Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry had spent a large portion of the years since they lost the Last Wizarding War, wondering what specific act of insubordination would lead to his inevitable demise. He'd imagined many outcomes, many deaths, many final acts of rebellion before oblivion. He'd tried to prepare himself for the worst, as much as he could.

He hadn't been able to prepare himself for Draco Malfoy.

Harry does feel bad about it, at least. He knows it isn't right, it isn't moral. He knows it's stupid, too. He knows it is probably going to get him killed. He even knows it is an insult to his mother's memory. Knowing all of that doesn't make it stop though, especially not when he has to be this close, this often.

Young Master Malfoy waits imperiously, arms out ever-so-slightly in expectation of his perfectly tailored robes being slipped over his perfectly formed shoulders. Harry gives the robes one more expert flick before he gives in and lets himself step in close enough to place them over Draco's shoulders. He slips the robes over Draco's body the way he wants to use his hands; like a lover's touch, a compassionate embrace rather than a perfunctory service.

This close Harry can smell the lemon and cedar scent of Draco's cologne. He resists the urge to lean in and bury his nose in Draco's sleek blond hair. He wants so badly to just stand there and breathe him in. He wants to drown in it. He must hover a moment too long, a moment too close. Draco looks at him oddly and Harry's sure he hears Draco's breath catch. Harry pulls his hands back swiftly from the warm wool now safely resting on Draco's shoulders. If he touches Draco for even a moment longer than he has to, he's pretty sure he'll never stop.

He takes a step back and averts his eyes, hoping that his blush isn't obvious and Draco can't read the illicit thoughts in his eyes. He knows the young master is training in the Mind Arts, he is already a skilled Occlumens and is learning Legilimency, as well. Sometimes he has Harry help him practice, an exquisite torture, sitting so close together that the space between them burns and Harry gets lost staring into silver eyes. He's never asked Harry to let him in his mind, he only has Harry try to push against his own defences. Sometimes Harry wishes that Draco would demand entry to his thoughts - he's not sure why or what he hopes Draco would find there. Maybe he just wishes Draco was interested at all.

Draco doesn't challenge him though. He just nods.

"Thank you, Potter," Draco says. "You may go. I shall ring for you if I need you after dinner."

"Yes sir," says Harry and takes his leave as swiftly as he can.

His cheeks are still hot when he makes it back to the Servants Quarters. He slams his back against the door once he gets to the small room he shares with Ron. Then he prevaricates. He's alone right now, but he doesn't really have time; he needs to get to the kitchen soon if he wants any dinner. Not to mention what he's dying to do is so very wrong. He doesn't make it two minutes into his internal argument before he's got his hands down his pants and thoughts of Draco in his mind. He spares a few seconds more to feel guilty before losing himself in a fantasy about Draco Malfoy's skin on his. It's not like it'll take long if he thinks about that anyway.

Most indentured wizards and witches live in fear of what Harry longs for; the idea that one of the masters might take a shine to him, as they call it. One very specific master in Harry's case. He's sick and twisted, and he comes so hard his toes curl.

Harry kneels before Draco, untying his shoes slightly slower than necessary. Once the laces are loose enough Draco steps back gracefully allowing Harry to pull away his shoes. Harry always feels clumsy around his young master. Draco is made of nothing but porcelain and excruciating finesse, while Harry feels too big, too rough and too dirty in comparison. Harry rolls off Draco's silk and bamboo socks like a caress. Revealing whole inches of skin even softer and finer than the expensive cloth. Draco's bones are sharp and delicate beneath his fragile skin. Harry suppresses a strange urge to lick or bite the ankle he exposes; there's a triangle of freckles on the left one that Harry's memorised like every other secret place on Draco's body. Harry leans away, placing the socks and shoes aside for later, but he doesn't get up. Not yet. There is so much he could do from this position if Draco would just let him. Just let him in a little closer.

Draco watches him with familiar intensity. His entire gaze focused on Harry, so sharp and true that Harry thinks it'll burn him one of these days.

"Sir?" Harry questions. He holds out his hands in a strange supplication and waits.

Harry wants to bury his face in the soft grey cashmere of Draco's trousers. Wants to wrap his hands around the firm muscle of Draco's thighs, he wants to feel the power beneath the luxurious fabric. Draco plays Quidditch at school, and it shows in the lithe lines of his body. He flies every weekend to keep in shape, perfect bloody shape. When they're here, at Malfoy Manor for the summer or Christmas, he makes Harry play with him too. To keep him sharp, he says, even though he knows Harry lets him win.

Unlike Harry's fantasy of these moments, Draco doesn't pull him in close. He doesn't unbutton his trousers and tangle his hands in Harry's hair. He doesn't press his hard cock to Harry's lips. He doesn't even touch Harry most of the time. He's always so bloody carefully appropriate. Harry's a trained masseur, among other valets' skills, and Draco has never so much as asked him for a foot rub. He always waits for Harry touch him when necessary, and never in the ways Harry so desperately wants to.

Draco holds out his hands together at the wrists and waits for Harry to move.

Harry cautiously unfastens Draco's cufflinks; platinum Snitches tonight, Slytherin's house crests the night before. He's not scared of damaging the jewellery or Draco's clothes, Draco has plenty and doesn't seem to notice Harry's many mistakes. He's scared that his hands will shake. He's scared that his desires will bleed through into the open. He's scared that Draco will see and will know and will never let Harry near him again. He's scared of losing what little he has.

The soft silk of Draco's shirt cuffs slide under Harry's calloused fingers, and he can feel it every time he brushes over the even softer skin of Draco's wrists beneath. Harry can feel the heat of Draco's pulse. It makes him aware of his own heartbeat, the aching heat of desire in his own veins. He has another irrational moment, an urge to kiss Draco's wrist, to taste his skin and feel the life of him throb under Harry's lips.

He doesn't kiss, he doesn't even let himself linger. Harry stands up, taking shoes and Snitches with him. He's closer than he should be but not so close as to be rude. He's close enough that he has to look up ever so slightly to meet Draco's eyes.

For a moment neither of them steps away and the way Draco looks at him makes Harry's heart lurch. For one hopeful breath Harry thinks Draco is actually going to kiss him. It wouldn't take much. Half a step, half a second, half a dream and they would be kissing. Touching and moving together just like they do in Harry's imagination.

Draco doesn't kiss him. Draco steps away, not forward, and turns his back on Harry. He starts on the buttons of his shirt without even looking at Harry again. He normally does his shirts himself; Harry only has to suffer through the exquisite agony of fully stripping Draco down when he's really very drunk. Which is a special torture all in itself. Yet, despite the normalcy of the act, Harry still feels like something has been stolen from him. He feels like he's lost; let himself lose, at something far more important than Quidditch.

That was close. Too damn close. Draco keeps his back to Harry and tries to get his breathing under control. The way Harry sometimes looks at him undoes him. It is as if Harry has no idea what he looks like, on his knees, eyes bright, biting his lower lip. He makes Draco feel like a Kneazle on catnip. Drunk and scared all at once. And so damn tempted.

Draco listens to Harry putting away his things. He can't quite bring himself to dismiss him, even though he should. Draco's self control has never been great, and Harry is so damn enticing, and so damn close. Always, always, just a little too close. Draco drops his shirt on the end of his bed for Harry to pick up. He could hand things to Harry, of course, Harry is human. But Draco had been raised with House Elves and old habits die hardest in old bloodlines. Tonight it's safer, anyway. If he gets too close to Harry right now, he might do something neither of them will forgive him for in the morning.

He is by now almost certain that Harry would submit himself if Draco tried anything. Harry knows that being Draco's valet affords him a modicum of freedom and licence, which the men in the kitchens and gardens do not have. He knows how good he has it compared to others of his station, and he would be willing to demean himself if required. He wouldn't say no. The same way he always lets Draco catch the Snitch, even though Draco knows Harry is the better player. He wouldn't say no, because he wouldn't give Draco a chance to force him. The semblance of capitulation is easier than enforced subjection.

Draco understands. He doesn't want to, but he does. He knows why he shouldn't want Harry the way he does. Knowing it doesn't stop it, especially not when he has Harry so close, so often. One step, one touch, one command and he could have Harry any of the ways he wants him. The constant temptation burns him from the inside out.

"Black or green, sir?" Harry's voice startles Draco from his uncomfortable revery.

He glances over and sees Harry paused, hovering over two almost identical sets of silk pyjamas.

"Green," says Draco. It's always green, endless aching green. It's not cloth that haunts his dreams though. It's Harry's eyes.

Ron had been asleep when Harry got back to their room last night, and he's already gone by the time Harry wakes to prepare Draco's breakfast.

Ron works in the gardens and says he likes it more than the alternatives. Sometimes Ron gets to use magic, supervised of course and using a slave wand, not his own. But still, Harry almost salivates at the thought. He misses magic like a limb. Funnily enough, Harry's pretty sure the slave wand responds almost as well as the second-hand one Ron had before the war ended. Harry knows that Draco has Harry's wand, even though he doesn't know where. It would have been given to him on his sixteenth birthday as a symbol of Harry's servitude. He sometimes wonders if Draco ever touches it. Wonders if he'd know if Draco did. 

Thoughts of Draco's touch lead to dark and exciting places like they always do. Harry longs to touch himself. He can't though, he really can't. He has to be up and dressed before Draco wakes up. If he summons something from the kitchen the rest of the staff will expect Harry to take it to him. Not to mention Draco will need to dress and has probably already forgotten that he has a riding appointment at Parkinson House today.

Harry forces himself out of bed, through a quick shower, and into his uniform in less than twenty minutes. He helps himself to a cup of scalding black coffee when he gets to the kitchens and nods to Hermione and Dippy as they work together over breakfast for the household.

With no guests at the Manor this week they spend more work preparing food for the staff than they do for the family. Especially at informal meals. Dippy still summons all the House Elves and doesn't trust the humans when it comes to making dinner, though. It's his pride and joy and he always serves five courses if there is so much as a single Malfoy at home. He's more relaxed about the other meals, but only slightly.

Hermione hands Harry a bowl of porridge before he can try to escape to the gardens with nothing but his coffee. She knows him too well and he grins at her in gratitude.

"Thanks," he mumbles, rolling his eyes so she knows he's not completely under her thumb.

Hermione tousles his hair playfully before rushing back to one of her bubbling cauldrons. She works in the kitchens all morning on both food and any household potions which Mr Snape considers beneath him. Then she works in the library, or on Mr Snape's research in the afternoons, as well as helping Dippy run the household. She hates being 'in service' as they call it, but she does at least enjoy the work she has to do. She would enjoy reading the books instead of shelving them, but at least it's something. That's what Harry tells himself. He's never convinced himself that it's good enough, let alone anyone else.

Harry doesn't know why Lady Malfoy bought all three of them together. Of all the Malfoys, he's least sure of Narcissa's motives. It might have been an act of lacklustre mercy. Or it might have been twisted whimsy. Or it could be something else quite sinister, which he can't really comprehend. Whatever the reason, Harry's pretty sure it is the only reason he's survived as long as he has.

It turns out that Draco does want his breakfast in bed, which doesn't surprise Harry at all. Draco avoids the dining table or any shared social spaces as much as he can when his father is home. Lucius is away on business for the Dark Emperor often enough that they all get some peace. But he's at home this week, which puts them all on edge and in danger; not just the servants.

Harry takes up the tray on soft steps and knocks as gently as he can when he gets to Draco's door. He doesn't want to risk disturbing Malfoy Snr if he can help it.

"Enter," Draco calls almost immediately, which is a relief. It lets Harry duck into the relative safety of Draco's room and hide.

Draco laughs when he sees Harry's face.

"I take it you're aware that my father is home, then?" he asks it while still laughing, and if Harry didn't know better he'd take it for a joke. But Harry does know better, knows Draco better. He sees the cold edge of fear reflected from Draco's silver eyes.

Harry shrugs and smiles as he brings over the breakfast try. He doesn't want to incriminate himself, but he doesn't want to lose that sense of camaraderie either.

Draco sits up further when Harry places the little legged tray over his lap. He then allows Harry to fluff some of his pillows before digging into his breakfast. Pancakes and out of season fruits. Fresh juice, lapsang souchong tea and parfait to follow. Harry kind of likes how predictable Draco is, even in his luxuries.

Harry is aware of Draco's eyes tracking him as he moves about the room. He's mostly used to it. He gets Draco's riding things ready, as well as his day robes. It's nothing out of the ordinary, yet the intensity of Draco's attention seems more than usual. Harry tries not to dwell on it. Hope is such a feeble thing, sometimes it's best not tended. He distracts himself with the work instead.

Draco will take a stroll in the gardens with his mother before he takes the Floo to Parkinson House. He'll need boots for both, but different kinds. Lady Malfoy will remind Draco about his duty to his family on that walk. Harry isn't always required on their walks, but he already knows the conversations by heart from the times he has accompanied them for various reasons. She wants grandchildren. Good, pureblood grandchildren. And she seems unsure if Draco is ever going to ensure them for her. Harry tries not to get jealous.

Draco's only seventeen. He's still in school. Harry's not sure what it is Lady Malfoy wants from him that he's not already doing. Harry feels like the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses and the Davises have seen more of Draco than Harry has this summer. Draco is always polite to every witch his mother throws at him. Too polite when it comes to Parkinson, if you ask Harry. Draco lets her touch him, sometimes he even touches her back. It's nothing sexual, not even sexy, but it is intimate and friendly in a way Harry wishes Draco would touch him instead. 

"Alright, Potter. No need to crush the silk!" Draco's voice wakes him from his thoughts in time for him to smooth out the creases he has been putting in one of Draco's riding shirts.

The shirt is a dark blue that makes Draco's eyes shine like a storm. Harry puts it back and chooses a plain white one instead. The white is still flattering, because all of Draco's clothes are flattering, but it is slightly less likely to make Parkinson jump Draco before he even gets near a horse.

"You're riding with Miss Parkinson this afternoon," Harry reminds him as he finishes laying out the clothes.

"Ah yes, so I am." Draco sounds bored. But he's been known to fake boredom in the past to hide genuine emotion. Most often when the Dark Emperor visits and brings his own special blend of entertainment. Then again, any feelings Draco may be hiding for Miss Parkinson are unlikely to be terror and loathing.

"Which tie pin?" Harry asks. He opens the case which houses most of Draco's everyday jewellery. Tie pins, cufflinks, watches, and the like. A few chains and pendants. There's an actual circlet crown in the vaults, but they so seldom need it that Harry's never had to find a place for it more than overnight.

"You choose," says Draco. Waiving off the whole situation as an annoyance so that he can focus on his parfait. That's a good sign, Draco doesn't seem to care what he wears which means he hasn't started really trying to impress Miss Parkinson. When Draco's nervous about something, or when he wants something, that's when he fusses over his looks. Harry can't help but be relieved that Miss Parkinson seems to be staying both a miss and a Parkinson a while longer.

Harry knows his jealousy is pointless. Draco isn't even his and never will be, not really. Even if, by some miracle, Draco suddenly starts wanting Harry back or gets bored enough to take pity on his overly devoted valet, Harry still won't have any claim over him. Harry's feelings aren't just unrequited, they're also untenable and absurdly infeasible.

Harry actually whimpers aloud when he walks into Draco's rooms that evening. Draco hears it and scowls at him, which unfortunately for Harry, doesn't make Draco any less attractive. 

Draco hasn't been home long. He's flushed, and there's a splash of mud drying on his boots, even a few flecks in his hair. He's thrown off his burgundy riding jacket, helmet and crop on the couch, but is otherwise still dressed for horseback. His breeches fit him like a second skin and his boots make his elegant legs seem even longer. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and it's stuck to him, translucent with sweat and the remnants of light rain.

Harry can't breathe, he can only barely think. Draco's still breathing hard from the ride, or from something, anger maybe. His hair is tousled and wind swept, a few blond strands falling into his eyes.

"Bath?" Harry manages to ask, even though the mere thought is enough to make him weak at the knees.

Draco just nods and turns his back. He starts stripping off his riding gloves with more force than Harry should let him. Harry rushes to the en suite to draw Draco's bath, just the way he likes it. Ginger and orange oil, bubbles, so hot it's almost scalding. It's a magical bath, it won't take long to run, but starting it off at least gives Harry a few moments to pull himself back together.

Once he's sure he can face him, Harry hurries back to the main room to make sure Draco doesn't do himself, his clothing, or Harry's willpower any permanent injury in his haste to undress.

Harry laughs despite himself, which earns him another half-hearted glare. Draco has thrown himself into a chair just as carelessly as he had his jacket to the sofa. He tries, and fails, to pull off his boots without Harry's assistance.

"Here, let me," Harry says. He drops to his knees in front of the chair and catches Draco's ankle. Draco stills under his touch, soothed like a frightened Thestral.

Harry undoes the buckles slowly, focused on the task instead of the ragged edge of Draco's breathing. When he risks glancing back up, Draco seems to have calmed down.

"Rough day?" Harry asks. Draco's never scolded him for insubordination and Harry doubts he'll start now.

Draco shrugs, doesn't answer but doesn't break eye contact either. Harry wishes he was a good enough Legilimens to know what Draco is thinking. For a moment he actually thinks it might work, despite not even having Draco's wand, let alone his own, his world tilts on its axis and he can feel the magic pulsing through both of them. He gets an overwhelming sense of attraction, something so strong it borders on awe. Nothing new, but different in a way he can't quite place. It's Harry that breaks their gaze, looks back to his work and removes first one boot, then the other with practiced care.

With Draco safely in his stocking-feet, Harry stands and offers Draco his hands with a challenging smile. He's still surprised when Draco takes the bait, taking both Harry's hands by the wrist. He allows Harry to pull him out of the chair and back to standing. Harry realises his mistake the moment he finds Draco standing so bloody close. He can feel Draco's body heat, and his magic in the air around them. His cheeks are still slightly pink from exertion, the sandy freckles he normally charms away showing against the blush. Draco's lips form a gentle curve and Harry almost sways in closer. He can feel the touch of Draco's breath and smell the fresh air, and horse, and Draco scent of him. Draco is looking at him with dangerously intelligent consideration.

Harry steps back as quickly as he can without falling over.

Draco saunters to the bathroom without looking back, dropping is sweat soaked shirt as he goes. He leaves Harry staring at his feet and fighting a blush.

Draco sinks into the piping hot water of his bath, head spinning from more than the humidity.

Something happened. Or, nearly happened. He's sure of it. And, more than that, he's almost sure for once that it wasn't just him.

"Harry?" Draco's voice echoes as he calls out from the bathroom.

Harry almost drops the shirts he's folding. He's had a lot of fantasies that start just like this. It takes him a few panicked heartbeats to realise that he didn't take Draco's toweling bath robe into the en suite when he ran the bath. That's all it is. Draco wants his robe, and it's Harry's job to bring it to him. Simple.

Harry's learned not to hope that Draco will ask him to wash his back or his hair. It would be a perfectly respectable request to make of a trained valet, but Draco never has and Harry's given up hoping for it outside his dreams.

He grabs the bathrobe, trying not to hold it like a shield, then makes his way into the steam of the bathroom.

Even prepared the sight takes all his breath and almost stops his heart. Draco steps out of the bath, water sluicing off him, like some kind of vision. Like sex, carved from alabaster and come to life, steam hot and heat flushed life.

Harry stands to one side, eyes averted but unable to keep his attention focused on anything other than Draco's slippery skin. Droplets of water roll down Draco's chest, skating across his skin, following every splendid curve and angle of him as they fall. Harry's pretty sure that if he had his wand right now he wouldn't even bother trying to escape -- he'd just transfigure himself into one of those glorious little drops.

"Harry?"

Harry looks up, startled and meets Draco's eyes. Draco's smirking, silver eyes.

'Fuck it,' he thinks. It's not that he wants to die. Because he doesn't. And he doesn't want Draco to send him away, which might be almost as bad. It's just that he can't really live like this, either. Patience never was his virtue.

He drops the robe to the floor, and closes the distance between them with two strides. Draco doesn't pull away but he doesn't make a move either. He just watches Harry with that same, near predatory, curiosity. 

Harry closes the last inches of distance and captures Draco's lips like a Snitch. It's an awkward kiss, but it feels like victory. Right up until the moment they touch, Harry is still half convinced Draco will pull away or push him back, but he doesn't, he doesn't even hesitate.

Draco may not have initiated the kiss but he kisses back with the ferocity of his namesake, fire, pride and glory, like a dragon. Harry ends up hanging on for the ride. He gets one hand in the fine silk of Draco's hair, it should be dominating but he feels like he's only just following; clinging for balance as all outward meaning falls away. His other hand rests on the hot damp skin of Draco's side, dangerous and new. They've touched so many times, but never like this. Draco's hands are tangled in the cheap cotton of Harry's shirt, not quite demanding but desperate.

Harry gasps for air but can't bring himself to pull away any further, resting his forehead on Draco's and watching him closely. Hope and doubt war within him. Draco's breathing is just as heavy, deep and panting. The water from Draco's body is soaking into Harry's clothes; Draco's naked vulnerable body with his porcelain bones and satin skin. Harry's going to ruin Draco just by breathing this close to him. Draco feels so good pressed against him that Harry can't pull away. They're chest to chest, the droplets still falling from Draco's hair roll down his throat but catch on Harry's shirt. Draco's cock is a solid line of desire pressing into Harry's thigh, so near his own but for the trousers of his uniform keeping them notionally apart. Harry bites his lip over the whimper which escapes him at the thought, and Draco stiffens in his arms.

He looks back up, attention stolen from the water and back to Draco's eyes. He's frowning, and that just isn't right. Harry's heart is hammering against his ribs like a Snidget in a charm cage. Draco wants him, he can feel it, he can see it, he just has to hold on to it long enough for Draco to see it too.

Harry grabs Draco's face with both hands, because this might be the last time he gets to touch so freely and he wants to remember every last sculpted line.

"Please," Harry says.

He shouldn't ask for this if Draco doesn't want to give it, he knows how dangerous this is. Draco might have him thrown out in the snow, but Harry wants this so badly that it seems worth the risk. Draco's still there. Still holding on to Harry. Still breathing hard, skin flushed, and physically aroused. He's looking at Harry like he can't believe he's real. That's got to be a good sign.

Harry kisses him again, harder and more determined this time. Draco kisses him back, more tentative this time as if he lost his nerve somewhere between the first and second kiss. Which seems just like Draco, so much so that Harry would laugh if he had breath left for it. Instead, he focuses on remembering every detail, tries to burn the carnal feeling of Draco's lips into his memory, so he can hold onto it when the nights get colder. The cooling heat of Draco's body, the smooth lissom lines of him under Harry's hands as Draco lets them roam. Harry doesn't dare grab Draco's perfect cock, doesn't go for the firm curve of his arse, but he does explore. He maps the flow of Draco's shoulders, the sweeping span of Draco's sensitive sides, the sharp edge of his hip. 

He kisses the edge of Draco's jaw, then the place behind his ear, down his throat. He's going to explore every piece of flesh he can before his time runs out. Despite the evidence in his arms, despite the urgent sounds Draco makes, despite the way Draco's hips hitch against him like he wants to do more but doesn't dare, Harry can't quite believe he gets to do this. He can't quite believe that someone as elegant and enticing as Draco can really want him.

Draco finally makes a move of his own, slides his hand into Harry's hair. Harry arches into it. Draco kisses Harry's temple, oddly tender and nothing like the force of nature Harry dreams about. Harry's confidence finally picks up and he grips Draco's hips, pulls them closer still and rolls his own hips. The friction is blissfully good and Harry does it again, harder, making Draco gasp and bite Harry's neck. Draco's hand in Harry's hair tightens just the right side of pain and the other scratches into Harry's chest.

"Harry?" Draco's voice is torn. He lays feather light kisses on Harry's neck where he bit him. Which is fairly distracting behaviour if he actually wants Harry to pay attention. "Harry?" he repeats. This time he pushes Harry away, not hard and not far, but the mere attempt puts ice through Harry's ardor. Draco's hands stay resting on Harry's shoulders, though, as if he doesn't quite want to let go. The treacherous wings of hope continue to flutter even as Harry braces for the worst.

Harry makes himself meet Draco's eyes and prepares himself for rejection. Or worse; not that he really dares to think Draco would have him punished, even for this -- but it's possible. It's always possible.

Draco doesn't reprimand him, he plunges gracefully to his knees instead.

Draco kneels before Harry, the way Harry has done in front of Draco so many times prior. Except that Draco is stripped bare and still makes it look natural. He looks up at Harry from under dark blond lashes, and Harry's mouth goes dry and his skin tingles. Anticipation sneaks up his spine.

"Sir," Harry forces himself to say, the word catching in his throat like a lie.

Draco averts his eyes, as though he's the one with everything to risk. As though he's the one who's overstepped every line they've ever lived by. Maybe he is.

"Harry, please tell me you know you don't have to do this?" Draco speaks to the plush bath-mat underneath his knees.

Harry does laugh at that. Of course, the one time Harry wants Draco to surrender to his baser instincts is the one time he doesn't. The one time he wants the spoiled prat, he gets the honorable prince. Draco's eyes snap back to his, startled by Harry's mirth.

"I know," Harry says, because he does. Maybe he always has.

Draco still looks dubious, but more naturally so. As if he's doubting Harry's choice of ties rather than his motives for wanting him. Draco moves, still elegant even on his knees.

"May I?" Draco's hand hovers, poised at Harry's belt. His eyes are burning with an unnamable incandescence that Harry couldn't deny even if he wanted to.

Harry nods, even though he wants to answer. He wants to use his voice and claim this moment as his own but he can't. He can barely breathe with Draco looking at him like that, let alone speak.

Draco smiles at him and it's so good it hurts. That smile is a secret. For the first time Harry's almost sure that Draco really wants this, wants him. That smile isn't about pity, or opportunity, or curiosity. That smile means Draco's getting exactly what he wants; it's a self-satisfied triumph that always floods Harry with desire, even when he isn't the prize.

Harry's cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright. Draco doesn't think he's ever wanted anything as much as he wants his valet right now.

His fingers feel awkward as he unclasps Harry's belt, and not least because he's not usually the one undressing other people. He desperately wants to do this right. Harry can't regret this, he can't.

Draco takes another risk and gives in to the desire to nuzzle Harry's thigh, rubs his check against that tempting bulge in Harry's uniform trousers. The hessian fabric is rough against Draco's cheek but he doesn't care, almost enjoys the itchy scratch of it. It's so much more real than any fantasy day-dream. His fingers dig into Harry's thighs.

Harry makes another of those whimpered moans, the ones that punch the breath out of Draco too. The first time he thought it was fear but he's pretty sure he was wrong. It's desire. Desperate, wrung out, near wretched desire. And it's all for him.

Merlin, it's still wrong. Draco almost hesitates, he almost pulls back, but then Harry's hands are in his hair again and urging him forward. Harry makes that sounds again, reckless and wrecked, and Draco can't fight it.

Draco fumbles with Harry's fly, but Harry keeps looking at him like he's extraordinary, chuckles and does it for him. Draco swallows, pride overwhelmed by lust and fascination.

Harry's cock, when he finally presents it to Draco like a gift, is everything he hadn't dared to dream of. Draco licks his lips, glances up at Harry one last time, then he finally stops questioning himself and acts. He sweeps his tongue up the heavy underside of Harry's prick with extravagant relish. The sound Harry makes when he does it is almost as good as the one he makes next, when Draco grasps the base of his cock and swallows it whole. He told Pansy that all his fooling around at school had a purpose, he just hadn't realised this was it. Being able to tear Harry apart in seconds, breaking him down to a quivering, passionate mess of libidinal fervor.

He draws back slow, letting Harry enjoy the view. Harry gasps. Draco thinks it's his new favourite sound.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," says Harry.

It should be insulting, but there's worse things to be called when you're on your knees. And it's Harry. It's so honestly, guilelessly Harry. The praise sings through him and he smirks around Harry's prick, despite himself. He pushes himself further and swallows harder, wrests back control and makes Harry cry out in pleasure. 

It doesn't take long. The heavy weight of Harry on his tongue is paradise, but he's pretty sure this is Harry's first blow job and he isn't surprised when Harry tugs frantically on his hair. Draco just glances up and swallows him again, smooth and deep enough he has to struggle not to choke.

Harry comes with a shuddering groan straight down Draco's throat. It's better than any championship Snitch he's ever caught.

Draco catches him when Harry collapses to the floor with him.

"You don't have to," Draco says, like a plea, when Harry finally grasps the elegant length of Draco's prick.

"I know," Harry says, more emphatic and obviously fond than the first time.

He pushes Draco onto his back, kicking off his trousers and pulling off his shirt as he follows Draco down. The heating charms are strongest in the en suite, and the room is carpeted in a show of magical extravagance. Harry's not scared of either of them shivering from anything other than passion. 

Harry drapes himself next to Draco, luxuriating in the skin on skin, even though his earlier desperation has been temporarily sated. He's wanted this for so long, it still feels like the spell might break at any moment. He has to savour every second, just in case.

He kisses the line of Draco's neck and shoulder, enjoying the way Draco stretches and arches for him, grants him access and practically purrs with every touch. If Draco was an animagus Harry thinks he'd be a particularly aristocratic Kneazle.

Draco's breath catches in time with Harry's touch. He bucks into Harry's hands and it's the most bewitching thing Harry's ever seen.

"C'mon," Harry says, a while later when they both got their breath back. "Bath's still warm." 

Harry's not surprised this time when Draco lets him pull him to his feet. He's not even surprised by the intensity of the look Draco gives him once they're standing, toe to toe, hip to hip, and skin to skin. Nor the heat when Draco kisses him, hard and breathless and searing.

"Join me?" Draco asks. The uncertainty is new and it makes Harry's world tilt on its axis. He's never once seen Draco Malfoy unsure of anything he wants. He's never seen Draco ask for something he doesn't know he'll get.

Harry kisses him, the softest one yet. Slow and sweet and saying all the things he doesn't have words for yet. "Anything you want," Harry says into the soft curve of Draco's throat. He tries to pull Draco in closer, wrapping his arm around Draco's waist, but Draco pulls away.

"Forget it," he snaps, snake quick and catching Harry like a bite.

Harry's about to snap back, about to grab his clothes and storm out, but then he hears his words echo back and he forms a theory.

"I want to," Harry says, instead of letting go he holds on firmer, pulls himself against Draco's body. He ducks his head and forces Draco to look at him. "I want to, I want you."

There's hope in Draco's eyes when Harry finally catches them. Hope, and confusion. Harry knows those feeling so well it's like looking in a stunningly attractive and very blond mirror. 

"Really," Harry assures him. They kiss again, Harry's not sure who starts it and isn't sure it matters. 

"I don't want you to regret this," Draco says, with heartrending honesty.

"I know," Harry says, between kisses. "I won't. Don't think I could if I wanted to."

"Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise."

The bath is fantastic. 

"Merlin, no wonder you spend half your life in this thing," Harry says when he sinks into the magically warm water.

Draco watches him, still intent but seeming less likely to bolt. He leans against the wall and doesn't make a move to join Harry yet. Harry's not sure which he wants more, the sight of Draco's agile form resting against the marble tiles, or the feeling of it sliding against him.

"I do not…" Draco gives up when he sees the way Harry's grinning at him. "Alright, I am fairly fond of baths. But you just admitted you can see why."

He's blushing, just a very mild pink, it's adorable.

Harry sits up and reaches for Draco.

"Get in," Harry says with such certainty that Draco will have no choice but compliance. "You can wash my back," Harry offers.

"How magnanimous," says Draco, dry humour but no refusal.

Harry pulls him down into the sudsy water and kisses him like their lives depend on it.

"Bed?" Harry asks, breathless and helpless when Draco moves against him like that. The bath is really, really brilliant, but now Harry needs more. He needs everything, he needs more of Draco, and he needs it now.

Draco nods, drags Harry out of the bath. Draco grabs his wand for a quick drying charm. Then they're kissing all the way back to the bedroom.

"Have you ever…" Draco stops before he finishes the sentence. Not sure he wants the answer because either way it might break him.

Harry shakes his head, minutely but enough to register through Draco's lust addled haze.

Harry's eyes are desire bright and trusting, Merlin, Draco doesn't feel worthy. Not at all. But he's never been good at denying himself, even when he knows he should, and he might be even worse at denying Harry. He's already waited so damn long, he finds himself kissing Harry breathless again instead of thinking about what all this might mean. For Harry or for himself. For them, if there is such a thing. It's a bit late to worry about that now anyway, he's pretty sure they burned that bridge to the ground, back on the bathroom floor.

He bites Harry's ear and pushes him down onto the bed. Harry looks even better than he'd imagined, spread out on Draco's 1700 thread count sheets.

"Do you want to fuck me?" Draco whispers the offer that's really a request, hoping like hell this isn't the moment it all falls apart. He's very, very careful not to phrase it as an order but it still feels so fragile, this frantic, burning thing between them.

Harry looks dumbstruck, like he'd never even imagined that might be the way this could go. It's an uncomfortable thought, to know that Harry still assumed certain things about them. About him. But there's a triumph there too, in knowing that he's turned that upside down.

"We don't have to," Draco assures him. Kisses his chest, worships and memorises Harry's flesh like a new spell -- just in case this is the last time. Just in case he's already broken it. "We can do anything you want."

He means it. Draco isn't a selfish lover, at least he doesn't think he is. He wants to show Harry every pleasurable thing he knows, maybe find a few new ones with him too, but tonight he wants this. He really, fervidly wants this. Harry's skin is hot under his hands, and his cock is gorgeous. He was built for it and Draco wants him so badly he can taste it.

Draco has never looked so in control as he does the moment he sinks down on Harry's prick. Harry's never felt anything so sublime.

"Can you stay?" Draco's breath ghosts over the tacky sweat which clings to Harry's skin.

Harry shivers and hopes Draco won't take it the wrong way.

He shouldn't stay. It'll be obvious where he was and who he was with. The servants' wing isn't like the master suites, where you can go days without seeing another person if you wanted to. The staff live in close proximity, small shared rooms and small shared meals. He's already missed supper, but that happens sometimes when he's busy.

"Sure," Harry says, despite himself. He's already falling asleep. Draco is warm and welcoming, the scent of lemon and cedar is soothing, and his bed is even better than the bath. Harry can just get up early. With any luck no one but Ron will know he's missing.