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The Games We Play

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"An interesting thing happened at work yesterday," Harry said, looking over at Draco as he sipped his morning tea. With his blond hair loose and unstyled, and the soft morning light gentling his sharp features, Draco looked almost innocent. Harmless. Harry wasn't so easily fooled.

"Oh?" Draco said, his tone and expression politely interested as he smothered a croissant with strawberry jam.

"Yup," Harry replied, before taking a bite of his own croissant, flaky and buttery and still warm from the oven. Draco pretended that he Apparated to Paris on Saturday mornings to bring them fresh croissants, but Harry knew for a fact that he just went to the park down the road for a smoke while he made one of his mother's house-elves do it for him. Harry couldn't bring himself to care. The croissants were fantastic. "Do you remember the Bellinger case I was working a few months back?"

Draco pursed his lips thoughtfully, his brow furrowed in contemplation. "Hmm...Bellinger, Bellinger...the name sounds familiar, but I'm afraid I can't recall the details. You work so many cases."

Harry suppressed a snort. Draco was such a little shit sometimes. Most of the time. "He was the one fleecing all those elderly witches and wizards," Harry explained, playing along even though they both knew Draco was perfectly aware of the details. "We tried to get him on fraud and embezzlement, but his lawyer got him off on a technicality."

Draco nodded, his expression smoothly shifting into one of sudden remembrance. "Ah yes, you were quite upset about that. Pass the cream?"

Harry handed over the pot of cream, his stomach writhing with something very much like excitement. It was a little sick, how much he enjoyed this part, but he was hardly alone in that respect. Draco's face was a near-perfect mask, but Harry could see the delight sparking deep in Draco's eyes.

"The Aurors were called out to Mr Bellinger's residence yesterday. Well, his former residence. It seems he's been done a grievous wrong." Draco's eyes widened with the ideal amount of shock. Oh, he was so very good. Desire began to spread through Harry, slow and sweet as treacle. "Yes," Harry continued slowly, weighing each word on his tongue. "Apparently somebody broke into his place last night, cleaned out his house, assaulted him, and then burned down his home."

"Seems...thorough," Draco said before using a napkin to delicately brush off the flakes of croissant still clinging to his lips. "Though I'm sure he'll be well compensated for his loss."

"That's the thing. Apparently he cancelled his insurance last week. He claims to have no memory of it, but Gringotts did a thorough wand and magical signature check to confirm it was him before he signed the documents. We looked into it, and there several witnesses willing to provide Pensieve memories that corroborate it was him who cancelled the policy. Knowing the goblins, he won't be getting a Knut."

"What terrible timing."

"My thoughts exactly. Mr Bellinger, of course, is claiming that it's all the work of this mystery assailant. He's convinced it's all part of one big conspiracy to ruin him."

"Mr Bellinger does seem to be the expert on ruining people's lives," Draco said, his tone indifferent as he paused to dish up some fruit. He turned towards Harry, tacitly asking if Harry would like some as well. Harry nodded, and Draco ladled out a portion of mixed berries as he continued, "And you said he was assaulted?"

"Cursed," Harry clarified before popping a blackberry in his mouth. Bright, tangy-sweet flavour burst across his tongue, and he shivered in pleasure. Draco's eyes darkened, and Harry's belly flipped. "Somebody used a spell that raised some...rather creative phrases over his skin in quite painful looking boils. Mungo's says it could be permanent."

"Sounds dreadful. Any leads on this mystery suspect?"

Harry let his mouth twist into a moue of disappointment. "Unfortunately not. Mr Bellinger was unable to provide a consistent description, and the wards don't show anybody unusual entering or exiting at all that night. I'm afraid we're at a bit of a dead end."

"Tough luck. Perhaps it was the same person who torched the Manor."

"That was you."

"That's never been proven," Draco sniffed. His expression turned sly. "And I have it on good authority that I was very thoroughly investigated."

Harry arranged his features into something vaguely disapproving. Draco was, indeed, quite thoroughly investigated. When the Manor had gone up in flames five years ago, Harry had been the one assigned to the case. He'd suspected from the start that Draco was involved—how could he not?—but Harry never could have expected the path that case would set him on. Or perhaps he'd been heading here from the moment he met Draco in Madam Malkin's, and that case was just the catalyst to start on the next chapter in their unusual relationship.

"I'm sorry you don't have any leads," Draco continued blithely a moment later. "I know how much it frustrates you when you can't solve a case."

"They do seem to be adding up. Fourth one this year already. At this rate, it's almost worse for my suspects to get off than it is for them to be fairly sentenced."

Draco shook his head sorrowfully. "It seems their bad deeds are finally catching up with them. With any luck they'll repent and learn the error of their ways."

"Like you did," Harry said blandly, his calm exterior completely at odds with the hurricane of excitement and delicious anticipation building up inside.

Draco smiled, the edges of his lips sharp enough to cut glass. "Exactly."

Harry smiled back, heart jumping as he played his final card. "There was one clue, actually. At the remains of Mr Bellinger's house."

The corners of Draco's grin slid into something lazy and self-satisfied. "Oh?"

Harry's work satchel was still where he left it last night, sitting on one of the extra chairs at the table. He reached inside with steady hands while his heart tried to beat itself into his throat. He withdrew a paper bag, and from within the bag, a pair of butter-soft black leather gloves. Draco's eyes smoldered.

"I found this pair of gloves near the scene of the crime," Harry said softly as his fingers pet over the smooth, rich surface. Impossibly, his heart began to race even faster. "They were next to a small copse of trees with a clear sightline onto the property. It was almost as if they'd been left there on purpose."

Draco's pupils began to slowly expand, edging out the silver grey of his irises as he watched Harry fondle the gloves. Just the feel of them in Harry's hands was enough to breath life into the ember of desire in his gut, and with Draco's eyes on him, devouring him...

"You're such a brilliant Auror, Harry," Draco said softly, smoothly, his melodious voice sliding into Harry's ear like the best kind of symphony. "I bet nobody else even thought to investigate the surrounding area for clues, did they?"

Harry shook his head, his voice hard to locate as he stared into Draco's hypnotic eyes. It was always shocking, even after so many years, how quickly Harry could fall under Draco's spell. Sometimes all it took was a look, a touch, a whispered word, and the fight inside Harry would transmute and shift. They liked to play their games, to grapple for the control that ever-flowed between them, but once Draco grasped it, some switch inside Harry flipped, and he was completely Draco's to do with what he would.

"I think you should give me the gloves, Harry."

Harry blinked, his fingers instinctively tightening on the gloves. "They're evidence," Harry replied, his voice low and scratchy, as if he hadn't used it in years.

Draco cocked his head. "Did you log them?"

"You know I didn't."

Draco smiled the smile of somebody who'd been told exactly what he expected to hear. "Then give. Me. The gloves."

He held his hand out expectantly, and Harry passed them over without a word, a tremor shooting up his arm when Draco's smooth fingers skated sensuously across his palm.

"That's a good boy," Draco said. It would have sounded mocking to anybody else who heard it, anybody who didn't know Draco well enough to hear the affection lying underneath, anybody who didn't know just how much Harry liked hearing those words.

"You know," Draco said conversationally, as he began to turn the gloves over in his hand. "These look remarkably like my favourite pair of gloves, don't you think?"

Harry opened his mouth to agree, and to probably say something more besides, but Draco began to tug on the gloves, and Harry's throat went drier than McGonagall's sense of humour. Slim, strong fingers slid inside the supple leather, matte black stretching over sinew and bone. They fit him...well, they fit him like a glove, the stark black of them transforming Draco's palms and fingers and wrists into something striking and dangerous. Sexy.

Merlin, Harry was fucked up.

Draco held up his hands for Harry to admire, rotating his wrists and letting the morning light illuminate every dip and facet. He was more than aware of what he was doing to Harry, his self-satisfied pleasure evident in his cheshire grin and the possessive gaze that never left Harry's form.

"Isn't it fortuitous, that you found these," Draco murmured, his words soft and precise. "As I seem to have recently misplaced my own."

"Draco…"

Draco stood, his gloved hands pressing against the table as he pushed himself up. He circled Harry, making him feel like some kind of hunted animal, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling as some instinct deep inside urged him to flee. And then those hands were on his shoulders, the weight anchoring Harry to bedrock as one palm slid across his fabric-covered shoulder until it met the naked skin of his throat. Draco's thumb hooked along the back of Harry's neck as his other four fingers came to rest across his throat one by one. Harry swallowed, the faint pressure of Draco's fingers rippling as his Adam's apple bobbed.

"They fit quite nicely, don't you think?" Draco whispered, rubbing his thumb against the back of Harry's neck while the other squeezed his shoulder. Harry's cock throbbed.

"I—"

The fingers on Harry's neck tightened, not enough to truly hurt, but just enough to let Harry know that they could hurt if Draco wanted. As if Harry didn't already know that, as if he wasn't perfectly aware how much power Draco had over him at any given moment. It would be excruciating, that knowledge, if he weren't equally aware that he had just as much power over Draco. They belonged to each other, him and Draco, all the good and the bad, the brilliant and the beautiful and the ugly. All those dark secret places that nobody else knew about, that nobody else got to see. Like the part of Harry that wanted Draco to squeeze a little tighter, the part that wanted to give Draco his very breath, just to see what he'd do with it.

"Yeah," Harry breathed, tilting his head back so he could look into Draco's eyes, perfectly aware of the fact that it put his vulnerable throat more fully on display. Draco's gaze sharpened, honing in on his black-clad fingers splayed out against Harry's skin. He squeezed again, and Harry wondered how far Draco would go, if his vision was about to spin and fade right here in their kitchen. But Draco backed off, his grip easing as his fingers slid up to pry open Harry's mouth.

The leather was soft and warm on his tongue, the texture strange and familiar all at once as Draco slowly pumped his digits in and out. It tasted like salt and not unlike skin, and when Harry's eyes fluttered closed, he could swear he tasted smoke and fire and the tinge of dark magic right on the tips of Draco's fingers.

"It's been too long since we've indulged this little kink of yours, hasn't it Harry?" Draco asked, before sliding his fingers out of Harry's mouth.

"Which one?"

Draco smiled enigmatically in response. "Take off your pants and bend over the table. Hands gripping the edge."

Heat flared inside Harry at Draco's tone, and he was standing before Draco had finished speaking. He hesitated, though, when he glanced at the table, still laden with the remains of their breakfast.

"Come now, Harry. Don't you want to be good for me?"

Harry shuddered. He did want that. Every cell inside of him seemed to be vibrating at Draco's particular frequency, and all he wanted was to be good for him, to feel Draco's body against his own. He flashed Draco a heated look before kicking off his pants, turning towards the table, and sweeping everything off onto the floor. Dishes shattered, berries went flying, and lukewarm tea splashed onto Harry's legs as he bent over the now-clear table. Draco laughed, a bright happy sound of unexpected delight, and then he was on him, his gloved hands covering Harry's fingers where they were wrapped around the edge of the table, his warm body pressed along Harry's back.

"You're going to have be careful now," Draco whispered into Harry's ear. "You don't want to cut yourself on the mess you've just made."

"You know the pain doesn't bother me."

"And you know I don't like you being in pain." Draco paused, his teeth scraping along the back of Harry's neck and raising gooseflesh in their wake. "Unless I'm the one to make you feel it, of course."

"Sadist," Harry hissed as Draco bit down on his shoulder.

"Masochist," Draco countered, and though Harry wasn't sure that was precisely true, it wasn't untrue either. He could still feel the faint, throbbing impression of Draco's teeth on his shoulder, and the ache there was mirrored in his twitching erection. Harry liked Draco's hands on him—his mouth, his teeth, his dick, whatever—and the touches didn't need to be soft or gentle or sweet to make Harry come apart. Sometimes they showed their love with scrapes and bruises, and just because Draco's fingers on Harry's wrists would leave their mark, it didn't mean he wasn't touching Harry with his own kind of tenderness.

Draco's hands skimmed up Harry's arms, squeezing his shoulders before sliding down his back and pushing up under his shirt. The slight chill of the leather was a welcome shock to Harry's system, and he arched up into the press of Draco's butter-smooth hands. He imagined the inky-black of the leather staining his skin, ebony trails illuminating the lines of fire each brush of Draco's hands left in their wake. The table was hard and unforgiving beneath Harry's form, but he melted into it all the same, relishing the grounding bite of the table edge digging into his stomach.

Draco hummed in pleasure, and then his palms began to move down, down, the leather gloves squeaking as he gripped Harry's arse in two tight fist-fulls. He pulled Harry's cheeks apart, exposing him to the morning air, Draco's glove-clad thumbs teasing at the edge of his rim. Harry wasn't unaware of the vulnerability of this position, face down and arse up, splayed out on the kitchen table like a feast for the eating. It had taken Harry and Draco a long time to get to this point, to the point where one could give and the other could take and neither of them felt like they needed to be keeping score. But Draco got under Harry's skin like nobody else in the world, and even when they'd been fucking other people, pretending that they could be normal, that they could have the lives pictured in glossy magazines, they'd always managed to smash back together, two atoms forever destined to collide. With Draco, Harry didn't need the goddamned magazine, he didn't need to pretend that he was always okay. There wasn't any need to act like he didn't sometimes want to scream that he didn't fucking die so that Lucy and Tom at the office could get into a two-hour argument about which Weird Sister was hotter. Draco never wanted Harry to be anybody else, he never made Harry feel like he had to squeeze himself into a box that didn't fit. He met Harry's mood swings with razors and fire, snarling as Harry screwed him into the wall, scratching Harry's back as they fucked out their feelings.

Harry felt the sudden shift in the air that always came with the use of magic, and a moment later a slick digit was circling his hole. Draco's finger was smoother than usual, blunter, thicker, and it took Harry an embarrassingly long time to realise it was because Draco was still wearing the gloves. It wasn't until Draco already had a finger buried inside his arse that the difference in texture fully sunk in. His breath hitched, and he moaned, the sound vibrating off the wooden table. Draco took that as a request for more, and a second finger joined the first, stretching Harry wide.

Draco started slow, but it wasn't long before he had one hand braced on Harry's lower back to keep him pinned as the other began to piston in and out of Harry arse. The leather seams rubbed against his insides, making Harry's toes curl and flex against the cool floor. Harry panted into the table, squeezing the edge in attempt to keep himself from flying apart as his orgasm pooled at the base of his spine.

"What do you think, Harry? Do you want to come like this? On my fingers?" He punctuated his question with a rough squeeze to Harry's arse, and Harry found himself arching back into it, into the press of his fingers and crush of his hands.

He nodded, vigorously, his voice lost in the crush of his desire.

"All right, then. You've been so good for me, I think you deserve to come."

Harry's throat released a garbled sound as Draco picked up the pace, his fingers twisting and curling and moving inside Harry with the skill of somebody who knew Harry's body even better than he did. Each movement sent starbursts of pleasure ricocheting throughout his body, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. Draco's free hand slipped around to wrap around Harry's cock, and the first touch of smooth leather against Harry's fevered shaft had Harry shouting his release. He emptied himself with a cry, his come joining the broken cups and smashed croissants on the floor below.

Draco's fingers left his arse with a slick squelch, and there was the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered. Draco grunted as he began to wank himself, and Harry could perfectly imagine what Draco must look like, pale hair askew, his face flushed and his eyes laser focused on Harry's arse as he brought himself off. It didn't take him long to climax, his seed striping Harry's arse and thighs.

With considerable effort, Harry managed to heave himself off the table, his muscles twinging as they were released from their awkward position. Harry turned, his gaze focusing on Draco's hand where it was still wrapped around his softening cock. Pearly white dripped off black leather, and Harry had the sudden urge to take those fingertips into his mouth once again, to see how the taste had changed with Draco's come coating the material.

He pulled Draco into a kiss instead, tasting strawberry jam and earl grey tea. It provided a shockingly domestic counterpoint to the ache in his arse and the come sliding down his thighs.

"You know," Harry began after they'd finished snogging. "I really don't think that's what your Mind Healer meant when she said she wanted to work on your aversion to fire."

Draco's grin was wicked as he cleaned them both off with a silent charm. His hands were still clad in black leather, and the sight of them on his wand, the knowledge of just what those hands and that wand could do, had Harry suppressing a shiver.

"What can I say. She's very effective."

"And what happens when a murderer gets off?" Harry asked as he pulled on his pants. So far all the criminals that had managed to slip the legal net had incurred relatively minor infractions, but one of these days a bigger fish was going to get free. A part of Harry was worried about what Draco might do then, but a larger, darker part of Harry was undeniably curious. Excited. Harry was an upstanding member of society doing his best to work from within to root out corruption and live the values he was tasked to uphold. Draco had no such restrictions.

Draco shrugged and begin to peel off the gloves. Harry couldn't help but watch, transfixed, and the tiny smirk playing about the edges of Draco's mouth told Harry that Draco was completely aware of Harry's focus. "I'm sure whoever it is that's doling out vigilante justice will come up with something suitably satisfying." He stepped close, brushing a soft kiss against Harry's cheek, his lips brushing Harry's ear as he nuzzled the side of Harry's face. "You know I'm not a killer, Harry," he murmured softly.

Harry nodded. He did know that. He'd known that long before they got together, ever since a scared little boy began to lower his wand atop a drafty Astronomy tower. Draco wasn't that same horrible, bigoted, terrified child anymore—Harry wouldn't be sharing his life with him if he were—but there were some things that hadn't changed. More than that, Harry trusted Draco, as insane as that might sound to some. Draco had seen parts of Harry's soul that not even Ron and Hermione were privy to, and Harry knew Draco took the responsibility of that seriously. Draco might dance dangerously close to the line, but he wouldn't cross it.

"Besides," Draco said lightly as he stepped away. "You're hardly one to talk. That's the fifth tea set we've gone through in the past year."

Harry raised his brows. "Are you comparing the destruction of a tea set to burning down a house?"

"Allegedly burning down a house. Whereas I'm an eyewitness to your confirmed destructive tendencies."

"I'll show you destructive," Harry grumbled.

Draco flashed him a quicksilver grin. "Promises, promises. But I'm afraid we've got plans for the rest of the day."

"Plans?"

Draco released a long-suffering sigh. "Strategy session with Hermione? Your best friend is running for Minister next year? Sound familiar?"

"Don't be an arse. You distracted me." Harry glanced at the gloves lying innocuously on the table, and Draco let out a low chuckle.

"Yes, I suppose I did. Let me just…" He snatched up the gloves, and placed them into the pocket of his outer robes hanging up by the door. "I'll keep these tucked away for now, lest you get distracted again."

"You better not feign a chill and pull them on when we're at Ron and Hermione's," Harry warned as he walked towards the bedroom to get dressed for the day.

Draco's melodious laugh echoed down the hallway, a sinful promise that shivered up Harry's spine. "I wouldn't dream of it."