Chapter Text
Harry had been successfully avoiding Weasley Sunday lunch for a month post-Christmas—post-Malfoy’s sunken and sallow face pinking in embarrassment, post-Charlie Weasley’s glorious shoulders, post-mind melting kiss.
Well, successful was a relative term—his favourite jumper now had a hole in the sleeve from the explosion of a surprise Howler from Molly. With Hermione’s industrial-grade mail-repelling charms, the frequent Howlers he received from ‘fans’ had completely ceased. This unfortunately meant his dodging reflexes weren’t what they used to be, as he wasn’t in the habit of soliciting Howlers from family and friends—until now.
As if it weren’t enough to hear Molly’s amplified voice (”Harry James Potter, you are and always will be our son. Draco Malfoy will never change that. We love you!”) chasing him all over the house no matter how far Harry scurried, Kreacher kept eyeing him as Sunday morning progressed. Come noon, Kreacher would ungenerously begin muttering while conspicuously dusting near wherever Harry was sitting.
“Master never leaves the house anymore, and the house is being noticing. Master makes the house rain, Master makes the house mould, Master is not being fixing anything and leaving it all up to Kreacher, but Kreacher has powers not for this kind of ancient magic and worse of all, Master is not being leaving Kreacher alone.”
So come one o’clock, Harry would trudge out of Grimmauld Place to face the cold, hard world—a world where Malfoy lurked, having seen Harry straddling Charlie Weasley.
Harry still hadn’t discovered what Kreacher did in his ‘alone time’—Harry imagined him taking a long bath and trimming his ear hairs, or perhaps staring lovingly at Walburga’s portrait, or practicing the mace—but he had taken to having good, long walks around London to avoid catching Kreacher in his all-togethers.
Harry had even been checking the papers every day, waiting for Malfoy to tattle on him to the Prophet. Normally, Harry avoided his press like the plaque. Now, every morning, he fed the rumpled Prophet delivery owl anchovies and assorted oddments the Grimmauld cupboards provided as the owl cooed in joy. Scanning the headlines, he distressingly learned that he had been dating around enough that a single month off the market meant speculation that he’d given up on love. ‘Who Will Save Our Saviour’s Heart?’ was one particularly salient headline, and Eustace Remblebranch loved to posit that Harry was waiting for Ginny to return from her training camp in Australia. Harry clipped that one out specially and sent it via a very-expensive Floo post halfway round the world. It would give Ginny a laugh.
At least the dreams hadn’t been getting worse. They hadn’t been getting better either. Harry often woke shivering cold, his inherited duvet covered in dew more often than not. At least he seemed trapped in a stasis.
Harry avoided the showers on Level Two, just in case that clanging ghost had been Malfoy. And there was absolutely no reason for him to go back to Le Crapaud Romain, with the maître d' who was definitely not Malfoy, so Harry didn’t do that either.
The last straw came when Ron cornered him in the tea room in between Stealth & Tracking and Rules & Regulations. Every trainee congregated there for the strong cuppa needed to get through the wheezing, wizened ghost of Head Auror Rugbottom talking about regulation changes of the 1600s. This was how everyone, including that prat Zacharias Smith, heard that Harry was scared of Draco Malfoy.
“I am not scared of Malfoy,” Harry hissed back, conscious of everyone’s ears swivelling their direction. He was not looking forward to tomorrow’s Prophet headline, especially not with all the hullabaloo about his love life. Especially not if that hullabaloo ballooned to include Draco sodding Malfoy.
“Well, great,” Ron said. “Then stop being such a tosser then and come over for lunch Sunday. Malfoy might not even be there, you know? He wasn’t last week.”
“Malfoy regularly stopping by, Weasley?” Smith interjected from by the kettle. It was whistling and Smith was ignoring it. It made Harry hate him even more.
“Stuff it, Smith,” Ron said back. “But, Harry mate, Mum is frantic. And, really, you’re the one that said he could stay on Christmas—”
“Potter, you spent Christmas with Malfoy?” Smith shrieked gleefully. The headlines in Harry’s eyes morphed to something even worse: “Potter Malfoy’s Secret Santa?”
“Smith, I swear—” Ron started as Harry grabbed his elbow and forcefully steered him towards Lecture Room 5. The other trainees heard enough about his life from the Prophet. He didn’t need them thinking that he was scared of Malfoy, or worse, that Harry had invited him for Christmas.
“Alright, Ron, I’ll come! But I haven’t been avoiding Malfoy, I’ve just been—busy.”
Ron snickered. “Yeah, busy organizing your pants and having tea with Kreacher.”
Harry hadn’t been avoiding Malfoy, not really. He’d just conveniently had the itch to explore London, his new home. And conveniently avoided the dusty hallway at the back of Level 2 that housed the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office. And avoided the showers. And the restaurant.
It’s just—everything from Christmas was so mixed up in Harry’s head. The kiss with Charlie and Malfoy’s shocked face. Red climbing up Malfoy’s neck from his chest to his sunken cheeks as Harry said he could stay. How kind Molly and Arthur were and how profoundly undeserving Malfoy was of it.
Harry ended up at The Burrow the following Sunday, clutching a bouquet of bedraggled blue and pink hydrangeas from the Muggle shop round the corner from Grimmauld Place. He held his breath as he pushed open the door and then felt strangely let down when Malfoy wasn’t there.
Harry waited all lunch for him to show, and was only able to relax when he saw Molly packing up roast leftovers for Arthur to take with him to work tomorrow for ‘Draco.’
Weeks passed, and Harry slowly realised Malfoy no longer attended Sunday lunch. It didn’t appear there was a falling out, given how Mr Weasley still talked about him and Molly always packed up food for him. Harry finally started to relax again into his blissfully Draco Malfoy-free life.
Then, on that fateful day when all the Auror trainees were assigned their first case, Proudfoot assigned him a Misuse of Muggle Artefacts case, with Arthur and presumably—horribly—Malfoy.
“Heard you and Malfoy spent Christmas together. He doesn’t have anything on my Gilda, but I’m so proud to hear you’re moving past the war. It gives me hope for the future that a Death Eater and you, Harry Potter, could spend Christmas together,” Proudfoot said, eyes a bit misty, as he handed him the file. Then he cleared his throat and puffed his chest out. “But remember! He’s on probation, so you have to report him for any funny business. No leniency for your friends here, Potter!” Proudfoot clapped him on the shoulder and winked, as if he were doing Harry a favour.
“Mate,” Ron said, nudging Harry in the side. “Mate. You realise this means you’re working on that Portaloo case.”
“They’re still working on that?” Harry asked, dismayed. “Arthur hasn’t been talking about it at lunches! I thought they had solved it!”
“Nah.” Ron snatched the assignment folder from Harry’s hands and began to leaf through it. “Mum just banned talk of it from the table, because all the poo was putting people off the food. And because George wouldn’t stop making toilet jokes. Imagine sitting down to take a shit and boom, you’re flung through space with your pants down!” Ron apparently found what he was looking for and held a crime scene photo out with distaste. “Eurgh, moving photo.”
Harry disconsolately looked through his folder. The photos truly were horrifying. Could he just not do his case? Now was the time to decide. Did he really like being an Auror? He’d had three Malfoy-free months—
“Still scared of Little Lord Malfoy?” Smith whispered as Proudfoot handed out assignments on the other side of the room.
“You wish, Smith,” Harry spat back automatically. Well, fuck. That settled it.
Harry read the case file front-to-back several times, getting thoroughly put off his lunch by the photos, attempted to eat lunch anyways with Ron and Hermione but everything was poo-scented in his mouth, and then twiddled his thumbs in the trainees’ bullpen as everyone went off to their own cases—tracking down shopowners selling biting teacups, breeders of illegal Crup-dog mixes (apparently very cute), and Ministry employees who didn’t fill out paperwork properly.
None of them were tracking down someone who enchanted toilets—toilets—just to fuck with people. Harry knew he was dealing with a seriously-deranged criminal and that stuck him with the uncomfortable feeling that Proudfoot had given him the best case, or at least the most exciting one. The one with theoretically the most action, something Harry had a complicated relationship with ever since the war. And Proudfoot had thought he was putting Harry on a case with a friend. Draco Malfoy, Harry’s new best friend, apparently.
Finally, he couldn’t stall any longer and so he trudged down the dim, dusty back hallway towards the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office. He wouldn’t say his feeling of doom was exactly like trudging to his death in the Forbidden Forest or the dreams. It was just Malfoy. Though—it was Malfoy, who Harry realised he had thought attractive during school, which was awful in its own right, and then it was Malfoy who had walked in on Harry climbing into Charlie Weasley’s lap. It was Malfoy who hadn’t sold Harry out to the papers or, apparently, to Mr Weasley, despite him having ample time to do so and despite all past evidence indicating he would immediately run to Eustace Remblebranch.
Resigned to his fate, Harry slowly opened the office door. Malfoy stood with his back to Harry, fiddling with something on the desk. That dashed all Harry’s hopes that somehow Malfoy had quit the Ministry and Harry would be spared.
“Harry, my boy!” Arthur said, seated at the desk facing Harry. “Are you the Auror trainee who’s going to help us out with the Portaloo case?”
“Uh,” Harry said, and Malfoy whirled around, pink flush climbing up his cheeks just as surely as it was crawling up the back of Harry’s neck. Harry hadn’t considered how a Malfoy who knew his deepest, darkest secret could possibly be worse, but the incontrovertible proof that it could be was standing right in front of him.
The several months since Christmas, most likely being stuffed full of Mrs Weasley’s cooking, had been kind to Malfoy. Too fucking kind, Harry thought furiously. It wasn’t enough that Harry realised Malfoy was fit at Hogwarts. Unfortunately, his traitorous brain thought he was fit now. Malfoy’s hair had regained some of its lustre and, instead of hanging limp and greasy, looked soft. His cheeks had filled out, but he had lost the baby fat of fifteen and now his cheekbones stood high and strong.
Fuck. Now Harry was stuck on a case, not with a gaunt Draco Malfoy—he could deal with his unwanted and spontaneous pangs of pity for that version of Malfoy. Now, he was on a case with fit Draco Malfoy. Maybe even fitter, Harry regretfully now admitted, than he had been in school, before sixth year had rolled around and Malfoy became haunted and hunted.
When Malfoy continued to stare at him, horrified, Harry said, “Hi”, gave a little wave, and then immediately felt like an enormous wally.
Arthur just said, “How splendid! I had hoped it was going to be Ron or you!”
Malfoy let out a muffled groan and turned to Arthur. He said, “Arthur, may I speak with you?”
“Of course,” Arthur said genially, leaning back in his chair.
They both turned to look at Harry. Malfoy looked like he had just swallowed a lemon, face pinched and sour. When Harry didn’t move, he bit out, “Privately? That’s what that phrase normally means, Potter.”
“Draco,” Mr Weasley said, a tinge of warning in his voice.
“Right,” Harry said, and backed right out of the door from where he came, his trainers squeaking on the wooden floorboards. When he stood in the doorway, Malfoy grabbed his wand from the desk, swished it once, and, with a giant gusty burst of wet earth and peppermint, the door slammed shut in Harry’s face.
“Fuck off,” Harry said under his breath. It’s not like he even wanted this case, but still. He was a good Auror trainee! They could’ve been stuck with someone like Smith, the prat.
Then Harry distinctly heard Malfoy say, “We’re doing perfectly fine. We don’t need him,” through the closed door and so Harry leant down with his ear to the crack.
Arthur cleared his throat and said, “You know just as well as I that we’re not doing perfectly fine, Draco.”
“I can handle it, I swear,” Malfoy said. “Anyone but him.”
“Obviously I know you and Harry have had your differences,” Arthur said.
“Differences!” Malfoy scoffed, disdain evident even through the solid oak door.
“But, Draco, you have to let others see in you what I’ve seen,” Arthur added gently. “And that includes Harry. He’s a kind boy.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Malfoy protested.
“And you have to think about how things will look to the Aurors if we send Harry back, for both you and Harry,” Arthur finished.
There was a distinct lack of reply from Malfoy, but his agitation crept under the crack in the door like a noxious gas. Harry knew Malfoy must be seething. Harry was seething. He was a prospect! He was a catch! Malfoy should be grateful it was him assigned to the case! But of course it was all political to Malfoy. It was all about how he was perceived. Well, Harry wasn’t going to play into that. Malfoy may have gotten good-looking again, through the magic of Molly’s cooking, but that didn’t mean a single thing to Harry. Malfoy couldn’t trick him like he had apparently tricked Arthur and Molly. Harry would do this case—fuck Malfoy for wanting him off.
Apparently, some secret nonverbal communication signalled the conversation over and the door swung open. Harry was caught still leaning down, ear to the doorjamb.
Malfoy’s face was even redder than before. “Still spying on me, Potter?” he spat
“Draco,” Mr Weasley said, and Malfoy shut his mouth in a tight line.
Harry gave him his widest smile, knowing he had won. “Well, shall we be off on our case, Draco?”
“Harry.” Mr Weasley sighed, and the smile immediately fell off Harry’s face too. When neither Harry nor Malfoy said anything, Mr Weasley stood and pulled his cloak off his chair, and walked out the door. With Arthur’s back to them, Malfoy lunged after him, jostling Harry to be the first one out and Harry aimed a precisely-placed elbow right to the ribs to keep his position behind Mr Weasley.
Mr Weasley looked behind him and said, “Let’s try not to kill one another today, alright, boys? Molly’ll never forgive me if she loses two adopted sons in one day.”
Both Harry and Malfoy fell into positions like ducklings, trailing behind Mr Weasley. Harry didn’t even react when Malfoy hissed, “We don’t need you, Potter” out of the side of his mouth—such was the strength of Mr Weasley’s guilt. But the lack of response appeared to only peeve Malfoy more, Harry was grimly pleased to see.
Harry jogged to catch up to Mr Weasley, striding ahead on his long legs, patched cloak swishing behind him.
“So, do you think we’ll catch the, ah—”
“Portaloo Poltergeist,” Mr Weasley helpfully supplied.
“Er, yeah. Will we catch the Portaloo…Poltergeist today?” Harry asked.
Arthur let out a chortle, and Harry jumped. He could hear Malfoy give a loud sigh behind them. “Oh, no, Harry. Certainly not!”
“Well, what are we off to do then?”
“Why! Collect evidence and interface with the public!” Mr Weasley said. “You see, the Portaloo bandit has been targeting bathrooms near, but not in wixen districts. It’s all Muggles, you see, who end up getting Portkeyed! That’s why they send us, as the Ministry Muggle experts! We know how to communicate with them!”
Harry cast a look back at Malfoy; the red had spread down his ears to splotch its way all over his cheeks now. He glared at the ground in front of him. Harry knew, if he were going to send someone to deal with Muggles, it certainly wouldn’t be Mr Weasley and Malfoy. There probably wasn’t a worse pair in the whole of the Ministry. Harry could just imagine it now: Mr Weasley examining the ingenious automated flushing mechanism, exclaiming “Egads! Incredible!” as Malfoy stood dourly on, looking like an old-fashioned vicar in his robes, all while some hapless Muggle tried to use the urinal next to them. Mr Weasley might even try to examine the stream in his curiosity.
Harry knew right then and there that they needed him. Mr Weasley might get tarred and feathered without Harry’s protection. Malfoy too, but that was less of a loss.
They made it to the Floo lines. Stuck waiting behind a witch so ancient, she looked like she might croak before they made it to the front, Harry realised abruptly what Mr Weasley had said. He said, “Wait, Mr Weasley—what evidence?”
Mr Weasley stepped up to the fireplace, pinching off some silvery fir-coloured powder from the bronze bowl on the mantle. As he stepped into the green flames, he said, “Why, toilet trash, Harry!”
Then, with a whirl and the scent of spruce, he was gone.
Harry stared at the empty fireplace in horror.
Malfoy’s jaw was tight. “Happy now, Potter, that you’re going to get to see me cleaning up some Muggle’s bathroom?”
With wonder, Harry said, “That might be the only good part about this assignment, don’t you think?”
Malfoy flared his nostrils and stepped into the flame, casting one contemptuous glare back at Harry.
When Harry was spat out, in a cough of smog, tripping onto the moth-bitten carpet of the Leaky Cauldron, Malfoy was stood over him, looming large. Malfoy looked down his nose at Harry while Arthur gossiped happily with Tom over the bar. Harry scrambled to his feet, hastily wiping soot off his glasses, and Malfoy said, voice tight, “This is my case, Potter. I’m solving it. You won’t be taking my glory.”
Harry snorted. He figured Malfoy would sooner catch a fist from an offended Muggle bungling some interaction than catch the Portaloo Poltergeist. Harry did want to solve this case though, and the sooner he did it, the sooner he would never have to lay eyes on Malfoy’s face again. He said, “I don’t think there’s much glory in catching a poo pusher, but if you solve it first, you’re welcome to however Eustace Remblebranch will slander you on the front page of the Prophet.”
Malfoy scoffed. “Well, certainly it’ll be a break in the coverage from your love life. Say, does Arthur know about—”
Harry clamped his hand over Malfoy’s stupid, fat gob. Malfoy’s breath was hot on his hands; Harry watched in horror as Malfoy’s eyes widened in delight.
“Harry!” Mr Weasley said, with consternation, and Harry guiltily pulled his hand away. Malfoy’s back was still to Mr Weasley, and he mouthed to Harry, “Got you.”
Harry just barely resisted the urge to stick his tongue out, probably only because of the look on Mr Weasley’s face. Instead, he forcibly turned to Mr Weasley. “So where are we going?”
Mr Weasley trooped them all out of the Leaky Cauldron to a Sainsbury’s just a minute’s walk away. Harry dutifully transformed his Auror robes into a red hoodie and his regulation trousers into blue jeans, but Mr Weasley and Malfoy walked right in with their robes on. Harry sighed.
The Sainsbury’s tillworkers all stopped what they were doing as Mr Weasley cooed over the trolleys and marvelled at the shiny glass-doored freezer cases. A security guard surreptitiously trailed them as Mr Weasley ran his hand though the vegetable mister and giggled. Mr Weasley whispered to Malfoy, “This all comes from the sewage. The loo!”
Harry said, “Er.”
But, finally, they reached their destination: the Charing Cross Sainsbury’s loo. It loomed large in Harry’s vision: a terrible little corridor with signs for the mens’, grey walls so bland they became offensive, cheap faux marble flooring.
Mr Weasley pushed open the door and Harry was assaulted by blinding fluorescence. Mr Weasley entered, then Malfoy, giving Harry a cryptic glance, before the door swung shut behind him, almost hitting him on the arse.
Harry took a deep breath, clocked the security guard still lurking by the frozen broccoli, and followed them in.
Mr Weasley was already on hands and knees in one of the stalls, sparks and smoke issuing from under the door, while Malfoy was rifling through one of the bins by the sinks. He didn’t react to Harry’s entry except for the stiffer set of his shoulders. He had a Ministry standard evidence bag floating next to him in a cloud of lemongrass mint, a big burlap sack emblazoned with the huge black letters Ministry of Magic EVIDENCE (no tampering, yes, that means YOU!).
Harry thought back to the security guard—sure they were up to no good in here—and peeked back out of the door. The security guard was sidling ever closer, hand casually on the walkie talkie on his belt, pretending to examine the gum on the shelf right next to the till closest to the loo. Harry discreetly palmed his wand as the security guard inched towards him and shot a Confundus at him under his breath. The security guard’s head cocked, as if he were listening to something halfway across the store and he seemingly forgot all about the three strange blokes in robes causing a ruckus in the loo.
Harry winced. Surely, as an Auror trainee, he shouldn’t be having to Confund Muggles within five minutes of leaving the Ministry, but smoke was now starting to pour out from the bathroom, shrouding the freezer aisle and condensing into eerie droplets of mist on the frozen chicken thighs.
Harry shut the door to try and contain some of the acrid smoke, and immediately hacked out a cough as he accidentally sucked in a lungful of it. He turned back to the bathroom in chaos: Malfoy was hastily stuffing all the rubbish he could in the Ministry bag, having forsaken his wand and going at it with his bare hands. Mr Weasley’s stall was glowing hot. Harry flung the stall door open and somehow the toilet bowl was on fire, flames absolutely roaring out of the water. Mr Weasley was squirting Aguamenti’s from his wand, but the water appeared to only fan the flames higher. Harry peered over the bowl and almost gagged, flames spewing forth from a floating turd.
“Sorry, Harry,” Mr Weasley said, teeth gritting and another futile Aguamenti dribbling from his wand. “My magic may still be acting up.”
“Malfoy!” Harry barked out. “Get in here!”
And then Malfoy was at Harry’s back, arm and wand reaching over Harry’s shoulder, crowding him further into the stall, and a burst of magic seemed pulled out Harry’s wand as Malfoy cast and suddenly the fire roared out so furiously that the toilet water roiled out of the bowl in a geyser, soaking all of them. Harry spat water out of his mouth. The turd now lay sad and alone at the bottom of the bowl.
Harry turned and roughly shoved Malfoy out of the stall from where he was pressed up against Harry’s back. “That was your magic, Potter,” Malfoy hissed, “not mine that—”
The bathroom door burst open, and a furious mustachioed man in suspenders with a name tag that read ‘Store Manager’ stormed into the claggy toilet-water mist. His moustache, covered in dew, quivered as he said, “WHAT is the meaning of this?” The security guard followed him dazedly in, looking as if he had not a care in the world.
They all stood there sodden wet, Malfoy and Mr Weasley in their robes, wands out, sparks still flying out of the emptied toilet bowl. Harry sighed and summoned the Obliviation Squad.
“Potter!” Proudfoot beamed from his open office door.
Harry had only just managed to scrub the lingering toilet water clamminess from his skin after thirty minutes in the DMLE showers, and truly had been hoping that getting covered in a literal shitstorm meant he could at least take the rest of the afternoon off, or at least escape Proudfoot’s admonishments that Harry had to call in the Obliviation Squad on his first day out as Auror trainee. A false hope, apparently.
But Harry wasn’t about to let Malfoy mess up one of the only normal things in his life—normalcy he desperately needed. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that the Obliviation Squad had been called. If Malfoy had just been helping Mr Weasley—he knew Mr Weasley’s magic was wonky and had just been over by the bins, completely negligent.
Harry thought back to Mr Weasley saying, through the crack in the Misuse Office door, “And you have to think about how things will look to the Aurors if we send Harry back, for both you and Harry.”
Fuck. Well, Harry wasn’t about to fob Malfoy off either, as much as he might want to. So that’s Harry stuck. He pasted a smile on and stepped through the door.
“Sit, sit!” Proudfoot waggled his hand towards the chair in front of his humongous oak desk.
Harry eyed the dread chair, the one upon which he knew he would sit and be flushed down against his will, never to leave again. “Er, I think I’d prefer to stand,” Harry said, and then quickly added, “sir.”
Proudfoot beamed. “Well, son, I just wanted to congratulate you on your successful mission today.”
Harry just stared at him. “What?”
“Got to see a little action, rub elbows with some Muggles, get out of the Ministry, flex your chops, as they say! I’m proud of you!”
Harry wouldn’t precisely classify an exploding toilet as action, and he had only interacted with Muggles to summon the Obliviation Squad, as Arthur and Malfoy were the worst two covert operators in the world. “Thank…you?”
“Now!” Proudfoot slammed his huge hands down on his desk, overturning a stale mug of tea and shocking a flinch out of Harry. He stared at Harry gravely. “This has nothing to do with your conduct—you comported yourself with a dignity befitting of the Aurors today, Harry, never doubt!—but we have to deal with the question of Arthur Weasley’s magic.”
Harry didn’t know Proudfoot knew about Arthur’s magic, but he could sense, with a sinking stomach, where this was going.
Proudfoot continued, “Between you and me, that’s why I assigned you on the case. I knew you could handle anything thrown at you, unlike someone like Smith”—at this, he let out a booming laugh—“but it appears Arthur will need to take some time away from the field while he gets his magic under control.”
Oh no. Oh no.
Proudfoot winked at him. “You’ll keep a good eye on young Malfoy for me, won’t you, Potter?”
There wasn’t anyone Harry wanted to keep an eye on less than Malfoy, in fact. Malfoy already annoyingly filled Harry’s whole vision when they were together, with his glower and his sneer and his swagger and his stupidly attractive face. It was like Malfoy’s presence was designed specifically to torture Harry and now Harry’s days were going to be filled with its malevolent creep without the golden buffer of Mr Weasley’s cheer. The one good thing about it was that Malfoy seemed to want Harry’s presence even less than Harry wanted his.
The cramped single desk in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office was covered in a map of loos. Thousands—millions of loos. Every single fucking loo in London. All for Malfoy and Harry to investigate. On their own. Somehow, somewhere, on the map, the cheerful jangle of a loo flushing sounded.
“Be good, boys! I trust you’ll play nicely without me?” Mr Weasley called, his wand arm in a cast and propped up over the map.
Harry could not imagine playing nicely with Malfoy, but gamely said, “Yes.”
Malfoy didn’t say a single thing at all. He just swept out the door with a swirl of his cloak.
When Harry caught up to him, swooping down the hallway like a bat or a cut-rate Professor Snape imitator, he said, “You know, that cloak looks a bit off—to Muggles, you know?”
Malfoy cast a disdainful glance at Harry. He picked up the pace, forcing Harry into a light jog to keep up with him. “I don’t need you telling me how to do my job, Potter.”
Quite cheerfully, Harry said, “Apparently you do, if you’ve been going into Sainsbury’s wearing your full robes. I was raised by Muggles, as you might remember from the many times you brought it up at Hogwarts.”
Malfoy stopped abruptly and whirled on Harry. “And I’ve been working in the Misuse office for nine months. I’ve probably interacted with more Muggles than you have in your entire life.”
“A bit uncomfortable, has it been?” Harry asked. “Given how you wanted to kill them a year ago? Were they nice to you?”
Malfoy swallowed once, convulsively, and started striding down the hallway in long, loping steps. He said, tightly, “Yes, they’ve been perfectly nice, Potter, thank you ever so for your touching concern. That’s how I know the cloak is fine.”
Harry raised his eyebrows, but followed him to the Floos.
Once they were entrenched in the loo at St John’s Wood tube station, though, any small victory Harry had won evaporated. Malfoy was insufferable. He jostled himself into the same tiny stall Harry was in, squashing Harry up against the grimy plastic wall, saying, “No, no, no, Potter, you imbecile.” Then he reached out, grasped Harry’s wand hand, and slowly waved his hand through the swirly loop-de-loop. “Just because you’ve always smashed your way through magic doesn’t mean that some things don’t require a delicate touch.”
As the soggy toilet paper made its way from the toilet bowl into Harry’s evidence bag, dripping water all the way, Harry could feel blood rushing to his cheeks. Malfoy’s hand was still on Harry’s. The lump of paper deposited itself into the sack with a fwump. Harry coughed. Malfoy still hadn’t let go. He was just staring at where his long fingers were elegantly wrapped around Harry’s hand, held upright.
Finally, suddenly, Malfoy let go and backed out of the stall, door clanging open and cheekbones red. Once he was a safe distance away, he pointed a finger at Harry. “Just remember, this is my case, Potter.”
Harry just rolled his eyes and slammed the stall door shut in Malfoy’s face.
Another thing Harry learned about Malfoy is that he just would not shut up. He was so silent at Christmas dinner and kept his mouth clamped shut when they reported back to the Misuse Office. Mr Weasley was sitting in his chair and, with his one free hand, jovially trying to separate a U-bend from the adjoining pipe.
Arthur said, “Just ingenious, this sewage system. Muggles are really so smart, to do this all without magic!”
Malfoy said nothing.
Harry asked, “Well, what happens when we flush the toilet in a magical household?”
Arthur and Malfoy both stopped what they were doing to look at Harry, Arthur like he was a very cute but not yet house-trained pet, Malfoy like he was an absolute idiot. Arthur said, “Why, it’s a built-in Vanishing charm!”
Harry, who had never considered the physics of wixen toilets before, now had to contend with vanished turds floating all around the metaphysical realm—dark matter all around them at all times, faeces probably caressing his skin at this very moment. He shuddered. “I might prefer the Muggle version, honestly.”
Malfoy still didn’t say anything.
But the second they were alone, he would yap away. Sometimes, it seemed like he was just talking to himself, muttering creative hexes and curses he had saved up for the Portaloo Poltergeist when—not if, Potter!—they caught them as he Levitated rubbish into the evidence bag. Sometimes, Malfoy detailed all the creative hexes and curses he had saved up for Harry, particularly when they had to go on stake-outs. These so-called stake-outs mostly just involved being stuffed in a single stall with Malfoy, bony shoulder digging into Harry’s, long legs akimbo and everywhere, the tips of his leather shoes peeking out from under the door.
A week had passed in loos: loos in the tube, bustling and bursting; loos in parks, dingy and dim; loos in Sainbury’s, suspiciously shiny and sterile; loos, loos, loos, until Harry couldn’t stand to be near a toilet a single second longer. Harry didn’t even want to go to the bathroom himself any more, the urge to vacate his bladder completely gone from his body. Shit permeated his very pores.
Harry worried he was beginning to develop a Pavlovian response. As he sat down to take a shit in Grimmauld Place, he half-expected Malfoy to pop up with a magnifying glass to examine his bowel movements and say in his snooty voice, “A bit weak and runny. Two out of ten, I think.”
Despite death and excrement seeming like best friends, Harry hadn’t had another attack since he started working the case with Malfoy. Even the night chills seemed to have left him, the dreams whispering away, seemingly driven off by the persistent fluorescent buzz behind Harry’s temples at all times now. Grimmauld was so pleased that Kreacher was even whistling as he practiced his mace swings. Maybe Grimmauld was just pleased about the tenacious cleaning regimen Harry had undertaken on every bathroom in the entire house, unwilling to have any grime anywhere after spending his days surrounded by the entire world’s.
Malfoy kept sneaking looks at Harry when he thought Harry wasn’t looking. Malfoy never was much good at subterfuge; his feelings always found their way onto his pointy face. At Hogwarts, his expressions always were sneering and cruel, but now, when he thought Harry wasn’t looking back, they were considering, interested. It made Harry’s skin feel tight and itchy.
Harry didn’t want to talk about Charlie with Malfoy. He didn’t want Malfoy to ask about Charlie. He didn’t want Malfoy to be curious about what he saw. He especially didn’t want Malfoy knowing Harry thought he was fit.
Crammed into the tiniest stall Harry ever had the misfortune of encountering, Malfoy said, “I was hoping for Zacharias Smith as the trainee assigned to the case.”
“That wanker?” Harry asked, outraged.
“Smith at least tolerates me,” Malfoy said, looking at his nails with disinterest. The small smirk on the side of his mouth gave him away though.
“I tolerate you!” Harry said.
“Oh, tolerate me harder,” Malfoy said back, voice rising. A strong stream of piss sounded in the urinal next to their stall. “You tolerating me is what stopped you from coming to the Burrow lunches after Christmas? You’re such a liar, Potter.”
“No—” Harry started, but then shut his trap. He wasn’t about to discuss that with Malfoy: Charlie’s broad shoulders, the red crawling up Malfoy’s neck, the stuttering step towards that glorious kiss.
“Well, I don’t need you to pity me, Potter, if that’s what it was,” Malfoy said, and shifted on his arse, ‘accidentally’ digging his elbow into the meat of Harry’s side. His shoe skidded over the cheap lino. The erstwhile leaker seemed scared off by his intensity, and shuffled out of the door.
“I don’t pity you either!” Harry insisted.
“And,” Malfoy continued as if Harry hadn’t said anything at all, “I don’t need you to save me. Whatever stunt you thought you were pulling at—at Christmas supper, it’s not worked on me!”
How could Harry explain that he didn’t pity Malfoy—that he was feeling pity for a younger version of himself? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he didn’t want to explain that to Draco sodding Malfoy.
“Or maybe,” Malfoy went on, almost to himself, “you were just trying to look good in front of Charles.”
Harry tried to get out—he was not talking about this with Malfoy—but the grimy stall was so small that Harry had to grasp the seat of the toilet to stand.
Malfoy hurried to stand too, his eyes glinting dangerously. Whenever Malfoy had something on Harry, he sniffed it out immediately. Smith, for all his needling of Harry, never had this killer instinct, the ability to scent blood in the water. Malfoy stood far too close, chest heaving, crowding Harry against the stall wall. Mouth vicious, he said, “Oh, will your boyfriend be upset you’re touching a Death Eater?”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Harry gave him a shove on the chest, and Malfoy clattered back against the stall wall.
He sneered. “Just a random snog, then?”
“It was just an experiment!” Harry said, hotly.
“Oh”—and Malfoy went dangerously still and that’s when Harry realised his awful error—“you were just experimenting?”
Harry clanged out of the stall, Apparating away in a pique of embarrassment.
It wasn’t like Harry could avoid Malfoy forever, not if he wanted to stay the course, the normal course. Even if being an Auror was literally about eating shit, Harry didn’t even want to know what would happen if he were unmoored, untethered from anything normal. His mum would call him back, further, deeper, the lure of the clearing too sweet to resist. The stink of death haunting his every step would finally come to claim him the second Harry gave up on being normal.
So, no—he had to keep seeing Malfoy. A Malfoy who smiled like the cat who got the cream. A Malfoy who had turned out preternaturally attractive after his pointy, slinking youth. A Malfoy who knew Harry had been experimenting.
The next day—after a very long night, in which Harry woke sweating and nauseous and to a blizzard raging in his bedroom—Malfoy sidled up next to Harry, cramming himself in between two chipped porcelain sinks as Harry spelled a twirling hairball out of the drain into the evidence bag. He said, voice sly, “So, Potter…experimenting? With Charles Weasley?”
Harry gritted his jaw, focused on fishing the last remnants of the hair out of the drain. “So what if I’ve been—you’ve got a problem with that?”
“Problem?” Malfoy had crossed his arms in front of his chest, which had the unfortunate effect of showing off his shoulders. “No, I just think…if you’re”—and he paused, voice light and far too delicate for it to be coming from fucking Malfoy and if he’s about to take the piss out of Harry, Harry swears he will—“still in need of an experiment—”
“Are you coming onto me?” Harry set his wand down on the sink, hairball forgotten, and turned to look Malfoy in the eye. “Because if you are, we had a module on this, it’s called sexual harassment, you know.”
Malfoy pulled back from the sink and scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not coming onto you, Potter. I’m just saying. You know.”
“No.” And Harry crossed his arms in front of his chest too. Malfoy looked increasingly alarmed. Harry was almost enjoying this. “I actually don’t, Malfoy. What are you saying?”
Malfoy just muttered, “Fuck off, Potter,” and strode from the room.
On the way back from the Ministry Floor, Malfoy added, “It’s just that I might know someone.”
Harry just snorted and picked up his pace.
Malfoy strode next to him—fucking long legs—and started ticking off his long, elegant fingers. “He’s single, extremely eligible. He won’t sell you out to the press or storm out of a restaurant on you—”
“Been reading my press, Malfoy?” Harry asked, lightly. “Because that sounds just like something you’d do—”
“He’s fit. Way fitter than you—”
Harry stopped and turned to Malfoy. “Oh, is it Blaise Zabini? Please tell me it’s Blaise Zabini. Everyone was gone on him at Hogwarts. Want to give him my Floo address?”
Malfoy looked like he sucked on a lemon. “No, it’s not—fucking Blaise Zabini. And not everyone was gone on him at Hogwarts!”
Harry resumed jogging back towards the Misuse Office, grinning.
Unfortunately, even if Malfoy wasn’t willing to directly ask Harry to sleep with him, he was willing to put his body into it. Malfoy kept reaching over Harry’s shoulder to ‘correct’ his wand grip. Harry couldn’t back up without running into Malfoy’s front. He put his hand on Harry’s waist, the small of his back to move around him. He pressed up against Harry’s side on toilet stakeouts.
Malfoy did have a nice body. And a nice face. Or, really, not a nice face, actually a mean face, but a face that was nice for Harry to look at. Harry never thought he’d actually consider sleeping with Draco Malfoy, but the longer Malfoy kept his mouth shut, the more tempting it became.
To make the temptation even stronger, the dreams were getting bad again, the longer Harry went without dating. A group of spiders had nested in the canopy above his bed, and some of the babies had taken to following him around the house, scrambling up and down the stairs. And Ron had said ‘try something different.’ Harry wanked about it once, furtive and guilty like the spiders could tell he was thinking about a very bad, not good person, but the thought of Malfoy’s lush pink mouth stretched around Harry’s cock was enough to send Harry over the edge, regardless of any compunctions he had.
But still—wanking was all it was. Harry was never, ever going to sleep with Draco Malfoy.
The next day, on the way from the Ministry Floos, Malfoy began, “So, Potter—”
“I don’t want to talk about it!” Harry protested, before realising that Malfoy hadn’t actually finished his thought. Harry’s deepest, darkest wank fantasies had been on repeat since walking out the door this morning, and it was like Malfoy could see them plastered all over his face.
“Really? What exactly don’t you want to talk about?” Malfoy said, slanting a glance in Harry’s direction.
“Nothing!”
“Tell me, Harry,” he purred, obviously intentionally trying to wind Harry up. And it was fucking working. The way Malfoy said his name was maybe the sexiest thing that Harry had ever heard. He swallowed as his cock perked up, just the tiniest, most deniable amount.
“Nothing, Draco.” Harry stormed into the public library bathroom, and threw himself into a stall, clicking the lock into place with alarming speed. This stall might have been the filthiest one Harry had the displeasure of setting eyes on, but Harry wasn’t even upset because Malfoy couldn’t look at him with limpid, beseeching eyes, like he could see Harry’s every fantasy. With grim determination, Harry levitated a tampon out of the bin into his evidence bag.
But then, once Harry sealed up his evidence bag and they made to leave, Malfoy leant in, his height suddenly intimidating and so fucking sexy, and whispered, “I know you like what you see, Potter. Consider it.”
You wouldn’t think Harry was actually tasked with Auroring, investigating, actually catching some criminal, what with all the veiled innuendos Malfoy tossed his way or the way he pressed his whole body up against Harry’s in a hot, sweaty, rank Portaloo.
But then—then they triggered one of the dastardly toilet Portkeys, or Portalookey, as Arthur had taken to calling them.
Harry even started to doubt the existence of potty Portkeys—despite new ones popping up on the map on Arthur’s desk every day—until he was being hurtled through space in a Portaloo, Draco Malfoy screaming hysterically beside him, the contents of the extremely-full toilet heaving and roiling in the bowl beneath them, until, finally, awfully, they were plopped upside down. The bowl disgorged itself. Harry was really, truly covered in shit.
Malfoy clambered over Harry and pried open the Portaloo door, dumping them unceremoniously onto a gorgeous, humming spring field. Harry crawled out, squelching all the while, and, as soon as he stood up, pulled out his wand to clean himself.
Malfoy’s hand landed on his arm. His lips were pressed tightly shut together, going almost white, but he shook his head forcefully.
Right. Their filthy clothes were evidence now.
They somehow made it to the locker room without anyone seeing them—not even Proudfoot sitting in his office, waiting to pounce on Harry. Perhaps he could sense the mountain of shit Harry would leave in his office; not even the chair in front of Proudfoot’s desk would want to eat Harry in this state.
When they got there, Malfoy pulled out his wand, shook his head, and imperiously Vanished the shit on his face and hair and hands. Considering, he looked at Harry, who let out a groan of rage, and spelled his face minty clean. He said, “Not even I want to see you like that, Potter.”
Harry pulled his hoodie over his head and dropped it in a sodden, shitty heap on the ground. He said, “Why didn’t we do that immediately?”
“Well.” Malfoy pulled off his robe, turned it inside out, and folded it up neatly on the bench. He doesn’t quite meet Harry’s eye, looking a bit shifty. “Maybe we just Vanished some of the evidence, but…”
Harry snorted. “I’m not about to turn you in, Malfoy. I also don’t like my face covered in shit.”
“Oh?” Malfoy smirked slowly, and propped a long leg up on a bench, untying a brogue. “What do you like your face covered in?”
Harry groaned, but couldn’t suppress a smile. He pulled off his shirt next. “Oh, piss off, Malfoy.”
“Just”—Malfoy stripped the sock off his foot, showing off the graceful curve of his ankle, the slightly-dark blond leg hair, his elegant feet. Christ, now Harry was even thinking Malfoy’s feet were fit. He might be about to die of sexual frustration—“consider my offer if you don’t yet know what you like your face covered in. That’s an experiment I would be more than happy to run with you.”
Harry barked out a laugh, but couldn’t ignore a tingle of heat. He toed off his trainers and suddenly realised exactly where he and Malfoy were heading—both towards the showers, towards being completely naked. Harry was doing his very best not to think about the proposition, not that Malfoy was making it easy with his sexual innuendos and the slow unbuttoning of his white shirt, mercifully spared the ravages of the Portaloo by Malfoy’s robes. Harry’s jeans had known no such mercy, stiff as Harry roughly unbuttoned and shoved them down.
Pink stained the tips of Malfoy’s cheekbones as he propped his other leg up and slowly rolled off his sock. Harry was down to just his pants now, feeling scrawny and uncomfortable, except for the way Malfoy was sneaking looks at his legs, his chest. Harry was sneaking the exact same looks at the glimpse of Malfoy’s chest, stomach that he could see through his open shirt. And Harry sure as hell wasn’t going to take his pants off while Malfoy was stood there, still almost fully clothed. Absolutely not. He might be unfortunately interested in Malfoy, but not enough to do that without some kind of assurance this wasn’t all some cruel joke.
Malfoy stood up, shook an arm out, and started undoing his cufflinks, his hair falling loose on the sides of his face. The looks were getting bolder now. Harry was full on staring, shifting foot from foot, arms crossed over his chest as goose pimples crawled their way up his flanks.
Distantly, Harry heard the door to the locker room clang open on the far side, behind the row of showers. The clatter of laughter skittered over the tiles—it sounded like Zacharias fucking Smith. It was Smith and his whole cohort of mates. Probably most of the Auror trainees, if Harry could tell by the loud stomp of shoes.
Harry looked at Malfoy. Malfoy looked at him. Smith grew ever closer, his crude jokes echoing around the corner from the showers.
Harry was down to his pants. Malfoy was in his shirtsleeves and his posh wool trousers, buttons ajar. They both still had remnants of shit licking their temples, dug under their fingernails. Harry knew, suddenly, absolutely, that Smith could not find him and Malfoy in here together. Not like this. Malfoy didn’t sell Harry out to the Prophet, but Smith would. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind.
Grabbing Malfoy’s hand all in a whirl, Harry pulled them both into the nearest shower. They barely fit, but Harry manoeuvred his hand to turn the water on behind them. It came steaming out of the head, hissing and sputtering and filling the stall with mist.
Malfoy smirked, slouched there against the wall. “I didn’t expect you to take me up so quickly—”
Harry shoved his hand over Malfoy’s mouth.
Zacharias Smith came around the corner, his loud guffaw worming its way under Harry’s skin. Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, a huff of air from his nose on Harry’s hand. He glared at Harry.
Fuck, Harry was just now taking in their positions. Harry down to his pants, Malfoy still fully clothed, but his posh white shirt plastered down his chest, his trousers clinging wetly to thighs, clinging to his cock. The shower stall was so small, they were basically pressed together. Harry knew Malfoy could feel Harry’s cock stiffening against his thigh, against the rough wet wool of his trousers. Steam continued to stream from the shower. Malfoy’s hair clung to his delicate skull. Harry pulled his hand away from Malfoy’s mouth. They were both panting.
Malfoy shoved Harry up against the wall. Harry let him.
“Potter, is that you?” Smith called out. Harry’s shit-covered glasses were on the bench for everyone to see.
Malfoy’s hands were running down Harry’s neck now, his nails scraping over Harry’s nipples. Harry held himself as still as he could, though he was trembling. He hadn’t been planning on taking Malfoy up on his offer—why would he? But now that they were here together in the shower, all the reasons why not had fled his mind.
“Potter?” Smith said again. He chuckled. “You wanking in there?”
Malfoy sniggered against Harry’s neck. “Fuck off, Smith,” Harry managed to say, voice tight. Malfoy’s hand drifted lower, brushing against Harry’s stomach, teasing at the waistline of his pants. Harry was so hard now. Malfoy was too; Harry could feel it pressed against his stomach, hot and heavy and so much bigger than Harry ever imagined. He would be absolutely humiliated if he weren’t so turned on.
The scalding water beat ran down his scalp, onto his temples, dripped from his eyelashes. Everything was fuzzy, except Malfoy’s face, the flash of his brilliant hair. Malfoy’s other hand bit into the flesh of Harry’s waist, nails digging in. Harry stifled a moan. He could hear the other Aurors horsing around.
Malfoy dug a leg in between Harry’s, pushing them apart. He dipped his fingers into Harry’s waistband. Harry held himself as still as he possibly could, held even his breath. Malfoy’s fingers went ever lower. Harry’s cock strained against the waistband of his pants.
The other Aurors left. The only sound in the locker room was the pitter-patter of the shower and Malfoy’s harsh breaths against Harry’s neck. Maybe—finally—Malfoy would put his hand ever lower, run it over Harry’s cock. Harry was sure he would come instantly.
Instead, Malfoy stepped out of the shower with a wink. He said, “I’m serious about the offer, Potter. Consider it.”
The instant Malfoy left, the water turned freezing cold. The mist congealed into fog.
Harry panted as he furiously shoved down his pants, stripped his cock once, twice, and then he was coming all over the grimy Auror bathroom tile. The cold beat into his skin, stinging.
“You fucking wanker,” Harry hissed in Malfoy’s ear next stakeout.
Malfoy turned his head and looked him over, up and down fully. His hair brushed the side of Harry’s shoulder from where he was slouched next to him, pressed up along the side of Harry. Malfoy, smirk growing as Harry flushed, said, “I don’t think I’m the wanker in this situation.”
Harry burned with humiliation. “Stuff it, Malfoy.”
Malfoy drew one finger over the top of Harry’s bent knee. “Since it seemed like you liked the preview, Potter, been considering my offer?”
“Oh, your preview was leaving me to jerk off alone? Some fucking preview, Malfoy.”
“You mean you actually—” Malfoy started, a bit breathy, more shocked than Harry would have thought, and then his face morphed into a shark grin. “So then you want to…”
“After that?” Harry scoffed. “In your fucking dreams.”
The problem was that Malfoy’s suggestion took hold of Harry, poisoning his every thought. He was sitting on the toilet and thinking about fucking Malfoy. He was doodling in Rules and Regulations, and thinking about how Malfoy was basically the fittest person Harry had ever seen. He was listening to Quidditch games on the Wireless, wondering how Malfoy would look laid across his bed, flushed and panting, and popped an inappropriate boner that he had to hide from Kreacher.
Harry even started changing his sheets more regularly, like he was trying to impress someone or like Malfoy might spontaneously appear in his bedroom, finding Harry pulling one off (something he was doing with alarming frequency recently) and say, “Harry,” in that seductive purr that he pulled out when propositioning him. And Harry would be powerless to stop Malfoy from joining him in the bed, wouldn’t he?
Yeah, he had come really hard that particular time.
Things had deteriorated at work. Malfoy had taken Harry’s rejection extremely personally—Harry was sticking to that rejection, thank you very much, no matter what—and they were getting so snippy with each other that even Arthur was starting to notice. Harry had said not in your wildest dreams, but this was quickly turning into his horniest nightmare.
Even worse, Malfoy being snippy with Harry somehow made him want Malfoy more. It had never been like this with Cressilda or Romilda or Brunhilde. If any of them had disdainfully denigrated Harry’s magical talent (“brutish, like a battering ram—no finesse at all”) or Harry’s past accomplishments (“just a bit of dumb luck and smart friends”) or even Harry killing Voldemort (“he basically killed himself in the end, anyways”), Harry would’ve been fucked off. Maybe that was the problem, though, with those relationships—they all had believed the hype around Harry, when Harry didn’t even believe it himself, especially not with his fucked-up magic and inability to keep a girlfriend.
An arsed-off Malfoy also redoubled his physical efforts. Even as his mouth was slagging Harry off, he pressed a thumb into the base of Harry’s neck when sliding behind him in a tight stall, curved a palm around Harry’s waist. It almost seemed unconscious, except the small tick of victory at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth when Harry clenched his jaw, but couldn’t help but lean into it. Harry was wanking furiously now, every day immediately when he got home, picturing Malfoy’s plush, sly mouth, his broad shoulders, the way his cock felt pressed up against Harry, until Harry would come and hate himself: for wanting Malfoy, for rejecting Malfoy when he wanted him so much, for the graveyard of all the nice girls he couldn’t make it work with when all he could think about was Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy.
“Alright!” Finally, Harry had enough of Malfoy’s stupid, gorgeous face, his grey eyes, his long, lean body. “Alright, just stop being an arsehole for one second. Please!”
The ‘please’ seemed to actually work. Malfoy shut his gob and looked at Harry, extremely peeved.
When Harry didn’t continue, completely unsure about how to proceed, unsure about why he was about to propose this, Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Your time limit is up, Potter. Why are you staring at me like a frightened Bowtruckle?”
“Er …” Harry blushed. Malfoy just raised an eyebrow. “I guess I’ve been thinking about what you said, earlier.”
“When earlier, Potter?” Malfoy snapped. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’ve been spending eight hours together every day for the last couple weeks and, before that, we have a whole ignominious history.”
“Earlier, as in when you proposed, er, ‘experimenting’?” Harry used his fingers to make air quotes around experimenting, and truly couldn’t feel any more awkward. “Together?”
Malfoy’s whole countenance changed. His body loosened up and he smirked, which looked unfairly sexy, especially given how much that smirk had tormented Harry his entire life. He asked, smoothly, “Oh? Have you? What exactly have you been thinking?”
Harry’s face blazed red and he almost worried Malfoy was using Legilimency on him, given the dirty thoughts that were racing through Harry’s mind, all of his stupid fucking fantasies since Malfoy had proposed this original deal. How he had thought about Malfoy while he had his hand on his cock. How Harry was becoming a little hard already.
Even if his face was bright red, he was not going to let Malfoy just walk all over him. Trying to play nonchalant, he shrugged back. “Just that it seemed like an alright idea. If, er, you were still interested.”
“Still interested?” Malfoy repeated back, incredulous. His eyes were focused right in on Harry’s face, and high spots of colour appeared on his cheekbones. He fumbled with his robes, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face, and pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch like the wanker he was. He glanced down and said, all in a rush, “It’s 3:30 right now, Potter. I think we could reasonably take off early and no one would know.”
“What?” Harry blurted out. “Er, you were thinking right now?”
Malfoy gave him a sly look from under his eyelashes, which were so pale that they were almost invisible, but Harry could tell how long they were, and that was driving him mad. “Shall we make a date on our calendars instead, Potter?”
“No—o,” Harry drew out. He suddenly knew that, if he didn’t have Malfoy right now, if they scheduled some date in the future, he would be absolutely useless with wanting until then.
Malfoy imperiously held out his arm. “Well, then, Potter, no time to waste. Apparate us.”
Determined to have the upper hand, Harry drew his wand and, ignoring Malfoy, wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close. His eyes were so grey up close like this. Malfoy let out a surprised huff of air, which brushed across Harry’s lips. It was too much. With a crack, they disappeared.
They landed in Harry’s bedroom. Harry was suddenly, fervently glad he’d been changing his sheets like a madman because, otherwise, his room was musty, untidy, strewn with socks and pants and his other sets of Auror robes. Malfoy’s disdain was apparent while looking about, and Harry was reminded of all the reasons why this was a terrible, horrible idea.
Malfoy plucked a pair of Harry’s socks off the bed and placed them on the desk chair in the corner. He said, “Eurgh, don’t you have a house elf, Potter? Why does this place look like such a dump?”
Harry crossed his arms over his chest. It was his dump, and so what if he didn’t like to clean up his bedroom? He’d had a lifetime of that by age ten and threw himself into messiness with reckless abandon at Hogwarts—messiness was freedom. He protested, “Kreacher is getting old! And I don’t like him sorting through my dirty pants! He takes care of the rest of the house, as best he can.”
Malfoy turned to him. With barely-disguised interest, he asked, “Where exactly are we, Potter? I thought I remembered an elf named Kreacher—“
Harry cut him off, defiant. “I won’t have you selling me out to the papers, Malfoy. If we’re to do this, you’re not to tell anyone about it.”
“Oh, I see.” Malfoy’s eyes glittered dangerously. “The great Harry Potter doesn’t want anyone knowing about his dirty little secret.” He had advanced on Harry and emphasised each word with a jab to the chest. “He won’t even tell the people that he shags where he lives. What’s next, Potter, memory charms?”
That honestly didn’t sound such a bad idea at the moment. This was obviously such a colossal mistake that Harry had half a mind to Obliviate himself. But, he reasoned, if he did, then he wouldn’t remember to never ever act on the fact that he thought Draco Malfoy was fit. “Fine, then! If you’re just going to be a wanker about me, where I live, how I live, then it’s best we don’t do this at all.”
Malfoy continued, “Well, don’t you worry about me spilling the magic beans, Potter. Don’t be ridiculous. You may be the hero of the Wizarding World, but I’m not exactly eager to advertise this either.” Malfoy’s face twisted into a bitter sneer. “Besides, who do you even think I would tell?”
“Okay, okay. Just—“ Harry paused, wondered how revealing this was. “Just don’t call me that.”
“What? Hero of the Wizarding World?” Malfoy scoffed. “As if I would.“
With a flourish, Malfoy started to untie his cloak. He slid it from his shoulders, folded it nicely, and set it on Harry’s desk. He then sat on the bed to unlace his leather boots.
“Er—“ Harry began. All thought left him when Malfoy began unbuttoning his shirt, starting with the cuffs and then showing a dangerous sliver of his collarbone. Harry’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He forced out, “Er, I guess I’m not sure we should do this, anymore? Maybe it was a bad idea?”
Malfoy cast a glance at him again, continuing to unbutton his shirt, which was now open to his ribcage. “Of course it’s a bad idea, Potter, but we’re young and you’re fine-looking, I suppose. You’re looking for someone to experiment with who won’t sell you out to the press, which I won’t, and, even if I did, who would believe me, Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, telling anyone that we shagged? And I’m just looking to get off and don’t particularly care with who, even if it is someone whom I’ve hated for forever.”
Harry’s breath had officially left his body. Malfoy’s shirt was now completely open, his chest and stomach bare. Harry reached down to adjust his cock, which was straining against his fly, and Malfoy tracked the movement with his eyes.
Malfoy abruptly stood, apparently having taken Harry’s obvious desire as agreement. He unbuckled his belt and threw it on the floor. He slowly unzipped his fly and shimmied his skinny trousers down his legs. Then Malfoy was just stood there, in his black pants, long legs, swelling cock, broad shoulders, all that skin on display, looking uncertain for the first time.
Harry blurted out, “You’re so fit.”
Malfoy barked out a laugh, surprised and pleased. He palmed his cock and said, “Now you, Potter.”
Harry realised he had just been standing there like a wally. He hastily toed off his ratty trainers and his socks, only one of which had a hole in the toe, he was pleased to note. He shucked his trousers, which were starting to become quite uncomfortable anyways. When he went to remove his shirt, he got it stuck in his armpits and then his glasses came clattering to the floor when he removed it. He bent down to pick them up and shoved them back on his face.
Malfoy looked temporarily taken aback. “You’re going to keep your glasses on, then?”
Harry cleared his throat. He said, gruffly, “I want to see you,” and grinned when red spread across Malfoy’s chest, up his neck, onto his face.
Malfoy sat on Harry’s bed and leaned back, resting on his palms. He let his legs sprawl in front of him, off the bed, and Harry could see the soft swell of his balls in his pants, the dusty fuzz on the insides of his thighs. Harry realised Malfoy was letting him look and his mouth flooded with saliva. Malfoy asked, quietly, as if afraid to break the spell, “Have you ever bottomed before, Potter?”
“Er,“ Harry said, “no?” He knew the mechanics of it, of course; after Christmas, Charlie had sent him some quite instructive magazines that Harry had wanked to at least once or twice. Harry had even tried to poke around back there with a finger, but it had just been uncomfortable and not very enjoyable.
Malfoy snorted and stroked himself. Harry’s eyes followed the movement, the long pulls up and down, and his mind filled with static. He truly didn’t think he had ever been more turned on in his life.
Malfoy said, lazily, continuing to stroke himself, “Well, I suppose since I’ve done it before, I’ll do you the favour this time, but next time, you’ll have to hand your arse up to me.”
Next time? Harry’s mind filled with the possibility, but also fuck Malfoy for assuming he was going to be so good that Harry would come crawling back for more. But Harry also knew, watching Malfoy recline on his bed, that it probably would be that good, and that made Harry even angrier. Angrier and hornier. He forced out, “Sure, Malfoy, whatever you tell yourself.”
Malfoy smirked. “Do you have lube, Potter?”
Harry approached the bed and stood bracketed between Malfoy’s legs. He held out his hand and lube came flying out of his bedside drawer, embarrassingly quick. Malfoy’s smirk widened, and he sat up, and grabbed it out of Harry’s hand. Harry took an awkward breath and put one hand on Malfoy’s leg, the soft, fine, blond hair tickling his palm. Malfoy stilled, seemingly holding his breath. Harry wasn’t sure who was trembling, just a bit; maybe it was both of them. Malfoy had been acting so fucking cocky this whole time and Harry found it stupidly, irrationally hot, but was also glad to know that maybe, just maybe, Malfoy was nervous too.
Harry put his other hand on Malfoy’s leg, a little more confident now, and slid his hands up Malfoy’s thighs; Malfoy was taking short, little sips of air now, chest barely moving. He was quite still, as if trying not to startle a wild dog, which, Harry supposed, was accurate.
Harry moved both of his hands to the top of Malfoy’s pants and pulled them, just a tiny bit, away from his skin. Malfoy lifted his arse up off the bed in a hurry and almost slipped off the bed; Harry would have laughed if this didn’t feel like that would break this hushed, desperate moment. Instead, he slowly pulled off Malfoy’s pants, his brain shorting out. He pulled them out from Malfoy’s stomach, which was trembling slightly, over the curve of his cock, hard and pressed against his hip bone, and then slowly down over the swell of his balls, to his knees. Malfoy then pulled his knees to his chest, very quickly, and shook his pants all the way off.
When Malfoy laid back down, parting his legs so they were bracketing Harry, Harry’s cock gave a jerk. This was his first time alone and naked with a bloke and it was so much better than Harry’s filthiest fantasies, even the ones he’d had about Malfoy. Malfoy’s cock was long and thick and flushed deep red, lying almost flat against his stomach. His balls were lightly furred, pulled tight and close against his body. His long, lean thighs rasped against Harry’s and, when he shifted, Harry could see the crease of his arsecheeks where they met. Harry couldn’t stop looking; he wanted to touch and he realised with a start that he could, so he trailed his fingers down Malfoy’s chest, across a tight nipple, down his ribs. Malfoy shivered, and Harry glanced up to his face; it was so tight with want and uncertainty that Harry could barely believe it. Harry’s cock drooled out pre-come, wetting his pants, at the sight of it.
Malfoy forced out, “Now you, Potter.”
“What?” Harry asked.
“Take off your pants too, Potter, come on,” Malfoy gritted through his teeth impatiently.
“Oh.” Harry huffed a breath. He pulled off his pants, catching his cock on the way down in his hurry. Malfoy watched him hungrily, pupils so dark and big that they almost obscured the grey. When Harry stood back up after toeing off his briefs, he stepped back in between Malfoy’s legs and placed his palms on Malfoy’s hips, remembering how much he liked it when Charlie did the same for him.
Malfoy grabbed the lube and popped the cap open, the loud noise echoing through the bedroom. The squelch of it as he poured some out onto his fingers was obscene. He pushed himself up the bed, resting back onto Harry’s pillows, which somehow felt more intimate than all the rest of it. He felt hot and restless and itchy in his skin. It felt dream-like, almost like a fugue state.
Malfoy chanced a glance at Harry’s face, looking almost unsure, and so Harry swallowed, crawled up the bed after him, unable to resist the pull. Malfoy swallowed too and looked away; Harry wondered if the amount of want on his face was too much, too intense for Malfoy. He certainly felt overwhelmed by it. But then, it seemed reflected right back at him when Malfoy met his eyes again.
Harry asked, gruffly, “Are you going to get on with it, or what?”
Malfoy just glared and pulled one of his knees up to his chest, letting his other leg splay open. Harry watched, entranced, as Malfoy circled a lubed-up finger around his arsehole. Harry hadn’t expected it to be so fucking sexy, puffy and pink, and then Malfoy slid a finger inside himself and holy fucking shit. Harry stared as Malfoy pumped one finger in and out, hissing in seeming discomfort. Harry’s cock jerked and leaked a string of pre-come down onto his cover, which, regardless, Harry was never going to be able to see again without thinking about Malfoy hard, naked, opening himself up for Harry.
Up until now, Harry was just watching but he suddenly felt a desperate need to touch Malfoy, to be involved, maybe even to slide his finger in and out like Malfoy was doing. He slowly placed his hand on the underside of Malfoy’s pulled-up thigh, revelling in the rasp of hair under his fingers. Harry looked at Malfoy’s face, his brows pulled down in concentration, his lips pursed, and then back down, where Malfoy now had two fingers twisting in and out. Harry felt a rising tide in his groin, his balls tightening, and he reached his fingers down to clasp tightly around his cock. Harry didn’t think he could come untouched from just watching Malfoy do this, but it was entirely too close for comfort.
Malfoy smirked. “So the Chosen One doesn’t have any staying power? Good to know.”
Harry gritted out, “I told you not to call me that.”
Malfoy started, “So that wasn’t just a—“ and Harry lunged forward, teeth clacking against Malfoy’s as he kissed him.
Malfoy wrenched his head to the side. “Potter, what the fuck? What’d you do that for?”
Harry pulled back, confused, angry, and turned on. He protested, “Well, I’m going to put my cock in you, aren’t I? It seemed like something I should do!”
“Something you should do?” Malfoy pulled his fingers out and clenched them into Harry’s duvet, face screwing up.
“Something I wanted to do, alright!” Harry threw his hands up.
“Oh—“ Malfoy looked momentarily lost and confused. “Well, then, I suppose you can try again.”
Harry narrowed his eyes at Malfoy and leant forward. Malfoy kept his eyes open, cool grey staring into Harry’s, but lowered his eyelids, assessing. Harry leant a little closer, determined not to let Malfoy get the best of him this time. Malfoy tilted his head, seemingly determined himself not to initiate anything. Harry now just really fucking wanted to kiss Malfoy and so he closed the distance, pressing his lips hard against Malfoy’s. Malfoy gave a surprised oof as if he didn’t actually expect Harry to do it, but then bit against Harry’s lips, pushing back. Harry moaned embarrassingly and melted, dripping his body across Malfoy’s and—fuck—all that soft skin against his felt so good. Malfoy licked against Harry’s lips and Harry opened them up and then Malfoy’s tongue was in his mouth, stroking his, disappearing and reappearing.
Harry jerked as their cocks came into alignment; Malfoy’s cock was so silky and hard against his own. Harry had no idea what he was doing, but it felt so good to press down, thrust against Malfoy, rub their cocks together. That time, he shocked a moan out of Malfoy’s mouth, and Harry grinned into their kiss.
Malfoy mumbled, “Shut it, Potter,” extremely half-heartedly and squelched some more lube over his fingers. Malfoy reached down and gripped both of their cocks, sliding their foreskin up and down in tandem, and Harry bit down on Malfoy’s neck to stop himself from crying out. After Malfoy had slicked up their cocks, he reached back down and Harry felt, rather than saw, Malfoy continue to open himself up.
They kept kissing, biting and messy, and Harry felt like he could kiss and grind down on Malfoy all day. But soon enough, Malfoy was panting into his mouth, saying, “I’m ready, Potter, I’m ready,” and pulling up his other knee. Harry grabbed his cock, still slick, and guided it against Malfoy’s hole, which still seemed impossibly tight and tiny.
“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy grunted. “You’ve got to put a little force into it.”
“Alright, alright, Merlin.” Harry grunted as he thrust forward. Then, his cock popped in, just the tip, and Harry saw stars. It was so slick and so tight and he could feel every tiny shift Malfoy made. Harry slowly pumped in and out, going deeper every time, until he was fully seated, his hip bones pressing against Malfoy’s bony arse. Harry paused, sucked in a deep breath. Malfoy’s face was scrunched up again and Harry asked, “Are you okay?”
Malfoy’s eyes popped open in annoyance. Strangled, he said, “Merlin, yes, I’m fine, I’m alright, I’m good, Potter. I didn’t realise you were going to be such a blushing virgin about this.”
Harry hissed with annoyance and pulled out, enjoying the way Malfoy expelled all his air in a whoosh. He hitched one of Malfoy’s thighs up higher, pulling it over his shoulder, and thrust back in again. Malfoy let out a desperate moan as he did, cock jerking against his stomach and smearing precome between them. Pleasure was radiating up and down the backs of Harry’s thighs, into his lower back, tingling around his balls. This felt so unreal and so good, holding Draco Malfoy, making him moan, seesawing higher and higher, so good Harry could hardly stand it. Pressure built in his spine as he fucked Malfoy, until he cried out and came so hard, probably the hardest he ever had, far too quickly. He collapsed on top of Malfoy, wrung out, buzzing, and humiliated that Malfoy had been proven right. Harry apparently didn’t have any staying power when it came to Malfoy; he had just come in a minute, or maybe even less. Fuck.
“Did you just—“ Malfoy began, voice quite peculiar.
Harry pulled out quickly and Malfoy hissed, saying, “Not so fast, Potter.”
Harry looked down at Malfoy, cock still dark red, throbbing, dripping precome all over his belly. Harry’s come was running down his thighs and arse in white ribbons. Malfoy’s arsehole was puffy and glistening, Malfoy’s chest and neck splotchy. Malfoy even had fucking stubble burn on his face from Harry. It was the hottest thing Harry had ever seen—and Harry was panicking, a ball screwing up in his chest, breaths coming out quicker and quicker. The temperature in the room dropped precipitously, spiders began falling out of the canopy onto the pillow behind Malfoy’s sprawled platinum hair. A howling wind burst through the window.
Harry’s magic. Of course it would be upset he fucked Malfoy. A Death Eater. Panic came even faster, crawling up Harry’s throat and squeezing its malevolent hand. Fuck. Harry held out his hand and his trusty holly wand came flying into it.
Malfoy reached out, furrow between his brow, and asked, “Potter, are you—“
Harry Disapparated.