It is 8:57am on a Wednesday, not quite community service hour 7,280 of 10,000, and Draco is already done with this day.
The Weather Bureau is on strike and the few remaining “essential climate management personnel” required to stay on are showing their solidarity by making sure the enchanted windows of every office are lashed by unrelenting thunderstorms. Their magical picket line is even more dramatic, the worst Draco’s seen since the Unspeakables’ campaign for a pay rise. Localised hail surrounds the three blocks around the Ministry and spontaneous downpours in the Atrium mean the lifts are full of half-soaked employees who won’t stop grousing. Or splattering Draco’s finely pressed uniform. The carelessness of it bothers him on principle even though he, at least, had the foresight to cast an Impervius on his robes between the Floos and the lifts. It is unfortunate for him, and fortunate for everyone else, that he knows just how ill-advised it would be to speak his mind on the subject.
It’s almost enough to make him glad his department doesn’t merit a window.
Not that he’s a vindictive person. He isn’t. Or at least much less of one nowadays. But if you’ve got to be relegated to a sub-sub-Basement and tasked with sorting the detritus of the wizarding world’s tendency to Vanish first and think later, you’ve got to take your pleasures as they come. And your opportunities.
Which is how he’d justified staying up till half two on a Tuesday night with his face buried in Harry’s arse, and then Harry’s cock buried in his.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a good idea at the time. He’d thought he’d come to work calmer. Sated, at least temporarily, and the restless anxiety that’s been dogging him lately put at least temporarily to rest.
He’s sure it’s mostly on account of it being a slow season. He’d survived the post-Christmas Vanishing of unwanted gifts and the Valentine’s Day Vanishing of items so repellent he’d considered self-Obliviating, and it’s not yet time for the rush of pre-Easter retrievals of Vanished Christmas gifts. It’s just…March. Rainy and chilly and dull in every possible sense of the word. Even the work he does have is remarkably dull. People Vanish quills with split tips in March, and singed dishcloths, and wellies with holes in the toe.
By quarter past two, he’s barely managing to stay awake. He’s got one hand propped under his chin and the other balancing a quill between two fingers and there is, technically, paperwork in front of him.
He startles when he hears the door scrape against the jamb. It could always be someone from the Wizengamot coming to check on him, or some ill-tempered member of the public who’d happily report a former Death Eater nodding off on the job. It’s enough to wake him up. He’s relieved and confused in equal measure when it’s Harry on the other side, running a hand through the sopping wet mess of his hair.
“Hey.” Harry smiles at him, a bit sheepish, a bit…well, adoring, which Draco still hasn’t got over after almost three months together.
“Welcome to the Vanishing Department.” Draco quirks an eyebrow. “How may we help you?”
“Er.” Harry drops his hand, shaking droplets all over the floor.
Draco tries not to roll his eyes. Or smile.
“Don’t kill me, okay?”
There’s no mistaking the sudden drop of Draco’s stomach. He imagines the huge pile that got them here in the first place and wonders if Harry’s done it again and he’s looking at months spent re-sorting all those carefully returned items. Imagines even worse things. Harry’s met someone in his cooking class. Marcel, he’s probably called, and he’s fit and kind and spends his days aboveground instead of atoning for his role in a madman’s genocidal regime, and Harry is in love with him, has told him so, has told him that when he still hasn’t told Draco, not that Draco cares (it’s soon, anyway, and he’s certainly not in love, the very idea of which is patently absurd) and they, Marcel and Harry, they’ve spent the morning in the sheets Draco left warm, and Harry’s come to tell him, and—
Harry’s hand laid over his own pulls him out of his thoughts. “Draco?” Harry’s brow is furrowed. He’s worried, bless him. “It’s not anything like last time. I’m really sorry.”
“I.” Harry frowns. “Did you hear me? Oh, Merlin.” He winces. “I’m really, really sorry, but I’ve Vanished a few things. By accident.”
“Accident?” Draco repeats weakly.
“Yeah. I know, I know. ‘How do you Vanish things by accident, Potter, you idiot?’ I know. I was–there’s no class today, and I still need to work on the attic, and I was going through my school trunk and meant to Banish a few things, you know. Sweet wrappers, old parchment. But I sneezed and accidentally sort of…switched spells and re-aimed halfway through, and I’m sorry I even have to ask, really, I am.”
“Oh.” Draco is almost light-headed with relief. This doesn’t seem like a prelude to a bigger confession. Though, his lingering queasiness reminds him, Harry could be trying to break Marcel to him gently. He clears his throat. “It’s fine. Slow day. Do you want to fill out the forms or come back and look yourself?”
“Can I? Come look?”
Draco slips off his stool and straightens his robes. “Not any more than you could the last time, but once an exception’s been made, well. Might as well.”
“If it’s a problem…” Harry trails off.
“No, no. It’s fine. Come with me.” Draco turns and leads him back towards the dais. He can feel Harry fidgeting behind him. “What is it you’ve misplaced, anyway?”
“Um.” Harry’s voice sounds oddly strained, and the pit of worry in Draco’s stomach starts to grow. “Some old school things. Notebooks. Old clothes.”
“All very urgent, clearly.”
“Uh, yeah. Just. You know.” Harry’s trainers squeak against the lino. “You don’t even have to come with me. I can just grab them and be off. Take some forms, give them to you to bring back tomorrow.”
Draco’s stomach tightens further. His voice follows. He doesn’t know what Harry’s so eager to hide from him, but none of the options are good. “No need.”
There’s a small pile in the centre of the dais. Draco pulls up at its edge, Harry right behind him. It does look like a pile of clothes, and it makes no sense for Harry to want to hide this from him. Unless they’re not Harry’s. Unless they belong to Marcel, who’s undoubtedly got a huge cock, and they probably shower together when they’re all messy after class – Draco knows how Harry tries to pretend he’s not peeking at Draco in the shower and Marcel is probably so used to being covered in raw egg that he, unlike Draco, has forgotten that the whole purpose of showers is getting clean – and he’s left his pants behind and Harry’s trying to get them out of here before Draco notices.
Harry steps up on to the dais and moves towards the pile.
Draco takes two long strides around him. Harry looks up at him, distressed, and Draco scrambles. “Proper cataloguing. Have to tag each item.”
Harry wrings his hands. “I can do it for you.”
“No need.” If he’s about to have his heart broken, Draco will be twice damned if he doesn’t do it with dignity. Or if he lets Potter take carefully established bureaucratic protocols down with it.
He picks a stack of parchment off the top of the pile and pulls a label from his pocket. “Parchment.” He stops to count. “Fourteen sheets. Standard. Unused. Area G, Aisle 2, Shelf 10.” With a flick of his wand he stamps “RETRIEVED” across the tag.
“Draco, really, I can do this. Isn’t the afternoon for forms and correspondence? I don’t want to keep you.”
“No, no. Every patron deserves the same exemplary service we’re known for.”
Draco leans down to pick up the next item, a wrinkled pool of Gryffindor red cloth.
His throat is suddenly dry. He swallows against a cough.
He clears his throat. “One Quidditch cloak. Standard Hogwarts uniform item. Gryffindor. Area G, Aisle 3, Shelf 7.” He stamps it “RETRIEVED” and sends it to the edge of the dais.
He is more prepared for the next item. “One pair Quidditch boots. Standard Hogwarts uniform item. Gryffindor. Area G, Aisle 2, Row 6, Shelf 4.”
“Draco.” Harry lays his hand on Draco’s arm. Draco shrugs it off and sends the boots to the edge of the dais.
At least it’s not Marcel’s pants. Yet.
“One Quidditch jersey. Standard Hogwarts uniform item. Gryffindor. Area G, Aisle 11, Shelf 16.”
“Draco.” Harry sighs.
“One pair, Quidditch shin guards. Standard Hogwarts uniform item. Area G, Aisle 17, Shelf 2.”
“Draco,” Harry repeats, resting his hand on Draco’s arm. “I’m sorry. I was hoping to get them out of here without you seeing.”
“That’s what you were hiding?” Draco spits the first word, still refusing to face Harry. Still wondering when Marcel’s pants will turn up.
It’s such a simple answer. Too simple to give Draco anything to get angry about. He wonders, not for the first time, if Harry is starting to pick up his Slytherin ways.
Or not. “I really am sorry. Didn’t mean to remind you, especially at work and all. Because, I know that you miss it. Whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I do not.”
Harry sighs and squeezes Draco’s arm before he drops his hand to his side.
“I don’t,” Draco insists.
“Is all the rest of this bits of your uniform?”
“Yeah. Look, I’m sorry. I really am”
“I do not miss Quidditch.”
“You’re just mysteriously busy every second Sunday?”
“I’m allergic to gingers.”
“Funny how you don’t break into hives when we meet them at the pub.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I’ve checked pretty thoroughly.”
“Smugness is not a virtue.”
“Since when do you like me for my virtue?”
“Since when do you care so much about Quidditch?”
“Since when do you not?”
Draco shoves the tagged pile aside with his foot and bends to retrieve the next item.
“Is it so wrong to want you to play every now and then? Or,” Harry rushes on before Draco can get a word in edgeways, “to wonder if there’s a reason you don’t? It meant as much to you as it did to me. I know it did.”
Harry doesn’t know the half of it. How much Draco had wanted to be on his house team, or how long he’d waited. How hard he practised, or the sting of Granger’s insistence, after a summer of daily drills, that he’d bought his way on to the team. How much he missed it when the war began. How many times he thought about leaving through his bedroom window in the middle of the night when the war was at its height, or how much he still misses wind-numbed fingertips and the sun against his cheeks.
But he’s determined to keep his feet on the ground these days. He can’t afford to give in to frivolity. This isn’t meant to be reward. It’s meant to be a penance. What does it mean if he gives in to the urge to fly away, even for a moment? No matter how strong it is. No matter how much time he spends pointedly not imagining Harry in the air, and how he must look, and how it might feel to be there next to him again, this time as…well, as something other than enemies.
“It’s fine.” He sticks a hand into the pile, now, perversely, half hoping he’ll come up with Marcel’s pants just for a change of subject. He comes up with a weakly fluttering Snitch instead.
He holds it between his fingers and stares.
Harry’s voice jolts him. “Clearly. Totally fine.”
“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”
“I don’t appreciate your shutting me out when we both know that playing would make you feel better.”
Draco closes his eyes, takes a deep, fortifying breath, and begins to count backwards from ten.
He hears Harry’s footsteps, can tell that if he opens his eyes he’ll be looking into Harry’s. Keeps them closed.
Wet fabric hits his dais, and he’s startled enough to forget not to look. He snaps his eyes open, fully prepared to be furious with Harry for disrupting the order of things, leaving wet rags all over his workspace.
He’s not prepared for the urgency in Harry’s green eyes. Or his bare chest, so exposed the way Harry’s standing, with his fists on his hips and the line of hair on his sternum so easily within reach. He hates that any of it gives him pause.
He’s pleased, at least, at the evenness of his voice. “What are you doing?”
“Proving a point.” Harry’s hands go to his belt, and then his flies, and he toes off his trainers before letting his jeans drop to the platform. He starts rifling through the pile.
Draco can’t quite help but watch him, storming around in his pants, upending both the sorted and unsorted piles in the process. “What point is that?”
Harry doesn’t respond until he’s mostly dressed. He goes to the edge of the platform and grabs his jumper. Stuffs each foot into a boot, laces them roughly, pulls his shin guards on over his trousers.
He throws his cloak on, stalks back to Draco, and plucks the Snitch from his fingers. “This. This is the point.”
He lets go, and the Snitch struggles a moment before flapping off down an aisle.
Draco does his best imitation of scepticism. “That you can control a barely-moving Snitch with both feet firmly planted on the floor? Hardly impressive.”
It sounds like a challenge and he wishes he could stuff the words back in as soon as they’re out, but the glimmer in Harry’s eye suggests he’s far too late.
Harry takes a step closer, bringing them almost chest to chest. Harry’s uniform smells like leather and clipped grass and he tilts his head so his breath ghosts over Draco’s ear. “That you missed this,” he murmurs. “That you still want to play. That you still want to win.”
Draco takes a step back. “Please. I’m fine without Quidditch.”
“Of course you are.” Harry doesn’t sound especially sarcastic; it almost throws Draco off guard.
“Of course I am.”
“Adequate. Acceptable. Passable. Fine.”
“I see you didn’t Vanish your thesaurus.”
“Since when is fine good enough?”
The moment stretches on. Draco realises he’s stopped breathing, but it takes several more seconds for him to start again. To remind himself that fine is a luxury for people like him. That fine is—has to be—enough. More than enough.
His voice feels as though it’s coming through layers of cotton. “What, exactly, is wrong with being fine?”
“Nothing.” Harry raises his hands to gesture and drops them again. “If you’re someone who likes fine. But since when is fine enough for you?”
Draco is very rarely speechless. And yet.
He doesn’t know how to make Harry understand.
Harry rushes on before he can make the attempt. “I know you, Draco. I know you care about doing all of this correctly. I know you’re glad to be fine, you don’t have to prove it to me. But I know you, too. I know you. I knew you when you were eleven, a smug arse trying to prove a point on a broom, and when you were twelve, how much happier, how much calmer, you got halfway into a game, so far into the sky that nobody could see you but me. I know how you flew out of that Fiendfyre, how it was something you knew so viscerally that even the possibility of dying didn’t keep you from leaning into every turn. I know how you make excuses not to play, and that you won’t touch me if I come over right after. Won’t even look at me, quite.” He steps forward and grabs the closures of Draco’s robes, continues on in a gruff whisper. “I know you miss it.”
Draco is stunned when he steps back. Or maybe before. He just knows that everything’s a bit out of order.
Harry raises his wand. “Accio brooms.”
Draco’s barely processed the tremendous, echoing racket, or what it means for his workload, when he realises it would be wise to duck.
Harry casts a shield charm at the last second, and at least has the presence of mind to look bashful when he grabs a Firebolt off the top of a massive new pile. He shrugs, holding the handle towards Draco. “Oops?”
There’s too much for Draco too absorb. Muscle memory takes over, and he closes his fingers around the handle, only to jerk them away again as soon as he realises what he’s holding. It clatters to the floor.
Harry picks it up again and holds it out to him, expectant.
He doesn’t take it. Harry shrugs and lets go of it; it’s pure instinct for Draco to catch it.
He can see the hint of a smile as Harry goes digging in the pile behind him, coming up with another Firebolt and mounting it. “Ready?”
Draco feels the protest form in his throat.
Harry heads him off. “On my count. One. Two?”
Draco meets his eye and startles at Harry’s intensity. He looks just as he has so many times before and…and. Draco’s body moves without his permission, the starched line of his uniform struggling to fall around the cold wood as he takes his seat.
Draco’s fingers tighten around the handle.
He sees a flash of red disappear down an aisle, and Harry is gone from view.
He kicks off, tearing after Harry, pulling up short to look down the aisle.
Harry is already gone, and the full force of this ridiculous folly hits Draco in his absence.
He is sitting almost above his department, with its shelves upon endless shelves reaching for a ceiling that’s never been nearly this close. The dais looks smaller, the doors to the front office comically tiny when framed by the vastness of the room.
The front office is unattended. He hasn’t finished labelling Harry’s items. He could use this time to dust things. This vantage point, even. That’s what he should be doing. Much closer to what he should be doing.
He hears a whoop from Section C. His heart lurches, suddenly thudding in his chest. It shouldn’t matter. It can’t matter.
His body disagrees. He has to get there, has to, and if his lingering has cost him the Snitch…
He’s bent over the handle, shooting forward, before he can finish the thought.
Harry sits, arms crossed, over a field of sofas, the snitch hovering not five feet in front of him.
Draco pulls even. “It’s yours to catch.”
“Doesn’t count unless we’re both in the game.”
Draco meets his gaze.
“Count of three, again.”
Draco nods. The Snitch twitches.
The Snitch zips away, leaving nothing between them.
He won’t look away from Harry’s eyes. Won’t break eye contact and give him the advantage of an extra second to search for the Snitch.
There’s a second’s pause. Draco sees Harry’s knuckles whiten as he begins to pull up.
It’s…Merlin. His chest fills instantly, and maybe it’s the rush of breathing through the feint but it feels like something more. His heart races and he almost skims the back of a settee before shooting up to circle the area. Coming up without any sight of the Snitch, he zigs down an aisle, and another, charting courses he’s walked a hundred times before.
He’s circled the dais and started back when he spots Harry’s cloak whipping around a corner towards the back of the room, and makes a dash to beat him to the back. He almost clips a shelf but he knows—knows—how to do this. Harry will hit a wall at the end of the aisle he’s chosen, he’ll have to circle round, and Draco will get there first.
He shoots up, then leans forward, urging the Firebolt to move him through the space between the shelves and the ceiling, avoiding the obstacle of the aisles altogether. Once over the last aisle he dives almost directly into Harry’s path and they both veer sharply, barely avoiding a collision.
It’s not a proper pitch, though, and neither of them has quite enough time to recover. Draco barely has time to push the broom away before he tears through thick silk and collides with something that is, thankfully, not hard enough to injure. He hears another thud and hopes Harry’s managed to do the same.
Must be, because he hears his name while he’s still catching his breath.
Harry is calling for him, shouts punctuated by quick, heavy footsteps. Everything goes bright when Harry shoves a curtain open, and then Draco is looking up at him, heart still pounding.
Nothing hurts. He’s fine. Can’t quite manage to say it, though, or anything else. Not when Harry’s flushed and tensed and suddenly looks so much like the boy Draco used to know.
In his kit, Draco can so clearly see the Harry Potter he faced across the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. The boy they don’t talk much about, who cut him open once, who taunted him back every time, who made him skip revising to practise his Wronski feint, who he once risked his life to protect.
The boy-turned-man who crawls onto the mattress beside him, pressing a warm palm against his temple to check for injuries.
He’s suddenly a little dizzy.
“Draco? Draco? Are you okay? Can you hear me? Are you okay? Merlin, that was stupid, that was—” He cuts off abruptly when Draco grips his wrist.
Nothing about Potter is delicate, but Draco can wrap his fingers all the way around Potter’s wrist. The skin is bare at the gap between his sleeve and his gloves, and it’s warm and soft in a way Draco never knew Harry was before this thing between them.
It’s not the he’s never thought about Harry in this uniform. He can admit that much now. But he certainly never let himself think about thinking about Harry in this uniform. He buried each of those thoughts as soon as he fell asleep or forgot or came. Never let himself get far enough to imagine the possibility of Harry’s skin, that it might be warm and soft.
The rest is eerily similar, though, to just how he imagined it. The adrenaline, breathlessness, blood pounding. The laces on Harry’s cloak straining as he leans toward Draco, his jumper falling forward to reveal a collarbone. It’s not exactly the same; there haven’t been any punches thrown and there aren’t any showers. But the naked warmth of Harry’s wrist makes up for that, and his transparent concern would’ve been beyond Draco’s imagining.
And now he knows that Harry’s warm and soft, and that, combined with what’s suddenly in front of him…
“Yeah.” He’s hoarse. He doesn’t think it’s from the fall.
“Yeah.” He coughs, tries to sit up. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Harry repeats, sitting back on his heels with a frown.
He is fine. Nothing broken. He might bruise, but that’s nothing new between the two of them. He’ll have to do some sorting to fix the mess, but work really has been slow. He is. He’s fine.
But the look on Harry’s face makes him think again.
He is fine, but he’s not just fine. His heart is racing and adrenaline is coursing through his veins. Harry’s wrist is in his hand and it feels delicate and improbable. His blood is hot. It all feels good. Really good.
Draco’s chest does a funny, squirmy sort of thing. “Yes. I am fine.” He tightens his fingers around Harry’s wrist. “Among other things.”
There’s an unmistakeable hint of hopefulness in Harry’s voice, and he turns his head back slowly. “Other things?”
Draco pulls Harry’s wrist toward him and Harry takes the hint, kneeling over him so that their chests are inches apart. “Other things,” Draco repeats.
Harry’s voice is so thoroughly laced with eagerness that Draco is almost taken aback, and certainly loses track of his thoughts. Has Harry been this worried about him? Because he’s said he’s fine? Which is, admittedly, not the sort of description he’s generally capable of, but he hadn’t quite realised Harry would’ve noticed and can only do so much better in the midst of a revelation. “Warm,” he offers.
“Warm?” Harry knits his brows together, looking confused.
A confusion that, Draco realises, is about him. About wanting to know how he is. About wanting him to be more than fine. Draco swallows. Tries to wrap his head around it. “Yes. You’re on me, it’s rather…you’re warm.”
“Oh.” Harry frowns. “I can move.”
“No.” Draco tenses his fingers around Harry’s wrist and shifts his hips under Harry’s. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
Harry’s frown fades into something less concerned and more curious. There’s that hint of hopefulness again.
Hopefulness. The thought that Draco could be happier makes Harry hopeful. Draco blinks up at him, scrambling to catch up with his own brain. Maybe Harry hasn’t been peeking into the shower and thinking of Marcel. Maybe Harry’s been checking on him. Not that checking on him in the shower is the most accurate measure of wellbeing but, Draco realises, it’s not the only time Harry has checked, or asked him how he is, or told him jokes out of nowhere, or tried to get him out flying. And maybe checking on him in the shower serves another purpose as well.
The sort of purpose he’s in a rather good position to see through.
He can show Harry that he’s capable of being happy. That there are some things in his life he really quite enjoys.
He blinks. Catches Harry’s eye. “Warm is not a bad thing.”
“It’s not exactly a good one.”
Harry ploughs on before Draco can respond.
“And, not to be a broken record, but you, know, it would be okay—the good ones are good. We should enjoy the good ones, don’t you think? And I just—it would be nice to see you happy. To see you…I know you’ve been fine, you’re okay, and that’s good, but it’s okay to want more even though—”
Harry pauses, unsteady, and it takes him another moment to remember to close his mouth.
“I know that.”
“Do you?” It’s half rhetorical, but only half.
“Yes. In case you hadn’t noticed,” Draco rolls his hips under Harry, “there are some things that make me quite happy.”
Harry’s not having it. “That doesn’t count.”
Harry doesn’t answer. He looks rather confused by the question, as though it hadn’t occurred to him that something like that would or should count.
“It’s not the only thing that makes me happy. But I don’t see why it can’t be one of them.”
“Being ‘happy’ for fifteen minutes every couple of days is not happiness.”
Draco smacks Harry’s thigh. “It is not fifteen minutes.”
“However long, then.” Harry raises his eyes towards the canopy as if begging it for forbearance, but Draco can see him suppressing a smile, too. “It’s still…like, you should be happy more than that.”
“Harry.” Draco rests his hand on the top of the thigh he’s just smacked. Wonders if the next sentence is true. Maybe not in every way, but maybe it can become true. Maybe—definitely, he realises—it already is becoming more true. “There are other things that make me happier. I can—I can be happy.”
“Can you?” Harry raises an eyebrow, walking the line, again, between rhetorical and sincere.
“Yeah.” Draco looks at him, at the mess of confusion and scepticism and hope on his face, and says it again, more firmly. “Yeah. I can.”
“Like, really? In lots of ways? Not just the sex, which, it’s brilliant and I’ll give you that it’s more than fifteen minutes, but—”
“Yes, in other ways.” He sighs. “You may not always see it, but my work does make me happy in its own way. I have been pursuing social occasions more frequently, as you well know. You make me happy, and not only during the hours and hours of rapturous fucking.”
“Even if those do contribute to my happiness.”
Harry shoots him an exasperated sort of look, like he knows Draco is trying to change the subject.
Though Draco doesn’t think he can really be blamed, when Harry’s on top of him in his old Quidditch uniform. “Speaking of,” he smiles, “I could be a bit happier right now.”
Harry rolls his eyes, but it ends in a grin.
“It only seems fair when I’ve had to go through the trouble of retrieving yet more of your carelessly Vanished items.”
Something about the way he says it makes Draco wonder if he really did. He quirks an eyebrow at Harry. “Did you?”
A flush creeps onto Harry’s cheeks. “Yes,” he mumbles.
“Hmm. Unfortunate, that.”
“Yeah. An unfortunate accident.”
Draco lets go of Harry’s wrist and props himself on his elbows. “Adds to my workload, you know.”
“Well apparently making it up to me would only take fifteen minutes.”
“Not rapturous hours?”
Draco lays back and folds his arms behind his head. “Not if you’re quick about it.”
Harry toys with the clasps of Draco’s uniform robes. “What did you have in mind?”
“Bit of happiness. Liven up the day.”
“Care to be more specific?” Harry trails a finger down the front of Draco’s uniform.
“You could suck me off. Especially if it’ll get you to stop asking questions.”
It’s Harry’s turn to smack Draco’s thigh.
“Just a suggestion.”
“Just a quick and dirty blow job? Seems like a missed opportunity to me.”
Harry brings his hand back to the laces of his cloak, his eyes entirely focused on Draco. “For someone with an organisational system for everything, you keep an awful lot of Quidditch Weeklys in your bedside drawer.”
“For someone who can’t be bothered to remember any of those organisational systems, you’re awfully observant.”
“I’m full of surprises.” He releases the tie and makes quick work of the laces. With just a hint of smugness, Harry shrugs off the cloak. “So tell me then. What exactly would make you happy?”
Draco grins. “Could do without that jumper.”
Harry brings his hands to the hem and pulls it off, dropping it just above Draco’s head with a hint of a smirk. He’s got to bend forward to do it and it brings Harry’s nipples in line with Draco’s mouth, if tragically just out of reach, and Draco thinks he likes this plan very much.
Harry sits back, his skin glowing with the hint of exertion, and Draco takes his time looking at the trail of hair that gets thicker as it approaches his waistband.
Instead of proceeding with his own clothes, Harry turns to Draco’s. He starts from the top, working each clasp open with slow precision.
He reaches just under the wool and starts on Draco’s shirt buttons next, and each one brings Draco into his body more firmly than the last. He’s a bit startled at the first one, cold at the second. But then Harry’s at an angle to trail the sides of his fingers over Draco’s skin as he goes, and that’s another feeling altogether. Warm. It’s warm. But not only. It’s electric, too, and gentle, and it feels bloody wonderful.
Harry tugs Draco’s shirt tails free, spreads shirt and robe both, and bends to place a kiss on his sternum. It’s light at first, almost tentative. Then another, firmer.
When there’s a third, Draco takes the chance to look down and take Harry in properly. His hair is windswept, his shoulders broad. And when he looks up, his eyes are dark and intent and, Draco thinks, just a bit dangerous.
It’s everything he can do not to squirm.
He’s glad he’s managed when Harry swings a leg up and over him, nonchalantly taking a seat by his hips and leaning back, his boots propped on the pillow next to Draco.
Harry picks at the rest of Draco’s clasps with an absolute lack of urgency. When he’s done, he pushes the starched wool back to either side of Draco. He surveys Draco’s body with a smile. “You’re hard.”
“Yes,” Draco drawls.
Harry reaches out, his hand suspended over the bulge in Draco’s trousers. “So. About that happiness.” He drops a finger to trace the ridge of Draco’s erection.
Harry grin is almost unnerving in its impishness. “You could be a bit more specific. What, exactly, would make you happiest?”
Draco raises his head off his forearms and shoots Harry an amused look. “‘Suck my cock’ not specific enough for you? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how.”
“You didn’t say ‘suck my cock,’ you said ‘suck me.’ We’ve already making progress.”
“I’m thrilled beyond all imagining.”
Harry leans down and nips at the skin just above Draco’s belt. “Would you rather I suck something else?”
“Why Potter, I’m so glad you asked. I’ve haven’t known how to tell you but I’ve been absolutely dying for you to suck on my littlest toe. Don’t know how we haven’t gotten round to discussing it in depth.”
Harry grins up at him. “I like you.”
Draco’s heart skips a beat. “Fuck off.”
“So much.” Harry draws the waistband of Draco’s trousers down a fraction and sucks on the skin just above his hipbone.
It’s just the surprise that makes Draco whimper quite so audibly, he’s sure of it. It’s a sensitive spot.
Harry grins up, even more obviously pleased with himself. “So, your cock.”
“Yes sir,” Draco drawls, and if Harry makes a bit of a face…well, he’ll remember that for later.
Harry swallows visibly, but he’s not thrown, rather to his credit. “What would you like me to do with it?”
“Your mouth. On my cock. Swear to Merlin, you have not always found this quite so difficult.”
In one smooth move, Harry swings around to straddle Draco’s knees, leaning forward to rest his lips on the cloth outline of Draco’s cock. He stills for a moment, then pulls back. “Like that?”
“You’re incredibly strange.”
“Is that Draco for ‘I like you too’?”
Draco narrows his eyes. “Wasn’t this supposed to be quick?”
“Maybe I just want to know if there’s anything that would make you really extra happy.”
“Have you lost your memory? Do we need to call a healer? I would’ve sworn you know how to do this.
Harry bends forward and the tip of Harry’s tongue skates over Draco’s clothed erection so lightly he can barely feel it. He comes up with a hungry smile. “Think I just need you to remind me.”
“Salazar bloody Slytherin. You’re not joking.”
“Nope.” Harry presses a line of kisses to the top of Draco’s thigh.
“Fuck.” Draco’s head rolls back. If they’re going to do this, might as well really do it. He props his head on his forearm, lifting up so he can see Harry work. “Right then. Take my belt off.”
Harry catches his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down as he lowers his fingers to the metal. He’s entirely focused as he slips it through Draco’s belt loops, almost startles when Draco tells him to, “Set it down next you. I might want that later.”
Draco sees Harry rub a hand over his own trousers and can’t keep the grin out of his voice. “Trousers next. And pants.”
Harry obeys, shoving them down Draco’s thighs, and the warmth of his hands on Draco’s hips has him fighting to keep them on the bed. “Next?”
“Take me in your mouth.”
There’s a promising glint in Harry’s eye when he looks up the split second before taking Draco down completely.
Draco moans, open-mouthed, can’t help it. Warm, and soft, Harry is so warm and soft, not just his skin, and he wants more, Merlin but it feels good.
After one glorious moment, Harry pulls off again and grins. “Like that?”
“That,” Draco breathes, “that will do, yes.”
“Mmm.” Harry brings his hands forward, kneeling on all fours with his mouth perilously, wonderfully close to the tip of Draco’s erection. “What else?”
Harry lowers his head, slowly this time, and Draco’s eyes flutter shut when Harry makes contact. It’s slow, the slide of Harry’s tongue against his shaft, until he hits the back of Harry’s throat and gasps when Harry hollows his cheeks and sucks.
“Fuck,” he gasps, eyes popping open to watch his cock disappearing into Harry’s mouth. “Don’t stop.”
Harry looks up at him, eyes dark, and quirks a brow.
“Wrap your hand around the base.”
Harry whines at that, pops off with a pout. “I like your cock in my mouth.”
“That’s two of us, but you can like it in your hand, too.”
Harry half-laughs and wraps his fingers around Draco’s shaft, and that’s warm and soft too, and not too hard, and Harry already knows just how to do this. Probably knows he could reduce Draco to babbling without a single instruction.
“Right. Like that. Now. Kiss the tip.”
Harry leans forward and gives it a single feather light kiss before looking up to grin at Draco.
“If you’re going to be difficult.”
“Never,” Harry answers with mock-astonishment. “Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
“I’ll remember that. Do it again, properly.”
Harry drops his head and licks his lips, running his mouth down the side of Draco’s tip.
“Move your hand and lick the underside—yeah.” Draco hums. “Yes, like that. Right where that vein—yes. Again. Good.”
Harry keeps at it this time, licking without repeated instruction.
“Good,” Draco repeats. “Tip again, use your mouth, yes. Your hand, too, on the—yes.”
Harry circles his shaft with his hand and mouth, bobbing down until they meet, and Draco inhales sharply. “Yes.” His voice cracks. “Good.”
Harry hums in response, sucking the head of Draco’s cock and it’s not even the warmth that gives Draco pause, or the softness, but the intensity of it, the sparking, shooting pleasure of Harry’s hand and mouth moving together.
“Lower,” he says. His voice has gone hoarse and he doesn’t care, not at all. “With your hand.”
Harry drops his hand to brush a knuckle over Draco’s bollocks, sweeping over them and pressing against the skin underneath, just before his arse.
Draco closes his eyes as light explodes behind them. He moans. It’s not a command, far from it; he hopes Harry gets the message regardless.
Perhaps not. Harry pulls his hand away, squeezing Draco’s thigh, and a moment later his mouth pops off too.
Draco resists the warring urges to cry and smack him.
“What next?” Harry’s lips are flushed pink and Draco can’t imagine he doesn’t have a dozen ideas,
“Keep going,” Draco orders, “Merlin’s bloody sake, I’ll buy you a book.”
There’s a pause, but Harry complies.
It feels really bloody good, of course it does. His cock’s rock fucking hard and Harry’s mouth keeps inching lower. He’s got to be leaking into Harry’s mouth, and that’s why Harry pulls off like that to swirl his tongue over the tip, perfect, perfect, and he can feel his bollocks tightening and—
“Now?” Harry looks up at him, breathless, pupils dilated.
Draco has no bloody clue why he’s decided it’s a good moment for a pause but Draco’s rapidly moving closer to rage than happiness. The dirty talk’s all well and good, but he wants to fucking come, and it’s not going to happen if Harry needs him to keeps stopping to name body parts and give directions. He’s meant to be the recipient of a blow job here, not a technical manual, and even if he’s paid a price for it afterwards, sometimes he’s damned grateful for every day he spent in Slytherin House.
Harry’s expectant, and flushed, and a little breathless. “Yeah?”
Draco’s attempt at a dark smile becomes wholly sincere when he sees the trail of precome and spit linking Harry’s bottom lip to his cock. “Fuck my face.”
Harry startles. Sits up and drops his hands to brace himself against Draco’s thighs. “What?”
Draco tries not to moan; Harry’s thumb can’t be even an inch from his bollocks “Fuck my—”
“I heard you.” Harry flushes.
Harry shakes his head and stares at Draco’s mouth, eyes almost comically wide.
“You said it. ‘Tell me what you want and it’s yours.’”
“Yeah. I did, yeah.”
A mouthful of cock and it’ll stop Harry from stopping for instructions. “And I want you to fuck my face.”
“Now?” Harry almost squeaks.
“Right now.” Draco stretches and refolds his arms under his head. “I want you, hands and knees on top of me, filling my mouth with your cock.”
“Um.” Harry swallows. “I—yeah. All right. How?”
“Kneel over my chest.”
“Not the other way? What about you?”
“Whatever I want. Happiness, all that. Or was that not the offer?”
Harry looks at him, just looks for a long moment, and then slowly moves each knee to the outside of Draco’s hips.
He hesitates, seeking Draco’s eyes. “You’re sure?”
Harry shuffles forward. “What if you can’t breathe?”
“I’ve got a nose, never fear. No Dark Lords here.”
Harry snorts. “I really like you.”
“Lovely. Come fuck my face.”
Harry’s shin guards drag against the bedding. His boots are probably staining Draco’s robes. But the feel of cool leather against his sides more than compensates as Harry comes into place over him, bracing himself against the headboard.
This, Draco will admit, if only to himself, is something he thought about. Harry, naked save his boots and trousers, kneeling over him, about to take down his flies and reveal himself. Draco thought about it more than once. His cock twitches at the sight. Years in the making, and it’s just as good as he imagined.
His mouth waters. He looks up slowly, taking the time to savour. When he meets Harry’s eyes, he’s half surprised by the hint of nervousness he finds. Doesn’t hurt. That was always part of what he imagined, too. He blinks. Lets his mouth curve into a lazy smile. “All right, Potter. Show me your cock.”
Harry’s mouth quirks into a smile and his hands move to his waistband. He unbuttons the single button, revealing the laces beneath. He’s done them up properly. Habit. Even in the middle of a snit, Draco thinks he would’ve done the same.
And now he watches Harry undo them, loosening them first, then drawing the cord through the top sets of eyes. Harry folds the fabric back, tugs, testing to see if they’re loose enough for him to lower.
“No,” Draco interrupts, relaxing back against his arms to take in the view. “Unlace them. All the way.”
Harry pauses so long it’s almost a hesitation, but he keeps going. The aglet at the end of the tie almost catches every time, but Harry keeps at it, slowly. Wonderfully slowly.
At the bottom, Harry pulls the cord free, and drops it behind him.
“Good,” Draco breathes. “Good. Now pull them down. No—with your pants. Stop.”
Harry pauses as soon as Draco says it, and looks at him, nerves written openly across his face. Dark hair is visible over the line of his pants, and the outline of his cock is straining against the cloth. Seeing him like this–it’s just the sort of thing Draco isn’t eager to rush.
He exhales for a count of ten. Steadying himself. Committing this to memory. “Good. That’s enough. Keep going.”
Harry relaxes and does as he’s told. His cock springs free, hanging hard and heavy over Draco’s face. He digs his fingers into Harry’s long-since discarded jumper, resisting the urge to reach up and lick. He hums. “Take it in your hand and bring it to my mouth. Just the tip.”
Harry pauses again.
“You’re the one who wanted orders.”
Harry closes his eyes and shakes his head, and Draco can see the smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah.”
“Bring me your cock.”
When Harry does, he’s ready to receive it. Parts his lips just so, presses a kiss to the tip, flicks his tongue across the slit and brings it away salty. He’s not the only one who’s been enjoying this.
Draco cranes his neck and takes the tip in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around it. He loves the solid weight in his mouth and strains forward for more.
“Don’t hurt yourself,” Harry whispers.
“Hmm.” Draco pulls off, relaxing. “If you’ll do more of the work I won’t be in any danger.”
He shifts again, sliding down the sheets, ignoring his robes bunching around him, to lie flat between Harry’s thighs.
“How…? How, exactly?”
“Hands and knees. Put your cock in my mouth.”
“Right.” Harry bends forward, his cock already coming closer to Draco’s mouth. “Like that?”
“Yes,” Draco answers, barely resisting the urge to swallow him down and make far better use of his mouth.
“How will you say what you want?”
Draco smiles. Harry can’t see it; one of many benefits of this arrangement. “I already have.”
“But the point was—”
“Yes, and I’ve told you what I want.”
Harry inhales, holds his breath. Lets it go. “Tell me again.”
Draco lifts up to suck on Harry’s bollocks, and his cock throbs at Harry’s whine. He releases Harry with a wet pop and repeats himself. “I want you to fuck my face.”
“Right.” Harry takes a steadying breath. “Yeah. Okay.”
“When I tell you.”
Draco takes Harry’s bollocks back in his mouth, tugging gently, giving him a hint of teeth that leaves him gasping, drawing away and then shifting down for more.
He doesn’t get it. Draco leans back and opens his mouth, catching the tip between his lips and running his tongue down the underside.
Draco flattens his tongue and runs it back to the tip of Harry’s cock, then arches his neck to take Harry into his mouth, bobbing on his cock, sucking and licking, pulling free just to hear Harry gasp and see him move his hips in search of Draco’s mouth.
He sees Harry cant his hips, letting his legs slide back so he’s closer, so Draco can take more of him.
Draco pulls away. Catches his breath. Listens to Harry’s gasping breath, feels the heat of his body. He kisses the tip of Harry’s cock once, and leans back so he’s sure he’ll be heard.
“Now. Fuck my face.”
Harry groans and sinks down, and Draco is there to meet him. He relaxes his throat and takes Harry in, and he can feel the moan that resonates through Harry. “Fuck, Draco.”
He hums his approval around Harry’s cock, and that’s all it takes to get him moving.
Harry pulls halfway out, and slides in again, testing. When Draco takes him he tries again, with less hesitation. He pulls out again and barely pauses before he drives forward, harder this time. Harry’s boots dig in to Draco’s sides as he tightens around him, and Draco relaxes into it, leans his head back, opens his throat. Hums again.
Harry takes it as an invitation, thrusting in and withdrawing, again, again harder. Moaning. His cock is hot in Draco’s mouth, and it feels so good, to be free of the weight of words, to be reduced to motion, two bodies together.
Without thinking he drops a hand to Harry’s thigh, squeezing, running up to his arse and cupping it, massaging it so his hole will be exposed. Harry whines and bucks into Draco’s face. He hears Harry moan, and whisper, “Fuck, more, Draco, fuck, so good. You’re so, so good.”
He loves this about Harry. His expressiveness. Knowing exactly how, and how much, he likes it. Knowing what it means when he starts to roll his hips like this.
He feels Harry’s thighs tense around him and smacks Harry’s arse, hard.
Harry pulls back, sits up, surprised. “You okay?” His voice, even laced with a hint of concern, is gruff and raspy.
“Come on me.”
“On…?” Harry blinks.
Draco’s quick to realise it’s not a question. Potter’s thoroughly sex-addled, and if there’s an excuse for confusion that Draco can abide, that’s it.
“Come on my face.”
Harry whimpers and grips the base of his cock. “On?” He asks again, with more understanding but no more certainty.
“Mmm. I want your come on me. Want to watch you shoot on my face.”
“Fuck,” Harry gasps. “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Harry breathes. “Yeah, did that.”
“Ready to come?”
“Yeah.” Harry’s chest heaves. He looks far more prepared to come than to hold off for a minute longer.
Draco tucks his arm back under his head. “Come, then. As long as you wank me while you do it.”
Harry lets out a hoarse moan that goes straight to Draco’s cock. “Fuck yeah.”
Draco grins “I’d offer to lend you a hand, but—”
“No,” Harry shakes his head. “No fucking way.”
He loosens his grip on his own cock and reaches around for Draco’s.
“Fuck, you’re hard.”
Draco arches into Harry’s hand. “Mmmm.”
“Mhmm. You’re so fucking ready, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Harry pants. “Yeah, fuck. You?”
“Yeah,” Draco’s voice cracks. “Yeah, keep—yeah.”
“Just like that, with your hand, Merlin, no, harder.”
“Harder,” Harry repeats. “Yeah.”
“Keep touching me and—” Draco gasps at the twist of Harry’s wrist. “I’m gonna come.”
“Yeah?” Harry’s voice is gruff and hopeful and sounds so far gone, and that’s really all it takes.
Draco arches into it, lets his hips buck into Harry’s fist, arches off the bed and comes with a bloody vengeance, gripping Harry’s jumper for dear life and spilling over his hand with a string of curses.
As soon as Harry realises, he’s done for. Draco feels it, feels Harry’s come land on his cheek, opens his mouth to swallow what he can and hears Harry’s strangled, “Oh, fuck,” when he does.
Harry looks so stunned, so utterly gone as he milks the last of his orgasm, Draco’s almost worried he’ll forget to move.
Draco’s not sure he’d mind, though. He likes Harry like this, sitting over him, come dripping onto his unlaced Quidditch trousers, eyes shut, chest flushed.
No, Draco doesn’t mind at all. He’s fairly certain his teenaged id is pretty fucking pleased, as a matter of fact.
It takes at least a minute before Harry comes back to himself, before he winces and stops touching himself and collapses to Draco’s side. “Fuck.”
“Mmm,” Draco replies.
“That.” Harry breathes. “That was.”
Draco is on the verge of agreeing when Harry leans up and grabs his face, turning him so they’re eye to eye.
“That was fucking amazing.”
“I know,” Draco agrees.
“Not fine. Fucking. Amazing.”
“Yes.” Draco raises an eyebrow. “I’m well-fucking-aware.”
“If you could look me in the eye after that and say anything less—”
Harry pauses, self-righteous wind gone out of his sails.
“Harry. Listen to me. Can you? Has the blood got back that way yet?”
He takes the knee to his thigh as a yes.
“Lovely.” Draco and turns on his side to look down at Harry. Rests a hand on his chest before he continues. “This month has had a lot of reasons to be fine and not much more. I’ll give you that much. But it’s not—it’s March. Doldrums for everyone. Half the Ministry’s sopping wet half the time.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t want more for yourself.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Draco agrees. “But I do have some perspective on the matter. Really, Harry.” He inhales and lets it out slowly. “During the war, how many times—what would you have given to be fine? Just fine? To know everyone you loved was fine.”
Harry looks down at the hand on his chest and moves it to rest over his heart. “A lot. I would’ve given a lot.”
“Me too. Fine isn’t exactly the worst thing in the world.”
“No.” Harry traces the outline of Draco’s fingertips against his sternum. “But it’s not the war any more. We can hope—” He sighs and grips Draco’s forearm. “That was the whole point of fighting it in the first place. We can hope for more. We can be happy, maybe. I think we can.”
Draco’s objections are pre-empted when he realises Harry’s slipped out of generalities. “I think we are.”
Harry looks up at him, all hopefulness again. “You do?”
He crooks his index finger to smooth the hair where his hand is held to Harry’s chest. “I meant it when I said I’m not just fine. That there are things that make me happy. As you may recall, you were on that list.”
Draco has not historically liked the sort of feelings that creep into his stomach, but he finds he doesn’t mind this one, this strange sort of warmth. “You know. I like you too. Now I think about it.”
Harry’s smile is brilliant. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Draco pauses, shuts his eyes. “You might be right about Quidditch, too. Might.”
“Might?” There’s a note of humour in Harry’s voice, and it’s a welcome change.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You said I might be.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Is it pushing it to mention, in passing, that there’s a game next Sunday at 4 and that Charlie’s going back to Bulgaria and we’ll need a new Seeker?”
“Excellent.” Harry rolls onto his side and pulls Draco towards him with a contented sigh.
Draco keeps him at forearm’s length. “Is it pushing it to mention that there are dozens of brooms in need of re-sorting and that that is entirely your fault?”
“I guarantee that one of us will be commenting. Possibly at some length and in lieu of sexual favours.”
“Er.” Harry offers a bashful smile. “As in, those dozens of brooms should probably be re-sorted by whatever nitwit pulled them down in the first place?”
“Almost as if you read my mind.”
“Trying to keep me around all day, are you?”
“Oh, put your bloody jumper on.” Draco chucks it at him.
“Or…” Harry pulls him in for a kiss. “That really didn’t take that much longer more than fifteen minutes, did it?”
Draco hums and reaches out to grope the bedsheets for his discarded belt. He thinks Harry is wrong about that. He also thinks the brooms can wait.