Professor Malfoy has a very specific beauty.
Most people don’t see it. They don’t recognise the quiet authority of his sharp lines and high cheekbones, don't notice how the firm set line of his mouth just begs to be ravished. They see his tightly bound hair, harshly pulled back to reveal a severe hair line, without ever noticing it's silken beauty, how the strands clearly yearn to be pulled free.
But Albus does. He sees everything.
He discerns the careful and cool glint of his Professor’s eye as he peers over students’ shoulders to check on their potions. He observes eagerly, never missing a glimpse of Professor Malfoy’s pale, delicate wrist as he reaches over and stirs his cauldron. He watches those sharp teeth as they chew on his plump lower lip, notes with breathless anticipation when he raises the tip of his quill and brushes it against his mouth as he grades papers in silence. Albus see the careless way the used quill falls on his desk, tittering on the edge and ready to fall. Albus's fingertips itch.
Albus approaches him after class is dismissed, and he doesn’t miss the slight narrowing of Professor Malfoy’s eyes as he nears. There’s cool detachment writ across Malfoy’s face, but Albus is certain he can detect sparks of hunger lingering just below the surface.
Albus shivers at the deep, low voice. Power and poise radiate off the man before him, and Albus is sorely tempted to lay himself across the Potion Master’s desk right now. Albus is more clever than that. This is a dangerous game, and he must play his part perfectly.
“Professor.” Albus grips the side of the desk, the feathery tip on the neglected quill damp against his fingers. “I’m not sure I’ve quite perfected today’s potion. Could I come this evening after hours and work on it some more?”
“Tonight’s no good,” Malfoy states simply, his gaze returning to the stack of papers on his desk. “I have plans.”
“With who?” The words escape Albus’s mouth in an angry growl, his face flushing with bitter envy.
Malfoy looks up, surprise and apprehension filling his eyes at Albus’s fierce tone. For the longest time, Albus thought Malfoy’s eyes were a stormy grey. They’re not. Amongst the shards of steel is the palest blue, like the horizon on a cloudless winter day.
“I don’t have time for private lessons Mr Potter.”
“Tomorrow then. Perhaps you can make time, Professor.”
Albus’s voice is full of challenge, his shoulders set in determination. Malfoy sighs wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers before relenting.
Albus smirks in triumph, his fingers closing around the prize now secured in his pocket. His stomach flutters with anticipation—tomorrow can’t come soon enough.
- - -
“Another addition to your collection?” Jonathan Nott asks casually from his bed, idly flipping through his Transfiguration notes.
“Leave it,” Albus responds sharply, quickly closing the lid and sliding it back beneath his bed.
Nott always jokes, mutters about Albus’s Malfoy shrine, teases him about his crush. Nott doesn’t understand, no one does. Not even Professor Malfoy truly comprehends the intensity of his feelings, how deep his desire runs.
- - -
The only sounds in the room are the scratching of Malfoy’s quill and the gentle bubbling of Albus’s nearly completed potion.
“Yes, Mr Potter?”
“I think it’s about finished. Can you check and see if I’ve done it right?”
Malfoy sighs heavily but rises from his desk, walking over to Albus’s work station. He leans forward and Albus breathes in the earthy, spicy scent that clings to Malfoy’s skin. Albus can feel the heat radiating off Malfoy, see the flickering pulse in his pale neck. Malfoy peers into the cauldron, watching a swirl of indigo twist through a sea of navy, and nods his head.
“That looks acceptable. Bottle off a bit and leave it on the desk.”
Albus pours a sample into a flask, watching specks of blue shimmer through the potion like sapphires. Malfoy makes a small sound of acknowledgement when Albus places it on his desk, his head bowed and entirely focused on the papers in front of him. Albus clears his throat.
“What is it Mr Potter?” Malfoy exhales and lifts his gaze.
“I thought, perhaps, there might be something else you could assist me with.”
“Is that so?” Malfoy’s expression tightens.
“Yes,” Albus drawls. “There are still many things I’d like to learn and I’d be very grateful if you’d be so kind to teach me.”
Albus toys with the knot of his tie, his fingers loosening the silky material. Malfoy lifts his hand, his eyes stern and cold.
“I think you’d best leave, Albus.”
“Whatever for?” Albus continues to undo his tie. “You can’t truly want me to leave.”
“I do.” Malfoy sets down his quill purposely, his mouth set in a firm line. “Immediately.”
Albus merely grins in reply. “I always imagined you’d play hard to get. I like that, makes it more fun.”
“This isn’t a game,” Malfoy responds roughly.
“Isn’t it?” Albus raises an eyebrow, pulling his tie loose and letting it drop to the floor. “Don’t you want me Professor?”
“No,” Malfoy says harshly, his voice so sincere Albus is taken aback for a moment. He quickly recovers.
“You’re far too young.” Malfoy’s voice rises. “You’re not even of age, you’re a student—my student—and frankly I’m just not interested.”
“I don’t believe that,” Albus replies coldly. “How could you not want the Saviour’s youngest son? I know it’s not because I’m male. I read all about your messy divorce in the papers.”
Malfoy’s jaw tightens. “Leave now and we can pretend this conversation never happened.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” Albus has come too far to back down now. He won’t leave without his prize.
“Don’t make this difficult, Albus.” Malfoy’s cheeks pinken. “I won’t ask again.”
“Are you going to force me to leave?” Albus taunts. “You could do that. Push me out, use magic or your bare hands and I’ll stumble out of your classroom red-faced and disheveled. A few prefects might see me run tearfully through the halls. They’ll see me panting, agonized as I make my way to the owlry.” Albus leans forward, eyes glowing with sinister determination. Albus has never liked rejection. “Once there, I’ll write directly to my father, tell him all about what happened tonight. How you forced yourself on me, how I fought every inch of the way but you wouldn’t be sated. Not until…” Albus’s eyes water, his face feigning broken dismay “...not until you had your way with me.”
“Don’t be foolish,” Malfoy growls angrily, but his hands tremble and his voice wavers. “No one would believe you.”
“Would they believe you?” Albus laughs cruelly. “A former Death Eater? Over the son of a War hero?”
“I was cleared of all charges.” Malfoy’s eyes narrow but Albus can see a flicker of desperation beneath all that cool blue-grey. “I’ve worked at Hogwarts for years now, I’m a respected Professor.”
“Perhaps.” Albus’s voice turns low and smooth. “But people never forget, not truly. Do you really want to take that chance? Find out for certain if the Wizarding world has forgiven you?”
“You’re mad.” Malfoy’s nostrils flare.
“You mistake madness for determination.” Albus’s fingers trace Malfoy’s rigid knuckles. Malfoy snatches his hand away as if he’s been burned. “People always assume the middle child is constantly passed over, lost and forgotten. It’s true—James does get all the attention and Lily is spoiled rotten, but I’ve adapted. I always get what I want, even if I have to do it all on my own.”
“You won’t get what you want,” Malfoy asserts but his shoulders droop in defeat. The hint of surrender thrills Albus.
“I know you’ll enjoy it.” Albus’s voice softens. “I promise.”
“You’re just a boy, and you’re playing with fire.”
“I don’t care,” Albus insists. “Maybe I want to get burned.”
Malfoy chews angrily on his lip, his pale face devoid of colour except for the furious flush that stains his cheeks. Albus can see the scenarios play out in Malfoy’s mind, taste the fear and desperation as Malfoy hopelessly tries to find a solution, a way out. There is no escape, Albus is certain of this. Malfoy stands slowly from his chair and sighs brokenly in defeat. It’s the sweetest sound Albus has ever heard.
Malfoy flicks his wand toward the door and it shuts with a loud bang, the locks clicking into place. Albus’s heart beats erratically, but not from fear. Instead, his flickering pulse thrums with anticipation and heady joy. He’s finally going to get what he’s so dearly wanted for so long. His fingers tremble with excitement as he hurries to unbutton his shirt. Malfoy moves quickly from behind his desk, roughly tugging off his robes as he sweeps to join Albus.
Albus’s hands drop in surprise as Malfoy’s lips capture his in a brutal kiss. Malfoy kisses him angrily, all teeth and searing hardness. Albus imagined something softer, something with a bit more passion. But, this will do.
“Have you ever even done this before?” Malfoy asks roughly against his swelling lips.
“I was saving myself for you,” Albus answers breathlessly.
Fury and apprehension war in Malfoy’s eyes.
“Don’t think I’ll be gentle with you,” Draco spits. “Forcing my hand like this, blackmailing me.”
Albus shudders with lust as the angry words wash over him, hot gusts of air warming his skin.
Despite his threats, Malfoy is careful and gentle. Everyone says the Malfoys are evil and cruel. Even his classmate, Scorpius, often receives disdainful glares and wary greetings from time to time. Albus knows better. He can see past all that, beyond the rumours and his controversial past. Others may not be able to do so, but Albus knows the truth. He can even see past Malfoy’s refusal. Malfoy wants this—or at least he will. He has to.
Malfoy deftly removes Albus’s clothing, softly rebuffing Albus’s attempts to unbutton Malfoy’s shirt in return. Malfoy remains fully clothed even as Albus is laid bare and nude against Malfoy’s desk. He bends Albus over in silence, merely directing him where to go with soft touches. Malfoy conjures lube from the tip of his wand, liberally spreading the liquid over his hands and down Albus’s crack. His fingers are cold but they soon warm, slick and careful as they probe at Albus’s exposed arse. Albus spreads his legs further apart.
“Feels good,” Albus gasps. “Yes.”
“Don’t speak,” Malfoy commands gruffly.
“Fine,” Albus relents. “But turn me around then. I want to see your face.”
Malfoy’s movements still and he inhales sharply. “It’s easier this way for your first time.”
“I don’t care.” Albus turns around and hops onto the desk. “I want to see you.”
“Albus,” Malfoy warns.
“Don’t forget who’s in charge here.” Albus’s voice turns stern. “I'm calling the shots.”
Malfoy is a bit less gentle after that, adding two and then three until Albus is nearly grimacing from the urgent burn of it all. Malfoy is still dressed, but there is an unmistakable bulge in his trousers. Albus imagines how it will feel when he’s soon stretched apart by Malfoy’s cock. Albus opens his mouth to inform Malfoy that’s he’s ready, but Malfoy seems to already know. He unzips his flies, pulling his trousers and pants down mid-thigh. Malfoy’s cock is hard, stiff and red. It looks as angry as the glint in Malfoy’s cold eyes. Albus maps out Malfoy’s heaving chest, his tight expression, the way his large hand wraps around his prick as he spreads lube on it. Albus soaks in every detail, pushing away his disappointment as Malfoy’s gaze stays strictly fixed at some point over Albus’s shoulder.
The first press is blinding pain, hot and blunt as Malfoy slowly pushes inside. Is it supposed to hurt so much? Albus nearly asks but after a moment his body adjusts and the intense stretch gives way to a pleasant throbbing.
“Go on,” Albus stutters out. “Fuck me.”
Malfoy’s jaw clenches, rigid against the sharp angles of his face.
Malfoy squeezes Albus’s shoulder and pushes all the way in before sliding out to nearly the tip. A flash of heat enters the icy expanse of Malfoy’s pale eyes. He shoves in again, harder and harsher this time. The worn wood of Malfoy’s desk is rough against Albus’s bare skin but he can’t be bothered when his full attention is on the delicious burn of Malfoy’s cock buried in his arse. Malfoy thrusts in again and again, each time with more vigour.
“That’s it, Professor,” Albus pants. “I knew you’d love this.” I know you’ll love me…
“Potter.” Malfoy growls, fingers digging into his flesh. “You’re just like your father. Entitled and arrogant. The rules don’t apply to you, do they?”
Just like my father echoes in his head. Confusion and envy blow through like a sudden storm, but his turbulent thoughts soon are chased away by heat and pressure and pleasure.
Malfoy’s thick cock drags across his sensitive rim and the sensation is too much. Albus had hoped to finish with Malfoy’s hand curled around his cock, but he’ll take what he can get. He shouts his release into the empty classroom, spilling himself all over his own hand. He aches for Malfoy to come inside him, to fill Albus up with his precious seed, but his request is unspoken and ignored. Instead, Malfoy grunts roughly, pulling out and letting his release spurt against the side of the desk.
Albus’s used hole twitches against the cool air in the room and, with great reluctance, he pulls himself up. Albus longs to revel in the slick sweat spread across his body, to bathe in Malfoy’s scent which permeates his skin. He’s sorely disappointed when Malfoy picks up his wand and casts a cleaning charm on them both.
Malfoy looks ragged and destroyed. His pale hair is damp and stuck to his forehead, his pulse flickers rapidly against his throat, his eyes are downcast and full of remorse. Albus, on the other hand, has never felt more wonderful. The empty classroom is utterly quiet save their heavy breathing.
“Leave,” Malfoy finally says brokenly, breaking the silence.
“Thank you Professor,” Albus responds solemnly. He efficiently redresses pausing momentarily as his gaze is drawn to a button torn loose from Malfoy’s robe. The dying candlelight glints against the polished silver surface, calling to Albus like a beacon from the floor. The perfect addition to his collection. He reaches for his tie, crumpled on the cold floor, and snatches the button swiftly, like a Snitch from the sky.
Albus’s arse is sore as he walks slowly to the door. His skin tingles and his chest tightens with emotion. Malfoy will come to understand, Albus knows it. He’ll comprehend the urgent beating of Albus’s heart, the irrevocable truth of their connection.
Albus looks over his shoulder as the door swings shut. Malfoy sits on the edge of his desk, his head in his hands. The candles flicker, shadows filling the room in hues of grey and ash.