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It was little things, mostly.

A window cracking here, a pot of ink jumping off a desk there. On one more memorable occasion, all of the lamps in the Auror offices blitzed out for thirty minutes.  Little things, and easily fixable.

The fact that they seemed to happen around Draco sodding Malfoy was entirely irrelevant, as far as Harry was concerned.

After taking several diagnostics of his magic at St. Mungo’s, a Healer had explained that no, Harry wasn’t a danger to himself or others. It was merely a problem of pent-up magic and not enough release. In other terms, she explained, he was frustrated.

This didn’t make much sense. Harry played games of pick-up Quidditch every weekend. On Friday nights, he went out with his friends and got pissed and danced badly and laughed. When he was dueling a Dark wizard, he was flooded with such an adrenaline high that afterward, he couldn’t sleep for hours, no matter how long he’d been awake. He wasn’t frustrated in the slightest. His life was great.

Baffled, Harry sought other opinions. Hermione gave him a knowing look but refused to answer. Ginny suggested he get out more, whatever that meant. Neville cautiously brought up the idea that he might want to start dating again. Ron looked at him, snorted, and said, “You need to get laid, Mate.”

Harry laughed at him but the truth was, it wasn’t that easy. He’d tried dating after he and Gin had broken up. The people in his social circle were mostly paired off, or otherwise uninteresting to Harry, romantically speaking. And he got, well, offers all the time, in the form of letters or people accosting him in Diagon Alley, but it just seemed distasteful to use his fame to get sex. His hand was a perfectly fine companion, if he needed it. (Which, okay, he often did.)

And the magic thing wasn’t really that big a deal, anyhow. They hadn’t taken him off active duty, so there was that. He might be getting fewer assignments, and spending more time at the Ministry as a result, but it did give him time to catch up on some of his paperwork, so it wasn’t really a bad thing.

Until, of course Malfoy slipped into the lift beside him, wraith-like and swift, and then blinked at him in astonishment as the doors slid shut.

“Potter,” he greeted politely, voice low and a tad uncertain.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked rudely, not bothering to match his cordial tone.

Malfoy’s face hardened. “My apologies. I forgot I was supposed to stay at home, wringing my hands and weeping for things I did three years ago,” he spat. “Although I suppose that’s what you had in mind for me when you testified on my behalf. Just sucking on my guilt as though it were candy and being a good little boy to make up for how naughty I’ve been in the past. Maybe you can suggest a better punishment.”

Harry swallowed, feeling a burning pulse of magic just below his sternum, Malfoy’s words rattling around in his head.

The problem was that they were years out of school, years away from the war, and Malfoy still had a way of getting under Harry’s skin, just with his mere presence. Throw into the mix words like sucking and naughty and… and the other thing, all said in those deep, haughty tones while Malfoy looked down his pointy nose at Harry with his smoky eyes and unsmiling mouth that was fuller than Harry had ever realized and—

There was a tremendous creak above them, disrupting the loud whirring noise of the lift. Their compartment shuddered hard and came to a grinding halt.

Malfoy inhaled, quick and sharp. He looked up, then at the doors, and pulled his wand.

“Don’t,” Harry told him, strained.

“Did—did you do that?”

Of course he had. Accidentally. “Of course I didn’t,” Harry said, just to be contrary.

Malfoy looked at him suspiciously, his wand dropping a fraction. “Then why—?”

Because when people around Harry tried to fix what his accidental magic had broken, it tended to have an even worse effect. Either the thing repaired on its own (like the lamps), or it needed to be Vanished (like the pot of spilled ink), or repaired by someone who hadn’t been in the room with Harry at the time (like with the window). He didn’t even want to remember what had happened to his favorite jumper when Hermione had tried to repair the sudden scorch marks across the seat of his trousers.

“It’s just not a good idea,” Harry explained curtly. “We’re trapped in here, Malfoy. I’m not having our safety put at risk because your spell rebounds or something. They’ll get the lift working.”

Malfoy gave an inelegant snort, his wand falling to his side. “Don’t think everyone isn’t talking about your lack of control these days. I’ve been present for it more than once, incidentally.”

Harry glared at him. He was so smug, just standing there in his charcoal suit, his perfect cloak clasped at his collarbone and draped over his shoulders like it made him special to be able to dress nicely, or to get his absurdly pale hair to fall that way, or to look so fit for someone so slender. He walked around the Ministry like it didn’t matter to him that Harry was bothered by his very existence, looking that way and pretending Harry was invisible half the time, or talking to him like they’d never even met.

Malfoy was staring at him, a strange flicker of emotions passing over his face. Fear, possibly, which Harry found oddly satisfactory. But underneath that, there was confusion and anger and… something else.

“I don’t have a lack of control,” Harry muttered when the silence had gone on for too long. He looked away. “My control is fine.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” Malfoy said slowly, and it felt like a taunt.

Harry looked at him again, startled. “Control is a good thing, Malfoy. You should try it.”

Malfoy cracked a laugh, low and amused. The sound bounced off the walls around them and something disconcertingly warm curled in Harry’s belly. “That’s the one thing, Potter, no one could accuse me of not having these days.”

“Why are you even working here, Malfoy?” Harry tried again, modulating his tone, trying for polite. It wasn’t easy. Every time Malfoy was near him, he wanted to yell at the other man, wanted to brandish his wand or pull Malfoy’s hair like he was a six-year-old on the playground. It was ten fucking years of conditioning, and Harry didn’t know how to get over it. Or even if he wanted to. The fact that he was suddenly, achingly hard had nothing to do with it.

“I need a job, and this is the safest place right now,” Malfoy said simply, surprising him, leaning against the wall of the lift, draping one leg over the other. “In a few years, there will be more options for me.”

“Safest place?” Harry asked grudgingly. Malfoy tilted his head, a little smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “Except for being around you, apparently. Tell me, Potter, how often do these little bouts occur when I’m not around?”

Harry flushed. “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Oh, don’t you? Hm.”

Harry took a threatening step forward. “What does that mean? You think I’m a going to do something to you?”

Malfoy’s eyes dilated as Harry came closer. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t move from his lazy pose. “Are you?”

“Maybe,” Harry growled furiously, blood rushing in his ears. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’ll end up hurting you, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s smirk widened into a sly smile. “Who says I’m opposed to that, Potter?”

Harry took another step forward, then another, his feet moving without conscious thought until he was crowding the other man. The sharp spice of Malfoy’s aftershave filled Harry’s senses as he put his hands on either side of Malfoy, trapping him where he stood, as though he were trying to get away. Only he wasn’t. He met Harry’s eyes levelly, as challengingly as he had in second year, and waited.

“What do you want, Malfoy?”

Malfoy drew in a deep breath; his chest brushed against Harry’s. He made a minute movement of the hips and narrowed his eyes. “What do you think, Potter?”

It was barely a kiss, Harry knew. The way his mouth crashed down onto Malfoy’s was justthissideof violent. But Malfoy responded immediately, pressing himself forward and obliterating the small space left between them, long fingers going immediately into Harry’s open robes and around to his arse to pull him forward, mouth opening over his, a metallic, salty flavour bright on Harry’s taste buds.

Malfoy sucked Harry’s tongue into his mouth; Harry retaliated by scraping it with his teeth. Malfoy jerked, then groaned, opening his mouth wider, lips covering Harry’s, saliva slicking them up. His hands released Harry’s arse, slipping up to tug Harry’s shirt from his trousers, blunt fingers skimming over the exposed skin at the small of his back, then dipping into his waistband. Harry shoved him, bodily, against the wall, pressed flush against him, and Malfoy broke off the kiss, head falling back, lower lip smeared with a streak of blood.

Harry panted, heart thundering, as he rocked into Malfoy, first tentatively and then harder. He could feel the hard ridge of Malfoy’s cock pressing against his hip and he swiveled slightly, lining it up with his own, sucking in a hard breath as they connected. He rolled his hips, Malfoy’s fingers a guiding pressure against his arse, feeling the firm length of Malfoy’s erection rubbing, insistently, through the fabrics of their trousers. He hissed in pleasure, chasing after the heat of Malfoy’s mouth again.

Then it was somehow no longer a fight; the kiss didn’t slow, but softened, tongues tangling, lips warm and open and searching. Harry mumbled Malfoy’s name against them, and it sounded like anger and frustration, but mostly like want and Malfoy swallowed it, humming with approval, and Harry’s found his hands, quite of their own accord, wriggling between their bodies to start working on Malfoy’s belt.

Malfoy made a little noise of surprise, but slid his hands out the back of Harry’s trousers and helped, first his own belt and then nimbly undoing Harry’s flies. Harry’s fingers curled into Malfoy’s belt loops and he tugged the other man’s trousers down to his thighs, exposing his cock to the warm, stale air of the lift. Malfoy wasn’t wearing any pants and Harry’s mouth ran dry as he stared at his prick, thick and long, flushed pink and leaking at the slit, bobbing slightly to the left. His balls hung, full and heavy underneath.

Harry straightened, blinking as Malfoy touched his cock, pulling it out of his pants. He started in shock, his brain still catching up with his body and his rage and his need. He was at a loss for what to do next, pressed up against a half-naked, fully aroused Malfoy, his own cock throbbing. He stood there motionless as Malfoy closed his fingers around Harry’s leaking prick and gave a slow, twisting pull.

“Like that, Potter?” Malfoy asked, smooth as silk. He swiped his thumb over the crown of Harry’s cock on the down-stroke, gathering moisture there and spreading in an expert motion, making Harry gasp. “Or like this?”

Harry’s neck wobbled; his head fell forward until it was resting against Malfoy’s, their ragged breaths mingling. He watched, bewitched, as Malfoy continued the slow, teasing drag of his hand over the shaft of Harry’s cock, tightening it into a fist at the root, those pale fingers stark against the dark curls at the base of Harry’s groin.

“I hate you,” Harry muttered, thrusting helplessly into the sensation.

“I know you do,” Malfoy rasped, hand working faster.

“I hate seeing you every day,” Harry panted, placing the flat of his hand against Malfoy’s erection, which was pressing against his thigh. He palmed it roughly, fingers sliding over it, learning its shape. Malfoy gave a little tremble; his own hand paused, and then resumed its ministrations.  “You’re so… You make me…”

“What am I?” Malfoy whispered, voice cracking. “What do I make you do?”

“You’re awful, oh, god, and beautiful,” Harry choked out, feeling infuriated and relieved by the words, both. “I want to fuck you, and I shouldn’t and you barely look at me, ahh, Malfoy wait, I’m going to—”

“Come, Harry,” Malfoy commanded softly, his hand a blur over Harry’s cock. His voice was sure and lovely, in the way dark things can be. Pleasure snaked up Harry’s shaft like sparks of magic, thick and overwhelming, and his balls drew up against his body. Malfoy tightened his hand further, stroking down, down, then shifted his hand, sort of cupping the head of Harry’s cock with his palm, fingers playing fast and rough with his foreskin, and his free hand drifted below to cup Harry’s balls and give them a tug. “Do it. I want you to.”

Harry heard himself make a whimpering sound as his cock started to pulse, shooting long white ropes of come into the cup of Malfoy’s palm, watching it drip down his wrist and through his elegant fingers, onto Malfoy’s cock and lowered trousers. Malfoy kept his hand moving through it, the soft skin brushing against Harry’s sensitive glans, fingers stroking the shaft, and Harry shuddered, knees going weak, vision dimming at the edges, his whole world tunneling into the place Malfoy was touching him.

When it was over, Harry sagged, dropping his head to Malfoy’s shoulder, his body replete with satisfaction. He wasn’t even angry anymore, and confusion, he knew, would set in later.

Malfoy stood still for a moment, letting Harry use him as a propping post and then gave a little laugh, low and quiet.

“Potter,” he said, barely above a whisper.

With effort, Harry looked up. Malfoy’s eyes were wide, the grey as soft as a kitten’s fur.


“I look at you. I think you’re awful and beautiful, too.” he offered simply. His mouth curled upward, then he slanted his eyes down. “A little help here?”

Harry steadied himself, then pushed back, following Malfoy’s gaze; the other man was still hard, Harry’s touch having dropped away during the haze of his orgasm. He licked his lips and reached out, dragging a fingertip over the long, swollen shaft. Malfoy nodded; his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed hard.

But it wasn’t enough.

Not quite sure what he was doing, Harry dropped to his knees. Malfoy said, “oh,” above him, a small, wondering little sound, as Harry leaned forward to nuzzled his erection with his nose.

“I want to—I’ve never—” Harry mumbled, breath starting to come fast again.

There was a heavy pause—Harry couldn’t bring himself to look up the gauge Malfoy’s expression—and then Malfoy wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, guiding it closer to Harry’s mouth. Harry closed his eyes as the slick head of it rubbed against the seam of his lips, and then he opened his mouth, driven by instinct and desire, taking Malfoy in. His pre-come was salty-bitter against Harry’s tongue, his erection a welcome weight. He sipped around the crown, tonguing back the tight foreskin, then licked at the underside carefully. There was a vein, dark and pulsing, and Harry pulled off to slant his mouth sideways, following it upward along Malfoy’s shaft, sucking softly.

Malfoy groaned, his hand falling away from himself and onto Harry’s hair, and he gave his hips a little bump of entreaty forward. Harry angled his head again and slid his lips over Malfoy’s prick, stretching them wide, taking him deep.

“Potter,” Malfoy gasped plaintively. “Fuck.”

Taking this as a positive sign, Harry moved. He hollowed out his cheeks, letting the head of Malfoy’s cock butt against his soft palate as he sucked him in, then drew back, slowly, tongue swirling light circles, lips slick with saliva as Malfoy’s hand clenched painfully in his hair, setting Harry’s scalp to tingling. He huffed out little breaths through his nose, experimenting with speed. Slower had Malfoy gasping; faster made him make this delightfully agonized sort of noise. Harry chose faster.

Malfoy’s cock twitched against his tongue; his hips started moving in time with Harry’s mouth, rocking forward and then away, hand on Harry’s head as though he might try to stop. He grunted every time his erection disappeared between Harry’s lips. His face, when Harry peeked up from his vantage point, was tight with restraint, eyes dark and lust-blown as he stared down, hair messy and unrefined in a way Harry had never known it could look.

“Potter,” he muttered again lowly, in warning.

There was a sudden screech, and a jolt.  Harry put his hands flat on Malfoy’s thighs to steady himself as the carriage of the lift began to move, albeit slowly.

Malfoy’s voice changed. “Potter, we’re moving. You need to...”

Harry began bobbing his head faster. His chest was tight with need, his own spent cock beginning to swell again. They didn’t have time for another go, he knew in that distant corner of his brain that was still able to think. But he wanted this.

Then Malfoy cried out, a desperate, broken sound, and his cock hardened further, impossibly, just before he began to come. It was silky against Harry’s tongue, flooding his mouth, and he swallowed what he could, letting the rest drip out of his mouth and down his chin, Malfoy’s hips rutting gracelessly as he finished.

The smoother, whirring sound of the lift finally breached the fog in his mind, and Harry pulled off of him. He scrambled away, standing and stuffing himself back into his trousers as Malfoy struggled feebly to readjust his clothing.

They stared at each other in silence, from opposite sides of the lift. Harry wiped his chin with the sleeve of his robes, then weakly twitched his wand in Malfoy’s direction, spelling away the wet spot where Harry’s come had dripped onto the leg of his trousers.

“Malfoy,” he started, as the lift rolled to a stop. Malfoy shook his head, looking bewildered, as the doors squeaked open.

Ron was waiting there. He gave Harry a relieved smile. “We couldn’t figure out a way to get you out, Mate. ‘Mione said she saw you get in and—”  He broke off, looking from Harry to Malfoy, then back again. He shook his head fractionally, as if to clear it. “They think it was—was it you? You did that?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, voice a little hoarse. His throat ached, but it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant feeling. “Sorry.” He slanted a glance at Malfoy, who was silent. “I don’t think it’ll be happening again.”

“Right,” Ron said suspiciously, staring hard at Malfoy. Malfoy smirked and Ron blanched.

“Then again,” Harry said carefully, swallowing, “It could. I mean, there are no guarantees. But—it wasn’t the worst thing, getting stuck in there, you know,” he said, looking at Ron but speaking to the man next to him.

Malfoy huffed. He straightened his waistcoat, tugging at the bottom of it, then played with the perfect knot in his tie. He looked as proper as he had when he’d first slipped into the lift, but for the telltale flush still riding high on his cheekbones.

“Speak for yourself, Potter,” he said coolly, stepping out and away. “I much prefer more room with which to… maneuver.”

Harry snorted. “Maybe we should enlarge the lifts,” he suggested.

“Maybe we should talk about it in your office,” Malfoy countered, raising a single eyebrow.

Ron’s jaw was dangling. He gave Harry a look of revolted entreaty. “Please don’t say…”

“Okay, I won’t,” Harry said cheerfully. “Malfoy, I have my lunch hour free.”

“I hope your desk is big enough for all of the paperwork,” Malfoy said, haughty and uptight as anything.

“I’ll see you later, Malfoy," Harry said on a grin.  "Close your mouth, Ron.”

Malfoy walked away and Harry watched him go with a satisfied little sigh. As it happened, he wasn’t a fan of small spaces, either.

Still, they had their uses.