Draco scrubs his shirt with soap and water. Whatever the substance is on the collar, it’s clearly impervious to any cleaning spell. He sniffs tentatively at the material and tries not to wince at the way the stain spreads over the silk. It’s his favourite shirt. Not because it’s Saint Laurent, but because it hugs and clings in all the right places. Draco doesn’t have much besides his money and his looks. A good outfit is like armour, these days. The shirt folds just above the wrist, loose and cool in the summer without revealing the Dark Mark on his forearm or the etchings on the skin of a desperate man, sitting in his room with a razor and a belly full of regret.
Draco closes his eyes and squeezes the material in his hands. He takes the cool air into his lungs with a greedy gulp. He doesn’t want to catch sight of his scarred arm in the mirror or see the lines on his torso under the too bright Ministry bathroom lighting. He doesn’t know why the Ministry ever thought it would be a good idea to replicate something as hideously unflattering as fluorescent lighting through magical means. He blames Arthur Weasley for poor Muggle related decision making. He opens his eyes and blinks at himself. He’s all sharp edges and his skin is so white it’s almost translucent. He runs a finger along his jaw and imagines how he might look, bloodied and wrecked. It’s how he feels. If the spells and whispers landed like punches, he would be black and blue.
“Don’t worry.” Draco looks up. Potter stands by the sink, the door swinging behind him. A cool gust of air enters the room and then there’s silence, with Potter shuffling awkwardly in place looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else than next to Draco. “I’m leaving in a minute.”
“Everything okay?” Potter can’t seem to meet Draco’s gaze head on. His cheeks take on a peculiar colour and his eyes flick to Draco’s naked torso and then up to the ceiling. He breathes out, shaky and slow. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?”
Draco stares at Potter and lets out a soft snort. Potter’s so prissy. It kills Draco. Kills him. He manages a smirk, the veneer of bravado a well-practiced reaction to being in Potter’s presence.
“I was hoping a nice wizard might come along and suck me off. Being half naked lets him know I’m available. You’ve read the papers, Potter. Why else do you think I might strip off in the men’s bathroom?” Draco’s fairly sure Potter won’t have missed the countless men photographed with Draco in the Prophet. There was a particularly fine one of Draco with two wizards in a dark corner of a private members’ bar which earned him two Howlers from his father and more than a few stares when he went about his business that week. People might not trust Draco, but that doesn’t seem to stop them wanting to fuck him. They’re usually curious enough about the size of Draco’s trust fund and other appendages to overlook the unsavoury Malfoy association for a night of pleasure and fine dining.
The colour in Potter’s cheeks deepens and he rubs his hand over the scruff on his chin. Potter’s a fucking mess. Don’t think Draco hasn’t heard the rumours. Merlin only knows what goes on in that head of his, but whatever it is he seems to be pretty good at dulling errant thoughts with too much beer. He’s always stumbling out of one bar or another with his arm around Weasley, whispering something and laughing too long and too loud so nobody notices he’s coming apart at the seams. Draco notices. He’s good at recognising the signs.
Potter glares as he finally meets Draco’s eyes. “Don’t be a prick.”
Draco sighs, the fight going out of him. He tugs on the shirt which is still wet around the collar, contemplating Potter. “When am I ever anything else? There was a spell of some sort. It caught the shirt. I was trying to clean it.”
“Oh.” Potter moves closer, studying the material. His throat works as he swallows, his fingers hovering by the collar. He’s close enough that Draco can smell his clean soapiness and light cologne. It’s all he can do to stop himself from breathing in. “Any luck?”
“Not really.” Draco begins to button up his shirt, suddenly feeling exposed. One of these days it would be nice if someone other than Potter found him sobbing into the bathroom sink.
“It doesn’t look too bad. Just a bit wet.” Potter fingers the collar before pulling his hand away as if the damp silk burns his skin. He’s such an odd creature. Draco wonders what it’s like to inhabit Potter’s mind. It’s probably full of noble deeds and the odd fantasy of semi-clothed witches casting spells at one another, shouting things like ‘No, I’ll defend the world from evil doers!’
“I suppose I’ll see you around,” Draco says. He doubts he will. He and Potter don’t exactly move in the same circles, for obvious reasons.
“Yeah.” Potter’s gaze fixes on the bit of exposed collarbone beneath the open neck of the shirt. It’s one of the best parts of Draco’s body, if he does say so himself. One wizard described Draco’s collarbone as very lickable which made him feel like an ice-lolly and completely ruined the mood. He’s not a dessert, thank you very much. “I’ll see you around, Malfoy.”
Draco meets Potter’s gaze and tries to decipher the meaning behind the shiver of uncertainty which passes over his eyes. He can’t. He doesn’t know Potter well enough. Draco just knows enough about his own flawlessly constructed public mask to suspect that Potter’s hiding something and he’s not half as happy as he wants people to believe.
He gives Potter a nod and opens the door to breathe in anything other than the air between he and Potter, which crackles with tension and memories of a past Draco desperately wants to forget.
“See you around, Potter.”
He won’t. Draco’s sure of it.
There’s an article in the Prophet which suggests Potter’s losing his marbles. The pictures capture a haunted looking Potter, coming out of a Muggle store with a couple of bags in his hands. He’s got his hand up to the camera and his expression is one of barely concealed anger. He looks as though he hasn’t shaved for a few days and he pushes his way through the crowds of Muggles wondering why they don't recognise the celebrity of the moment. The press started to infiltrate more Muggle spaces after the war when the biggest players went into hiding. They learned to use fancy Muggle cameras and took great delight in publishing still photographs which, for wizards, were as revolutionary as moving ones would be to Muggles.
Draco feels strangely sad looking at the pictures of Potter. He obviously wasn’t expecting an ambush and he’s been out of work on a ‘break’ for the past few days. Draco knows about Potter’s breaks. He might have had an unorthodox nose through the files a few months ago. He knows that there are periods of time when Potter takes some time out to recuperate. He’s not sure what that means, but he suspects recuperation is a euphemism for a deeper problem. He wonders whether it’s the war or something else and how much Potter tells the people he’s closest to. He pushes the paper to one side and sighs. He really does spend far too much time thinking about Potter’s life. His own night is splashed on the opposing page, his smile fixed and unreal as another wizard clutches his hand. Draco can’t even remember his name. Barry, something. He wanted to call Draco ‘Daddy’ which led to Draco promptly losing his erection and and Barry – or was it Larry? – being booted out on his arse. The last thing Draco wants in bed is anything that reminds him of his father, even if his latest conquest did have a very pretty cock and a sinful mouth.
He wonders what Potter’s up to now and whether he’s still barrelling around in that dark space at Grimmauld Place. Draco folds the paper and sips his coffee, contemplating his surroundings. It’s purely a coincidence that he’s here, close to the Black property. It’s just happenstance that he’s drinking coffee in a place Potter’s been photographed in on several occasions getting his caffeine fix.
Draco looks up, trying to ignore the way his heart hammers restlessly in his chest. “Potter. Fancy seeing you here.”
Potter frowns, looking confused. “Don’t you live West? Somewhere posh and expensive?”
Draco snorts and he shakes his head. “I have property all over London, Potter. I know how to invest my Galleons.” Admittedly he doesn’t have property in this precise location, but Potter doesn’t need to know that. Besides, the coffee’s good. That’s all.
“Oh.” Potter stands awkwardly, a takeaway coffee in hand. “Mind if I join you?”
“Nope.” Draco nods at the paper. “I was just looking at your starring moment.”
“Oh, that.” Potter pulls a face and slides into the seat opposite Draco. “I just wanted to buy some pants. Fucking press.”
Christ, Draco doesn’t need to think about Potter’s pants. He shifts in his chair as surreptitiously as he can, eyeing him curiously. “You’re off at the minute?”
“Just until the end of the week.” Potter shrugs. “It’s something I agreed with Kingsley a while ago.”
“Why?” Draco can’t help but be intrigued by Potter’s mysterious disappearances, not that he expects to be given all the detail. They’re hardly friends, he and Potter.
“I need time to myself. I see someone to work through some…things.” Potter smiles and it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Good enough gossip for you? Perhaps Skeeter’s right. I’m going a bit mad.”
“You and me both,” Draco mutters. He can’t help but resent the implication he’s here for gossip. If Potter knew why Draco was here, he’d have a fit. There’s nothing more distressing than trying to conceal a ridiculous obsession with the straight boy who doesn’t know you exist.
“You’re not in work today?” Potter looks curious, watching Draco a little too closely for comfort. There’s something about conversing with Potter that makes Draco feel as though he’s wearing his bloody heart on his chest and Potter’s eyes can see the whole of him.
“Week off. Like you.”
“Probably not exactly the same.” Potter winces and he gestures to the paper. “Sorry. Could you put that thing away?”
“Of course.” Draco pushes the paper into his bag and he takes a steady sip of his coffee. “Any plans for the week?”
“Not much.” Potter turns his coffee in his hands.
“If you ever fancy doing your bit for interhouse relations, I’d be happy to buy you a glass of something expensive one evening. You can usually find me in Cellar Gascon off Diagon Alley. I’m there on Thursday evenings from around seven.” Draco isn’t sure why he’s explaining the geography of wizarding enclaves to Potter. Despite the fact he’s never seen Potter in Cellar Gascon, he’s fairly certain someone making their way through the Auror ranks at lightning speed is familiar with the basic layout of wizarding London’s winding streets and alleys. He’s also not sure why on earth he’s inviting Potter to join him for drinks. Even if Potter did decide to show up the silence is already thick and uncomfortable enough that Draco suddenly finds himself wanting to get as far away from Potter as possible.
“Oh.” Potter looks surprised, as well he should be. Draco’s bloody surprised and it was his invitation. “I’m not sure what I’m up to on Thursday, there’s a pub quiz at the Leaky.” He waves his hand looking embarrassed. “I’ll see what I can do, but we do it every week. I’m not sure I can just cancel.”
“Of course not.” Draco keeps his voice smooth. “I imagine your extensive knowledge of poorly performing Quidditch teams and terrible fashion choices are a real asset. It was just a thought. Enjoy your quiz.” He stands and nods at Potter. “I’ll see you around.”
“Malfoy.” Potter sounds a bit desperate and he reaches for Draco, grabbing his hand before dropping it as if the touch burns. He rakes his eyes over Draco and breathes out just once, slow and tremulous. Draco knows why he’s all over the place, given his pathetic attachment to the hero of the wizarding world, but he doesn’t know what’s up with Potter or why he’s suddenly so flushed and nervous looking. “I mean, I could try and make it. I’m crap at the quiz anyway.”
“Fine. In that case I might see you Thursday.” Draco keeps his voice smooth, making sure he doesn’t sound as sceptical as he most definitely is. There’s not a kneazle in hell’s chance of Potter turning up to share awkward conversation and a 1998 Chateau Neuf with Draco.
With a final nod in Potter’s direction, Draco leaves. He casts one look back at Potter, watching him through the window. He’s frowning and uncertain, lost in his own head. He looks comfortably rumpled and so good it takes Draco’s breath away.
With a muttered curse, Draco walks from the coffee shop as quickly as he can and spends the rest of the day trying not to replay the conversation over and over in his brain.
Draco nearly chokes on his olive when Potter turns up on Thursday night, just after eight. He stands in the door and looks around, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. He nudges his glasses onto his nose and finally sees Draco. His face breaks into a slow smile and his cheeks flush pleasantly. Draco rakes his eyes over Potter, wondering what on earth he’s up to. He’s dressed up. Draco’s seen enough of Potter in the press to know Leaky attire is strictly ripped jeans and a Muggle band t-shirt. On a cold night, Potter sometimes brings out some distressed looking brown leather thing which fits him sinfully well. Bomber jackets, too. Potter likes those. The khaki ones they sell in all the Muggle shops on buy one get one free. Tonight Potter’s put on a blazer jacket, which fits as well as the bombers do. It’s nipped in at the waist and instead of a t-shirt he's sporting a peculiar patterned shirt which looks almost like the kind of thing Draco would wear when he’s pulling out all the stops. The jeans are dark and they don’t have any rips in them and he’s got on proper black shoes – boots – which do a far better job setting off his delectable legs than sloppy canvas trainers and distressed denim.
Draco swallows, dabbing his mouth with a napkin largely to mask the fact his jaw might have actually dropped for a moment at the sight of Potter. Potter, dressed to impress. It’s disarming and disconcerting. It absolutely shouldn’t be allowed and confirms this whole interhouse bullshit was a terrible fucking idea.
“Evening. I thought I’d try something different for a change.” Potter slips onto the bar stool next to Draco, reaching over and pinching a salted almond. He shrugs off his jacket and the shirt is definitely something posh and ridiculous.
“That shirt, for example.” Draco gestures for another glass and pours Potter some wine, hoping his hand doesn’t tremble. “That’s a new look on you.”
“Don’t you like it?” Potter frowns, looking down at himself and tugging the collar a little. “I wasn’t sure what to wear so I dug this out of the cupboard. I think it belonged to Sirius.”
“It does have something of the nineteen seventies about it.” Draco rolls his eyes but really it’s all for show. Potter looks good enough to eat and the fact he’s wearing Black’s old shirt makes Draco’s heart skip in his chest. No wonder it looks expensive. It’s probably vintage Gucci. Trust Potter to reach into a wardrobe that probably smells of mothballs and pick out something that makes Draco want to fuck him into next week. Too much natural charm, that boy. The fact he’s unaware of his impact on people makes the whole situation even more wretched.
“Is it okay? That I came?” Potter’s lips curve into a tentative smile and it’s a bit like staring into the sun straight on. Blinding and too much all at once. Draco has to look away, busying himself with spearing an olive with a toothpick.
“I invited you, didn’t I?” Christ knows why. Draco’s an idiot. His father’s right about that. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Ah.” Potter fiddles with the stem of his glass before shrugging. “I wasn’t sure I would. I went to the quiz earlier but I left to come here.”
Why Draco wants to ask, but doesn’t. “You went to the quiz dressed like something from Italian Vogue?” The words slip out apparently, when Potter’s around.
“Ron said I looked like a right ponce.” Potter grins, then he takes a gulp of his drink. “No offence.”
“Oh please, none taken.” Draco gives Potter a glare.
“I just…” Potter breathes out and it trembles around the edges. “I just thought it might be nice. To do something different. To catch up on old times.”
Draco stares at Potter. “Old times? Are you mad?”
Potter laughs. “Well, school. We can talk about our friends or the Ministry.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “We don't exactly have the same friends. I can't imagine you're interested in hearing about Zabini's love life or Nott's latest property purchase. Perhaps we can just reminisce about how much we hated each other instead?”
“I didn’t hate you.” Potter narrows his eyes, studying Draco. “Not really.”
“Oh.” Draco can’t help but feel deflated. At least if you’re hated, you matter. Better to be hated than to be nobody. He spears another olive and chews it contemplatively. “I hated you. I’m not sure how I feel these days.”
“No?” Potter looks curious. He twists his glass and watches the liquid slide down the sides. “Do you come here a lot? It’s nice.”
“It does the job.” Draco leans forward a little. “Sometimes when wizards like other wizards, they buy an expensive bottle of champagne and sit here looking gorgeous until an attractive man joins them. This is a good place for that.”
Potter laughs again, rich and low. “Is it? I wouldn’t know.” He cocks his head to one side and nods at the half-finished bottle of red. “Not on the pull tonight, then?”
“I’ll have you know that’s a very good bottle.” Draco runs a hand through his hair and gives Potter his best smirk. “Besides, they don’t just come over here for the booze.”
Potter hums around the glass, taking a sip. He’s smiling, damn him. Draco feels as if he’s losing the upper hand. Not that he ever really had it in the first place, where Potter’s concerned. “I bet.”
“I imagine it’s a bit different if you’ve got witches throwing themselves at you on a daily basis,” Draco says. Apart from a fleeting post-war year with Ginny Weasley, he hasn't seen any pictures of Potter with other witches. He doesn't count Lovegood and Granger, the two most frequently in Potter's presence. Both are taken and besides, Draco's never really thought of either of them as Potter's type. Not that he's given much thought to the kind of person Potter might settle down with. The fact Potter seems to have no interest in capitalising on his eligible bachelor status is just another reason for Draco’s suspicions that not all is well in the world of Potter’s peculiar brain. But then, what does he know?Being alone would be more satisfying than most of Draco's dates these days.
“I don’t go for that much.” Potter pulls a face, a shadow crossing his features. “Not my thing.”
“Really?” Draco stares at Potter. “Not hankering after a wife and a couple of little Potters running around a small house in the countryside?”
Potter winces, shaking his head. “Not exactly, no.”
“So there’s no one keeping that bed of yours warm at night?” Draco eats another olive, watching the way heat rises in Potter’s neck and colours his cheeks. Something about this discussion is making Potter decidedly uncomfortable and Draco’s prepared to admit he’s rather enjoying it. “How disappointing. I thought you might be the type to have a scandalous secret love life.”
“You did?” Potter’s eyes widen and he focuses on Draco with an intensity that sends Draco’s heart tripping in his chest. “What makes you think that?”
“Because it’s far more interesting to speculate about leather and sex dungeons that to accept you really are just painfully vanilla.” Draco shrugs. He’s not sure why he’s so invested in Potter’s love life. It probably is boring. Not that Draco cares.
"That's your scene then, is it? Leather and sex dungeons?" Potter looks sceptical and Draco frowns at him. Draco could be into that, if he could be bothered to find anyone he's willing to invest the time in. He resents the implication his own sex life might be a bit dull.
"It could be. I don't like to rule anything out." Draco gives Potter a look up and down. "I'll try anything once."
“I'm sure." Potter snorts, shaking his head. He takes a sip of his wine, still studying Draco. “Do you have anyone special? Or is that all a bit too boring for you?”
Draco’s not sure what he’s done to make Potter sound fierce and angry, but he doesn’t miss the way Potter’s hand tightens on his glass and his lips press into a thin line.
“Hardly. Too many men, too little time. You’ve read the papers.”
“Funnily enough I don’t believe everything Skeeter prints.” Potter rolls his eyes. “Don’t you ever want more?”
Draco looks away and takes his time pouring them both glasses of water. “You assume I’m capable of more.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No,” Draco concedes. “But it’s my answer.” He lifts his glass and tips it towards Potter. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” Potter looks down at his glass, lost in thought.
After more awkward small talk than Draco would usually stomach on a Thursday night, Potter pauses and he seems to be wrestling with something. “How can you be so open about being gay? Doesn’t it make things difficult?”
Draco shrugs. He’s not going to lie and pretend that his father respects his decisions. He’s not going to pretend that the spells cast always come from a place of hating his past. There are definitely people who hate his present. “Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.” Potter sounds a bit lost when he says it, as if he’s personally sending Howlers and calling Draco all kinds of charming things.
“Don’t be.” Draco looks down. “What could you do anyway?”
Potter shifts and looks away and then suddenly it hits Draco, with blinding clarity. Potter’s gay. Bi, possibly. Whatever he is, he’s not straight. That’s why he’s here all dressed up to the nines, sipping wine and making a valiant attempt at polite conversation like he’s on a date. God, are they on a date? Draco swallows because he’s not sure he’s ready for this. He feels like someone should have told him. He’s definitely not okay with being blindsided by Potter coming out over a glass of something rich and expensive.
“Please don’t,” Potter says. There’s something desperate in Potter’s tone. Something that says don’t say it out loud. Draco recognises that stomach rolling feeling of panic all too well. He remembers the hours it took for him to tell his mother and father and with a powerful whoosh the memory of his father looking at him with a sneer floods his mind. Of course Potter doesn’t want to be gay. Potter doesn’t want to be interested in someone like Draco and have to look at Weasley over tea and toast in the morning. He wants a nice comfortable life which doesn’t involve Slytherins who almost brought the whole world to its knees. The shame claws through Draco and he scratches the marks on his arm, under his shirt. If Potter ever does come out, it’s going to be with someone appropriate. Someone who absolutely isn’t Draco.
“What is this?” Draco gestures between them, his mouth dry and his words rough.
Potter at least has the gumption to meet Draco’s eyes, despite the pink heat in his cheeks. “I thought it might be nice.”
“Give a man some warning, next time.” Draco holds Potter’s gaze. He swallows, wondering why his words feel like they might choke him. When it looks as though Potter's going to bolt, he manages to force out the closest thing to the truth he can manage. “Relax, Potter. It is nice.”
Potter relaxes a little, his shoulders losing something of the previous tightness. “Good. I’m…good. How’s your mum?”
Draco laughs and he shakes his head at Potter. “No you don’t. We’re not making polite conversation. Not when you can’t even tell me what you think we’re doing here.”
“I don’t know.” Potter sounds wretched and his hands shake as he pushes them together, trying to steady them. “I don’t know what I am or what I’m doing anymore.”
“I think you know exactly who you are.” Draco leans forward, making sure no one else can overhear. “Have you ever done this before?” He lets his fingers trail lightly over the denim on Potter’s knee and he keeps his voice quiet. “It helps to let the other wizard know he’s on a date, Potter. It sets certain expectations.”
Potter looks a bit green and wild-eyed, as if he’s a deer caught in the light from a hurriedly cast Lumos. “There aren’t any expectations on my end. None.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as anything.
“Aren’t there?” Draco removes his fingers from Potter’s leg and contemplates him. It's probably best not to fondle Potter too obviously in public as much as he might want to do so. He doesn’t want to inadvertently out him, and the press have spies everywhere these days.
“No.” Potter sounds firm. He takes a long gulp of his wine and wipes the back of his hand across his lips. “I don’t…do this.”
“Yet here you are.” Draco snorts. If there’s one thing he expects from Potter by default, it’s bravery. Stormy determination and the desire to fight injustice. He can’t even fight for himself. Draco doesn’t know whether to feel desperately sad or disappointed. “You must be curious.”
Potter nods, almost imperceptibly. “I suppose.”
Draco narrows his eyes. “If you’re determined not to be gay, you’re a wizard. There are options.”
“Like what?” Potter’s brow furrows.
“A one night stand and Obliviate, for a start.” Draco watches Potter’s reaction, meaning the comment as a throwaway suggestion as opposed to an offer, but Potter stares at Draco and, oh. Draco’s heart clenches in his chest and he shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t fucking cut through him and steal his breath away. He takes another breath and it shakes at the edges when he exhales. “I can, if you like. Your call.”
“Okay,” says Potter. Soft, sweet and breaking Draco’s heart with two innocuous syllables. “Okay, maybe just to…see.”
Draco tops up their wine. He has a feeling they’re going to need it.
Draco has his own place right in the heart of Diagon Alley. Not many people know he lives there, because he tries to avoid sharing his address with people who would give all their Galleons to see him in Azkaban. He doesn’t mind with Potter. Not least because Potter’s going to forget about all of this soon enough, anyway.
Draco shrugs off his jacket and takes Potter’s, the silence in the air thick between them.
“What do you want?”
Potter shakes his head, his cheeks flushed. “I have no bloody idea. Have you got wine?”
Of course Potter has to be drunk to be with Draco. He tries not to bristle and nods, wondering not for the first time what he’s doing with his life. This is more fucked up than anything he’s done recently and Draco’s done a lot of fucked up things.
“Here.” Draco pours them both a glass and sits on the sofa, watching Potter. He’s so restless. He looks as though he can’t sit still, shifting and tugging at the collar of the shirt. He looks so good but Draco thinks he prefers Potter in his haphazard cosy jumpers with awkwardly placed letters or a Golden Snitch on the front. He likes Potter best when he’s effortless, relaxed in his comfortable clothes and laughing as if it takes him by surprise. As if in that moment he wonders how he forgot how to laugh and when he’ll be able to do so again. Now, he’s tense and dolled up with his brow furrowed as he stares at his wine. Draco sighs. “Relax, will you?”
“I…” Potter looks as though he wants to say something, his Adam’s apple working. Then he puts his wine down and moves closer, his fingers on Draco’s collar and his eyes lowered. “They hit you with a spell. Why?”
“I don’t know, Potter.” Draco can’t help but snap. “Because I was a Death Eater. Because I cosied up to the Dark Lord before I realised what an insufferable prick he was. Because I’m bent. Take your pick.”
Potter stares at Draco and then he lurches forward, all brute force and reckless inability to control himself. The kiss is sloppy and messy with far too much teeth and tongue. Draco pushes Potter back after a moment. He trails a line of kisses up Potter’s neck, breathing against his skin until Potter shivers under his palm.
“Steady, will you. You’re not a bull and I’m not a china shop.”
“What?” Potter’s eyes are dark and lidded and Draco wants to bite marks along every bit of exposed skin. He wants to ruin Potter.
“Never mind. Just…come here.” Draco tugs Potter closer and takes control of the kiss. Potter’s remarkably pliant when Draco’s in charge. He huffs out a low breath and it makes Draco shiver with pleasure. When he asked Potter for a drink he didn’t expect to find himself snogging on his sofa like a teenager. The kiss is lazy, slow and searching but there’s an urgency behind it. Draco presses his palm against Potter’s chest and he can feel the pounding beat of Potter’s restless heart mirroring his own. He slides his other hand into Potter’s messy tangle of hair and urges him closer, deeper into the kiss. When a small groan of appreciation escapes Potter’s parted lips, it sends sparks of pleasure through Draco. Potter’s handsy when he’s kissing and it’s like he can’t get enough of running his hands over Draco’s torso or around to his back to feel along the knobs of Draco’s spine. It’s deliciously distracting and hotter than it has any right to be.
With a low murmur of Harry in Potter’s ear, Draco pushes him back a little. He goes easily, stretched out on the sofa. He’s dishevelled and his lips are red and plump from kissing. He looks at Draco with dark, stormy eyes and he reaches out a hand to pull Draco down with him. They fit together on the sofa surprisingly well. Draco slots between Potter’s legs and lets Potter push against him, a messy sprawl of limbs. Potter grinds up and his breathing is ragged and disjointed. Potter’s hot breath trembles against Draco’s skin and it’s so good it becomes almost painful, his cock hard in the confines of his tight jeans.
As the kisses become more breathless, Potter’s cheeks become more flushed. It’s glorious. Draco slides his hands under that infernal shirt and touches Potter’s skin at the points where his heart beats, his pulse skips and his skin is hot and perspiring. Draco gives Potter some friction where he’s grinding helplessly up against Draco. With a low groan in Potter’s mouth, Draco unbuckles Potter’s belt and feels the way his stomach jumps as Potter gasps at the touch.
“Malfoy…” There’s a hesitancy to Potter’s tone even as he bucks up restlessly towards Draco’s hand. Draco leaves his hand where it is, over the buckle of Potter’s belt and gives him a moment.
“No?” Draco pauses, dragging his knuckles in a slow, deliberate line along the impressive bulge in Potter’s trousers.
“I…” Potter swallows and then he claws at Draco’s back, pulling him closer. “Fuck it. Yes. God, yes.” He kisses Draco again, hot and open mouthed. His lips and tongue seem eager to drive Draco into a blissful Potter-shaped oblivion.
Draco finally opens Potter’s trousers and pushes his hand inside to find him hard and wanting. He palms at Potter over his cotton boxers at first, thumb circling the damp patch on the material. Potter’s so hot and ready, Draco can feel every twitch and pulse beneath his fingers. He tries to get into a position where he can push his hand inside the boxers and he groans when he finally makes skin on skin contact, wrapping his fingers around Potter’s length.
Draco’s surprised to feel trembling fingers against his own trousers as Potter breathes low and rough into Draco’s mouth. They’re hardly kissing at all now, just breathing into one another’s open mouths, groaning and whispering against one another’s lips. Draco lets Potter open his belt and then he arranges them so they’re in the most comfortable position they can be with their hands shoved in one another’s pants. Potter is driving Draco insane and it’s all he can do to remind himself he’s done this a hundred times before, while Potter’s probably touching another man’s prick for the first time in his life.
With a low growl at that delicious thought, Draco strokes Potter until he’s murmuring Draco’s name over and over. Draco would be proud if he didn’t already know Potter’s just in this for tonight. He’s already dreading the fact he’s going to wipe this memory from Potter’s mind. He wants this to be at that forefront of Potter’s thoughts every day. He wants to occupy every private moment Potter has when no prying eyes are trying to find out who his current flame is. He wants. Potter’s touch is uncertain and tentative, but when he gets the angle right at last it’s perfect. There’s something far too charming about the fact Potter isn’t perfect at first. He’s got an easy confidence about him but in this he seems almost lost, caught up in his own heady pleasure.
With a groan, Draco bucks into Potter’s fist and then Potter’s coming with a surprised, bitten-off cry. It’s not long before Draco follows. They stretch out on the sofa and catch their breath. When Draco presses his lips to Potter’s once again, Potter’s lips are salty and his cheeks are damp with tears.
“Christ, it was just a fucking hand job, Potter. I know I’m good, but there’s really no need to cry on my sofa.”
“Sorry, I…” Potter sits and casts a cleaning charm with a powerful burst of magic. It feels more unstable than anything Potter usually does. He looks wrecked with his hair all over the place and his cheeks hot red. He scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand and just like that he’s somewhere else. He’s got the same look he had when he first saw Draco in the bathrooms and the same twisted expression when he asked if Draco found it difficult to be out. Draco feels like he should reassure Potter, but part of him still smarts from the way Potter seems so obviously disgusted with himself.
“Oh, relax. I’ll do the spell.” Draco tries not to sound as uneasy as he feels about it, tucking himself away and casting his own cleaning charm. “I’ll take away all of it if you like? Pretend tonight never happened?”
“Just. Just this.” Potter’s got his head in his hands and he lets out another humourless laugh. “I could have another glass of wine.”
“What if it happens again?”
Potter looks up and he shakes his head. “It won’t.”
Draco’s heart clenches in his chest and he takes out his wand. That’s pretty bloody clear, then. The spell is complicated, thinking about the bits he needs to make hazy around the edges and the modifications he needs to make but he’s an accomplished Legilemens and he’s studied memory charms and memory modification for the last couple of years. It’s his specialty. It’s probably why Potter came to him, he thinks bitterly.
“Wait.” Potter stills Draco’s hand, leaning in.
When they kiss this time, it’s sweet and slow and it tastes like tears and goodbye. Draco weaves the spell as he pulls away and then Potter’s looking at him, blinking into the night. He nudges his glasses up on his nose and he looks around the room.
“I…don’t remember getting here. Am I drunk?”
Draco shrugs and tops up their wine. “A bit. Don’t worry Potter, I’ve seen worse.”
Potter takes a sip of his wine and it feels like years before they talk again, stilted and formal as if the kisses never happened. Which, for Potter, they never did.