harry had ruined it with his release, the sliding warmth of spit mixing with slick in the tight channel he’d made with his fist for Draco to drive into, and Draco’s pale features, screwed up with want and need and abandon, pink splotches blooming across a field of white.
“We should do this proper some time,” Harry whispered into his ear. “I can’t imagine how it’d be better than this, but I reckon it’s gotta be.”
Draco’s thrusts came faster and more frantic, all tempo lost as he gave himself over to sheer instinct and desire. Harry could see his thighs flexing even through the trouser material, pulled tight across his muscles. “F—fuck, fuck, ‘Arry, I’m—”
Harry tweaked his wrist, tightening his grip when Draco tried to pull out for one final punching thrust. He cried out, swallowing the sound until all that came out was a soft, choked whine, and Harry felt warm wetness spill over his fingers. Draco pushed against him, legs shaking, pushing and pushing and pushing, like he was trying to crawl inside Harry’s grip and pressed himself as deep as he possibly could before sagging, spent, on top of Harry.
Several long moments passed where the only sounds that hung between them were the soft tick tick tick of the clock on the wall and their slowing, dying exhalations.
Harry was the first to speak, because he was the one furthest out from his last orgasm and had (most of) his senses back by now. “Still don’t like me, then?”
“…I’m about to make a terrible decision. So I came to the authority on such matters.” Draco rolled off of him, collapsing back against the couch next to Harry with his cock still hanging out of his trousers. He hadn’t even taken them off—it felt a bit scandalous.
“Well. A bit late for that, I think.”
“Oh no.” Draco waved his wand over Harry’s hand, Vanishing the remnants of their activities. “That wasn’t the terrible decision. That was a very, very good one, in fact.”
“Ah,” Harry said, because it seemed the polite thing to say when someone had sucked you off so nicely and then given you a peep show after.
Draco pushed his hair back from his face, where it had started to fall in errant strands again. “…I still don’t think I’ve changed. But I’ve missed arguing about it with you. If nothing else, it’s an endless source of entertainment.”
Well, if he’d missed arguing about it, Harry supposed that was his cue. “…You’ll recall the crux of those arguments was that I agreed you hadn’t changed—I just thought there were sides to you that you either hadn’t recognised or…”
“Or?” Draco was looking at him very shrewdly, and Harry suspected he ought to choose his words carefully, especially since his sensitive bits were still on full display.
“…Or that you maybe didn’t want to recognise. For reasons.”
“Those reasons being?” His tone was light and airy, which was the most dangerous tone Draco could take, Harry had learned in their brief time together.
Well, those reasons being found in the Pensieve, he didn’t say, because that was a whole different argument altogether. “Those reasons being your own to divine. I don’t think my laying them out for you will endear me to you in any way, and I’d rather not immediately take any potential for further congress off the table, if it’s all the same to you.”
Draco made a face, but he didn’t dismiss the notion—maybe he didn’t want to get into anything that might take any potential for further congress off the table either. He crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled loudly. “…So what does that mean? I’m a Slytherin, I’m meant to be circumspect—you’re supposed to have all the subtlety of an Erumpent in heat.”
Harry snorted softly, listing to the side so their shoulders were pressed together. Draco’s skin was still heated, like a warm coal fire he could snuggle up against to stave off the chill beating against the thin cottage windows in blustery snowflake-laden gusts. Very shortly, even with the cottage’s Atmospheric Charms in fine working order, it was going to feel far too cold to be sitting around starkers.
“…I don’t really know you. Not who you really are, all the facets and aspects and nooks and crannies. I’ve gotten to see you as a mean little shit in school and as a sorry, insufferable sod stuck under Voldemort’s thumb, and even as a confused sort-of-amnesiac who could only say my name. Everything else—and I do believe there is more—well…a handful of days isn’t enough to take it all in. But—” Draco had turned away, feigning interest in the rest of the room while Harry recited what he probably felt was his laundry list of mistakes. Harry shifted around to face him. “I do want to. I keep getting these—these tantalising little glimpses of someone I really get on with, someone I think I could…I dunno. Be with. And it’s not enough. I want more.”
There was a long, quiet beat, and then Draco said, “Why?”
“Why?”
“Why now? You’re curious? Or maybe just horny? Now that I’m no longer a mean little shit, now that I’m not insufferable—”
“Hey, I never said you weren’t still a mean little shit or insufferable.”
But Draco was on a roll now. “—You suddenly want to get to know me? Because maybe now I’m worth getting to know?”
God, definitely not insufferable—and Harry was reminded of Draco in the Pensieve memories, wishing and wanting for Harry to think him worthy. That was all Draco had ever wanted—for Harry to like him and to want him. He was just absolute shit at showing it—or at allowing himself to be likeable or wantable at all.
And Harry decided that now it was time for some tough love. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, you want to put it like that? Sure. Now you are worth getting to know. Not because of any imagined value you might think I place on you—but because now it seems like you might actually let me.” Draco blinked at him, gobsmacked, and Harry barrelled through, because there was every chance this might be the last conversation they ever had. “You didn’t have a nice word one for me back at school—and I was eleven when I first met you, so what was I supposed to think? That you just had a crusty outer shell, but if I really worked at you, I could get to the gooey bits inside and then we’d be best mates? I was supposed to pick you, over someone who actually showed he was interested in me and liked being around me? You can’t play hard to get and then whine when I can’t actually get you!”
“I—was not playing hard to get—”
And of course that would be the bit he latched on to. Harry scoffed. “No, you were just being a shitty little eleven-year-old. And then a shitty little twelve-year-old. And then a shitty little thirteen-year-old, and so on and so forth. And I’m not saying I was a class act either—trust I’ve had several months now to reflect on…on how I might have behaved differently in the past and how I ought to behave differently going forward. But—god. I know one of the great joys in your life is not letting me have my way and making me miserable, but we can’t do this—we can’t both of us be eleven-year-olds again who keep making the same mistakes instead of acting our age and owning up to what we want.”
“And you know what I want?” Draco said, feigning challenge—but Harry could hear, under it all, that he was begging for Harry to tell him, so it wouldn’t feel like giving in and admitting it.
But if Draco wanted to know what was in those Pensieve memories, he could fucking well take a swan dive into them when he was good and ready. Harry wasn’t going to spoil that revelation for him, not for all the blowjobs in the world.
“…You’re the one who likes to lecture people while their cocks are hanging out, not me. I know what I want, though: I want to stop wondering what I could have had, all these years, if I’d taken your hand. I want to know who we might be now. I can’t change the past, but I can change the future. So if you want to be in that future, with me, then cut shitty little eleven-year-old me some slack. You don’t want me imagining you’re Malfoy—so stop imagining I’m him. I’m the one who’s sitting here, staining my couch with my arse sweat while simultaneously freezing my bollocks off ‘cause it’s nearly mid-winter and Charms only do so much, asking you to please, maybe…” He lifted his brows hopefully. “…Consider dating me?”
Draco looked away again, shifting uncomfortably. Probably because he was now suddenly conscious he was freezing his bollocks off too. “…You don’t even like me,” he said, petulant as ever, and this was progress, because at least he’d given up claiming he didn’t like Harry.
Harry shrugged. “I like you a little. Dating someone does generally have the prerequisite of thinking they’re all right. I figure I like you enough, for now.”
“Debatable.”
Harry narrowed his eyes—were they just going to go around in circles on this all morning? “That I like you?”
And Draco let his head loll back against the couch. “That you like me enough.” He cocked his head to the side, suddenly pensive, and Harry heard the shift in his tone. “We’ll fuck this up,” he said, the same way he’d confessed to being terrified Harry would end him, and Harry’s heart clenched. He tried not to think about the Blackblood screeching in terror as the Killing Curse struck it in the chest and sent it toppling to the ground in a cold, dead heap of flesh. He wasn’t successful.
And yet Draco had beaten back that fear and shown up in Harry’s sitting room on December the 20th—not August the 27th—all the same. Harry had nearly killed him, and still he’d come back. We’ll fuck this up was not a wild prediction but a foregone conclusion. That didn’t mean there was no coming back from it. Between them, they’d shrugged off a half-dozen Unforgivables. Harry didn’t think there was any word for them but Power Couple.
Harry nodded. “Mm, probably. I foresee two, maybe three spectacular, blow-out breakups.”
Draco shifted to lean further into Harry, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder—it felt like a test, like if Harry moved a muscle, Draco would unsheathe those nasty talons and rake him across the face. He held his breath, and Draco sighed. “Can one of them be at a gala? I’ve always dreamed of having a glorious row in the middle of the dance floor and then throwing champagne in my partner’s face and storming out in a scandalous display sure to make headlines the next day.”
Harry noodled on this for a moment. “You know, I think the Ministry has a Christmas charity to-do each year. I don’t generally go—but I could make an exception this year if I could be promised a ‘scandalous display’ by my date.”
“I think half the population still thinks I’m dead—it would be quite the scene.”
“Could we at least get one dance in?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely not. I saw you at the Yule Ball.”
Harry opened his mouth to protest this and claim he was a much better dancer now than he had been at fourteen, but it would be a lie, so he decided against it. “…Are we really gonna do this?”
He couldn’t see Draco’s face, but the silence that settled between them spoke volumes. “…Shall I come back on the 27th of August instead? If you think I haven’t given this as-already-mentioned terrible decision due consideration?” He twisted around, expression fierce, and leaned into Harry’s space. “Turns out I do know myself—and I do know what I want after all.” And then his expression softened, breath coming in a sort of stuttering sigh, as he laid a hand against Harry’s cheek. “…I just want you.”
Simple, and elegant, yet so full of drama—like Draco himself. Harry leaned into the caress. “I can’t promise you anything. Except that I really do want to try. To get to know you—and to let you get to know me.”
Draco’s lips thinned. “…And what if I don’t want to get to know you? What if I just want to warm your bed and suck your prick and have you inside and out and every which way between? What if I don’t want to know what I could have had, all these years, if I hadn’t been a shitty little eleven-year-old?”
Draco, Harry had learned, was never asking what it sounded like he was asking. He didn’t want to just sleep with Harry on occasion and then to fall into their separate orbits, coming together only in fantastic, spontaneous collisions that few but the most brilliant astronomers could predict. He was just scared that that was all he could handle—or that eventually, it would be all Harry could give him.
Draco wasn’t scared of Harry breaking him—he was scared of him breaking himself. He’d made mistake after mistake after mistake in life, and from his perspective, Harry had always made the right choices. He didn’t dare ask for more than what Harry could offer, because then he wasn’t getting his hopes up. He still needed Harry to be the brave one. And well, Harry had saved Draco once. He could damn well do it again.
Harry smiled, nodding placidly. “…Then I can keep that too, safe like the Pensieve memories, for whenever you’re ready. If you ever are.”
Draco grimaced, a strange, twisted expression that seemed at once both sad and happy. “Why do you always have to be the fucking hero? And say the absolutely most perfect thing? I fucking hate you.” He launched himself into a kiss, deep and searing and filled with a decade’s worth of want. “I’ve never hated anyone the way I hate you.”
And Harry kissed him back, the chill in his bones rapidly being chased away by the warmth of their bodies coming together. Draco Malfoy hated him. All was right with the world again.