Harry knows he’s fucking losing it, but to be honest, he doesn’t really care. He sees himself splashed all over the pages of every owl-order tabloid, sees the bottle hanging from his fingertips, sees grainy images of himself rutting against various men. But he doesn’t seem to have an ounce of caring left.
Ron and Hermione care. But they also love him enough not to let him push them away, so they’ve reduced their worrying to sidelong glances and bitten lips. And that’s all right, that’s how he prefers it. He doesn’t want an intervention. He just wants to live his life.
Five years prior, he would have laughed to hear it. Harry Potter, the epitome of debauchery? Ha. He would have been surprised just to hear that he was still alive.
He doesn’t mind the tabloids or the buzzing murmur of the old gossips upstairs, but he does feel a sense of muted terror at the thought that even if he wanted to regain control of his life, he wouldn’t know how. But he ignores that thought the best he can, pushing it down behind the layered memories of sex and alcohol and alleyways behind bars.
Sometimes he goes too far. He’s got three instances of ‘drunk in public’ on his record. Once, he pissed in the new fountain in the middle of Diagon, the one with the giant statue honoring the war heroes. That one got him thrown in a Ministry cell for three days. Worse, that one got him a scolding from Hermione, which still makes him feel guilty to this day. She’s one of the only people who really knows him anymore, so her words have the ability to dig in deep like few can.
So this time, when the Aurors pluck him off of the streets, he’s not surprised. He knows he’d been a bit obnoxious on the walk home (he always walks, because he’s smart enough not to Apparate while drunk and he still fucking hates the Floo).
But he is surprised when they throw him into one of the soundproof interrogation rooms—that hasn’t happened since the fountain-pissing incident. Whatever. He’s still a bit too intoxicated to care, and they’ll explain themselves soon enough. The Auror who’d brought him in disappears through the metal door, which locks itself with a startling click, and he remembers how he had once wanted to be an Auror. It elicits a bubble of humor in his gut. He laughs quietly to himself.
Harry waits. The wooden chair beneath him is uncomfortable, too solid and stiff. He shifts, trying to ease his discomfort, but it doesn’t work, so he drums his fingers against the table in front of him instead. Anything to appease his boredom.
Sometime later, after Harry’s buzz has worn off, the door opens. He wishes he’d been allowed to keep his wand. His mouth tastes awful, and he could do with an anti-hangover charm.
Slowly, he raises his eyes to the Auror standing on the opposite side of the table. Ah, Malfoy.
Malfoy smirks, pulling out the chair across from Harry and sitting down. His body moves with a certain grace to it, despite all of its hard lines and sharpness, and Harry feels the familiar throb of lust starting to burn in his groin. The idea of ‘lust’ combined with ‘Malfoy’ is so fucking weird that Harry has to close his eyes for a moment. Fuck.
The lust is wrestling with his initial shock at seeing the man, resulting in a sprawling wave of emotion that wants to knock him flat. Merlin, he hasn’t talked to Malfoy in, what, years? Since after the final battle, he’s almost certain. And if Malfoy had looked the same as he had back then, Harry wouldn’t have hesitated to hate him. But Malfoy’s face has changed, matured; it’s the evidence of the abandonment of his youth, which Harry supposes isn’t surprising because nothing has been the same as back then in a very long time. Not even Malfoy. And it’s funny, because if he had been accosted by someone who looked like Malfoy in a club, he wouldn’t have even tried to resist their advances.
It’s funny, but Harry doesn’t laugh.
The lust spikes as he watches Malfoy swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing pleasantly under the skin of his pale, pale neck. Harry’s still trying to decide whether he wants to hate him or fuck him when Malfoy opens his mouth.
"Well, well, what do we have here? The Chosen One himself, stooping to petty crime to get attention? How the mighty have fallen," Malfoy leans back, and Harry rolls his eyes. He definitely wants to hate him, then.
But when he tries to summon the hatred, it’s not nearly as sharp and all-consuming as it had been when they were young. Instead, the lust fills its place, along with the slight tang of melancholy that accompanies anything he associates with the war. Harry wishes he could have gotten angry, because he can deal with anger. He can’t deal with lust for a person he’s not even sure he hates anymore.
“Petty crime?” He reiterates. At least his words aren’t slurring anymore, like they had been earlier.
Malfoy arches a sharp brow, steepling his fingers on the table. “Do you know why you’re here, Potter?” It’s a standard Auror question, which is a good sign, because if Malfoy is going to be professional about this then there’s no need to worry.
But that’s an ‘if’ with a capital ‘I’.
Harry shrugs. “Drunk in public again, I assumed.”
“Not this time, although given your record, that wouldn’t be surprising,” Malfoy drawls, eyeing him calmly. “Anything else you could have done tonight that could possibly be illegal?”
Harry thinks about it, then shakes his head. “Not that I can recall,” he fights to keep his voice even, because the alcohol hasn’t quite worn off yet and the longer he stares at Malfoy, the more temptation seeps inside of him.
Malfoy sighs. “I can’t tell if you’re being uncooperative or if you have no idea, but for your sake, let’s hope you’re not simply being difficult. You’ve been brought in under suspicion of breaking and entering into a shop on Knockturn not far from where you were apprehended by the Aurors. Anything you’d like to say to that?”
Harry frowns. “I didn’t do it.”
Malfoy’s mouth twists primly. “Even though the shop happened to be Borgin and Burke’s, and the words “I will never forgive you for what you did” are inscribed on the wall?”
The ground drops out from beneath Harry’s stomach, and he visibly recoils. “No!” He wouldn’t… he doesn’t touch the war, can’t stand the vigilantes who can’t seem to let it go. He’d let it all go, and then he’d let himself go, too (or so Hermione had said).
Malfoy stares at him for a moment, seeming just the slightest bit ruffled, and Harry gets it—he hadn’t wanted to touch this case, either. Eventually, he tilts his head, nodding slowly at Harry. “If you testify for the record under Veritaserum, we can let you go.”
Harry agrees without reservation.
When Malfoy leaves the room, presumably to retrieve the truth serum, Harry finally allows himself to slump into his chair. Fuck, he would rather have been chastised for being drunk in public again than incriminated in a war-related crime that he most certainly did not do. To make matters even more confusing, having Malfoy across from him the whole time had the side effect of making him embarrassingly, uncomfortably hard.
Malfoy returns, the door bolting itself and then slowly blending in to the seamless metal walls. Harry watches the outline disappear, wondering at how he hadn’t noticed it happening before.
Malfoy’s holding a glass of water and a small potion vial. He sets the glass onto the table and tips three drops of the clear potion into it, sitting when he’s done and pocketing the potion vial. He nudges the glass toward Harry.
Harry leans forward and takes it. “Will being drunk bother with the potion?” he stares into the glass. It’s impossible to tell that anything has been added to the water, which ripples lightly from side to side.
“It shouldn’t, but I can sober you if you want,” Malfoy offers, and that’s the first time that Harry truly can tell that Malfoy is nervous.
“No, thanks,” Harry declines. He’d rather not have Malfoy’s wand pointed at him if he can help it. With more than a little trepidation, he drinks the water, feeling the coolness spill inside of him with every swallow.
It’s not until he’s done that he realizes that Malfoy could use this moment to humiliate him. Fuck. The interrogation rooms have anti-violence wards, but they’re monitored barely at all for low profile cases, or so Ron’s told him. An uneasy feeling in his gut takes hold, and he doesn’t know if it’s the remnants of the alcohol or the potion or the situation or a combination of all three.
Malfoy opens his mouth, and Harry suddenly becomes aware of the man’s lips. They look soft, even though the words that they form have so often been harsh, and Harry’s breath catches at the thought of those lips pressing against his own.
Fuck. He doesn’t need to be thinking about sex right now. He’ll wank when he’s home, he promises himself. For now, he just needs to pay attention.
Malfoy flicks his wand, presumably to start recording the session. “What is your name?” he starts.
“Harry James Potter,” Harry responds automatically. His name is simple, easy. Everyone knows it.
“Where is your place of work?”
“I’m not employed,” he says, and stops, but the potion spurs him on. “I volunteer at Muggle orphanages, though.” The potion is most definitely working, but it’s all right. This question’s easy, too.
Malfoy leans forward, gazing into Harry’s eyes. Harry meets his stare, feeling the neglected urge to be defiant surge forth within him. He almost laughs at the thought of it.
“Did you break the window at Borgin and Burke’s souvenir shop on Knockturn Alley tonight?” Malfoy’s voice dips lower, and Harry is so fucking turned on that it’s ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. Malfoy could do anything to him, and no one would hear it. He holds desperately onto the fact that Ron’s said that Malfoy’s a good Auror, if still a bit pretentious. A good appraisal from Ron is as good as truth in Harry’s ears.
“No,” Harry answers with certainty, heart pounding nonetheless.
“Did you use your wand to spell graffiti onto the wall?” Malfoy continues.
“No,” Harry says again. The lightness of his tongue continues to surprise him every time he speaks.
“Have you been anywhere near Borgin and Burke’s within the last twenty-four hours?” Malfoy looks one part pleased and one part something that Harry has no idea how to decipher.
“No—well, I went to the bar down the street,” the potion makes him say. “But that’s as close as I’ve been.”
Malfoy nods, and flicks his wand to dispel the recording spell. But he makes no move to get up, and Harry’s heart speeds faster, his palms starting to sweat. “Potter,” Malfoy says, and he looks briefly like he’s warring with himself. “…What do you think of me?”
The question is innocent enough.
The answer Harry gives, though, is not.
He’s been various stages of turned on ever since Malfoy sat down, and the lust has since overpowered his confusion about Malfoy by far. And so he opens his mouth, spurred on by the potion, and says “I think you’re really fucking hot.”
Fuck fuck fuck—Malfoy was never meant to know that Harry’s been thinking that, fuck—
Malfoy’s eyes widen. Whatever answer he had been expecting, it didn’t seem to be this one. He swallows, and that Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and Harry feels like he’s suspended in midair.
He’s brought back to reality, to the hard wooden slats of his chair, when Malfoy stands up. Harry’s mouth goes dry, because now he can’t avoid paying attention and Malfoy’s robes are slimming enough to tell that he looks really fit, a fact that is most definitely not helping. Malfoy raises his wand, and Harry flinches, but then he casts a familiar figure-eight spell with a slash down the middle—the one that rids Harry of the “incarcerated” tag on his magical signature.
It means Harry’s free to go. But he doesn’t stand. He can’t, because he’s still hard, and he’s wearing the slim trousers meant for bar nights. If he stands, Malfoy will most definitely see.
Malfoy doesn’t move to leave, either. He seems like he’s debating with himself once again. He flicks his eyes back down to Harry, then carefully slips his wand back into his pocket, those eyes still piercing into Harry as if to make a hole in his brain.
The lust is burning in Harry’s body. He’s never been so turned on—instant gratification has been the norm for him nowadays. But warring against the desire is the faint-but-evident trace of his hatred for Malfoy, which Harry still hasn’t figured out. Every word from Malfoy’s mouth had made him either want to punch him or kiss him. His head is spinning.
He wants to go home, but he stays just a moment too long, and by then Malfoy is stalking toward him, fire in his eyes. Malfoy leans over and roughly slides a hand into Harry’s hair and kisses him, and fuck, those lips are as soft as Harry had dreamed. Malfoy’s tongue is pressing inside his mouth, coercive and soft, but not easy. Nothing about this is easy. And Harry doesn’t know if he’d be able to deal with this at all, in the aftermath, even as Malfoy’s mouth presses so insistently against his own.
Malfoy pulls away to breath, a thin trail of spit stretching and breaking between their mouths, and Harry almost wants to whimper at the intense look of wanting in Malfoy’s face. Harry can’t tell if Malfoy’s hard, because his Auror robes are too thick to see through, but he can imagine that it’s most definitely true. Then he imagines Malfoy fucking into him, hard and slick, and those thoughts are his undoing.
Because then Malfoy asks him another question. “What do you want Potter?”
Harry really, truly, means to say that he doesn’t know. He means to say that he wants Malfoy to get away from him, and that he wants to go home.
Instead, his mouth opens, and in a low, husky voice that he doesn’t recognize, he says “I want you to fuck me over the table.”
Harry snaps his mouth shut, adrenaline flooding his limbs. The potion had picked up on his fucking fantasies, and the damage has already been done, because Malfoy’s fingers are already working nimbly at the buttons on his Auror robes.
The truth is that Harry wants to see what lies underneath Malfoy’s clothes. So instead of standing and moving away, he sits and watches, desire humming in his chest and uncertainty hovering at his throat.
Slowly, Malfoy’s pale skin is revealed, and Harry can see the scars. Harry’s scars. “I will never forgive you for what you did,” the graffiti had said, and Harry knew that the words hadn’t been meant for the shopkeepers. So why had Malfoy been put on this case?
Malfoy’s robes fall off, revealing the lines on his chest and his faded Mark and his tented boxers. Harry can’t stifle a whimper from the want, and at the same time, he remembers something else Ron had said when he’d been talking about Malfoy being his colleague.
“Sometimes the other chaps are hard on him,” Ron had been toying with his pint glass as he said it. “And sometimes they’re downright mean. They put him on cases that deal with the death eater aftermath, and they tell him that everyone else works on those kinds of cases too, but that’s a load of bullshite. They never give me any of those cases. And… I don’t want to sound like a bad person, mate, but they’re sort of punishing him, and he takes it without complaining, because he kind of deserves it, you know?”
Harry had told Ron that no, Ron was not a bad person, and that he agreed that Malfoy deserved it. Now, with Malfoy standing before him half-naked and looking so very different from the Malfoy of their youth, Harry can’t imagine why.
Malfoy leans over and tugs at Harry’s shirt, and Harry lets him lift it off over his head, standing as he does so. Then Malfoy starts tugging at Harry’s zip, and Harry is transfixed by the slenderness of Malfoy’s hands as they dance so closely to his crotch. Malfoy shoves Harry’s trousers to his ankles. Then, in a whirlwind of motion, he yanks Harry’s pants down too, spinning Harry around with those slender hands and pushing him roughly to the table.
Harry whimpers, because he hadn’t known that he wanted Malfoy to be rough with him until it had already happened. The table is cold beneath his hands, and if he opens his eyes, he can see the empty water glass right in front of his face. Then Malfoy’s body presses against him, and Harry can feel the heaviness of Malfoy’s cock through the cloth of his pants. He closes his eyes.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” Malfoy whispers into his ear.
“I don’t… I…” Harry starts, and then he’s fighting against himself, although he doesn’t know which bits of the fight are himself and which are just the potion inside him. Even if he did know, he doesn’t think he could tell which side is more truthful, anyway.
With a spark of startling clarity, Harry realizes that he’s going to let this happen. He’s going to let Malfoy fuck him. Even though his emotions are screaming that he’s going to hurt when it’s all over, he doesn’t care. He does want this, wants it more than he can remember wanting anything else in the last five years, and even without the alcohol and the potion, he doesn’t think he could have said no.
“…I want this,” Harry caves, admits, begs, and he swears he hears a murmured “Thank fuck” from behind him. And then Malfoy pulls away, putting a hand on Harry’s back and pushing him further so that his cock is pressed flush against the table. Harry groans, needing friction, needing something, and Malfoy gives it to him by pressing his mouth against Harry’s tailbone, and then kissing lower, lower…
Harry briefly hears the whisper of a cleaning charm (he’s letting Malfoy cast spells on him now—what has his life come to?) But before he can overanalyze the thought, something warm and wet is dipping inside of him, licking at him. Malfoy’s hands are spreading him wide open as his tongue presses in and it feels so good so good, Harry’s left a trembling mess. And now Malfoy’s pushing further, in and out, fucking him with his tongue, and Harry can’t help but rut against the table because, fuck, he needs this. He presses back against Malfoy’s face without thinking about it, and then Malfoy slaps him across the arse in retaliation, sending a bloom of pleasure racing through his body.
How can Malfoy know what he needs before Harry knows it himself?
He cranes his neck around to look at Malfoy and can just barely see his blond hair over the curve of his own arse. But if he’s going to do this at all, he wants to truly see Malfoy while it happens, and so he begins to squirm away.
Malfoy gives an agitated groan, but he allows Harry to flip himself over nonetheless, and the next thing he knows, Malfoy’s casting spells in rapid succession. One is a cleaning charm on his own mouth (which would have made Harry laugh with any other person), and then several protection spells, each quick hisses on his tongue. He pushes Harry’s legs up, and Harry obligingly holds himself open, exhilarated and shivery and entirely overwhelmed.
Malfoy points his wand at Harry’s arse and spells lube up inside of him. And then something is pressing in, and he thinks it’s a finger, but when he looks down he sees that it’s Malfoy’s wand, the hawthorn wand that Harry had used and returned to him all those years ago.
Harry’s so fucked, even without having actually been fucked yet, and Malfoy is giving him such a significant, incredulous look that Harry can’t breathe for a moment. This is probably dangerous, and Malfoy could quite literally hex him up the arse, couldn’t he? But the way Malfoy’s looking at him borders on sincere, and the genuineness of it makes Harry almost want to cry for reasons he couldn’t at all begin to understand. The wand presses deeper inside of him.
Malfoy asks him again, “What do you want, Potter?” and Harry is so incoherent that he’s reduced to babbling.
“I want you to fuck me I want you to touch me I want your cock in me,” he whimpers, and the lust in Malfoy’s eyes multiplies tenfold. Simultaneously, the wood of the wand inside Harry flares warm, and he lets out a shuddery gasp.
“I knew you weren’t the one who broke into the shop,” Malfoy murmurs, and Harry remembers briefly where and who they are before he’s lost again. “I didn’t want to interrogate you, either, but fuck, Potter…” Malfoy’s lips are twisted wryly as he pulls the wand out of him.
And then there are fingers inside of him, two of them, stretching him as Malfoy pushes them in. “But… but what?” Harry asks breathlessly.
Malfoy adds another finger, staring down at him, and his expression holds something akin to adoration. This terrifies Harry more than anything else tonight, because this is not how his life is supposed to be going, but all he can do now is try to hold on. “But this,” Malfoy says, as if that explains everything even though it doesn’t at all answer any of Harry’s questions. “Want me to fuck you, now?” Malfoy asks, and Harry lets his head clunk back against the table.
“Fuck, yes, yes, yes,” he chants, and Malfoy groans and slicks himself and then thrusts all the way in. It burns and it’s too big, but the pain is pleasure and Harry feels too good to care about anything. This is the release he’s been looking for this whole time, and he had never even known. He feels like he’s flying, high above the Quidditch pitch with Malfoy in his lungs.
Malfoy leans closer and begins fucking him harder, and in the process Malfoy’s arm hits the glass on the table. Harry sees it fly off into the floor, hears it shatter, and it sounds the same as Malfoy’s strangled, soft little moans above him, sounds the same as the beating of Harry’s own heart.
They’re falling apart, that’s what they are.
Malfoy kisses him. Harry hadn’t been expecting it, but suddenly everything slows down because Malfoy is kissing him, and they’re fucking. He pulls away and stares at the ceiling for a moment, struck by the reality of it all.
Malfoy seems to sense his sudden withdrawal, slowing his hips until it’s barely even fucking anymore. Harry can feel every centimeter of movement, can see the sweat trickling down Malfoy’s chest, trickling over his scars. Malfoy’s eyebrows are creased. Both of them are breathing hard.
Malfoy bends down again, lowering himself so that his mouth is at Harry’s ear. He nips at it lightly, then whispers to him so quietly that he could have imagined it.
“…Say my name.”
Harry’s heart thumps in time with the press of Malfoy’s cock.
“Ma—Draco,” Harry says, and then his heart starts beating faster than ever because the noise Malfoy makes just then is half moan and half cry of desperation.
Malfoy resumes his previous rhythm, snapping his hips so hard that Harry can feel it in his bones. “Say it again,” Malfoy says, and his hand finds its way to Harry’s cock.
“Draco-o,” Harry gasps, and this time it’s easy, so easy, to have the name fall from his lips. He can see Draco’s face now, and he almost looks pained, but then Draco’s eyes squeeze shut and his thrusts become startlingly erratic.
Harry’s barely registered that Draco is coming before he is coming himself, coming to the slick grip of Draco’s hand and the thickness of the cock inside of him. He hears a strangled cry that could have been his own, except that he thinks the word had been “Harry” instead. It makes him shudder with pleasure and surprise and always, always, that unidentifiable something that had made Draco so attractive from the very start.
Harry wouldn’t have expected Draco to linger when they're done, and he isn’t wrong. Draco casts cleaning charms over both of them, and he has his robes refastened before Harry had even finished fiddling with the zip of his trousers.
Draco walks toward the door, and Harry’s heart gives an involuntary clench. “Don’t—!” he starts, his shirt still twisted in his hands.
Draco stops and turns, his expression inscrutable. He looks empty, drained. “What?” he says, and he sounds so very tired.
Harry trembles. He glances at the glass on the floor, at the table where the chairs are all askew. “Ask me…” he starts, and finds that his voice is hoarse. “Ask me what I want,” he says, pleads, because he doesn’t quite know himself.
Draco stares at him. “What… do you want, Potter?”
“I want…” Harry pauses, letting the potion catch up with his thoughts. “I want you to stay,” his voice wavers on the last word.
Draco’s jaw falls slightly open, and he goes through several different expressions before settling on a hybrid between amazed and confused. “I…” he looks down at the floor, composing himself. “Do you want… to come to mine?” he says, every word placed carefully just so.
Harry nods. “Yes,” he says, and this answer is easier than all of the other answers combined.
Draco lets out a small sigh, and Harry sees him, watches him look around the room and watches the guilt start to creep into his eyes.
“Don’t,” Harry says again, but this time it’s softer. He goes to Draco then, heart pounding, and reaches for his hand.
He hadn’t been able to tell from afar, but Draco is trembling too. Draco lets Harry clasp their fingers together nonetheless, and it feels easy, so easy now.
Harry starts toward the door, but behind him, Draco stops. Harry feels a brief clench of fear that Draco isn’t going to stay with him after all, but Draco’s hand is still in his.
Draco turns around and casts a Reparo on the shattered glass that’s scattered over the floor. Then he opens the metal door for Harry, and Harry walks free.