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The Things They Never Say

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“Do we always have to fight first?” Harry asks breathlessly, shoving his hips forward in a quick rhythm.

Draco’s hands still them, and he pulls off for a moment; glances up at Harry with an are you daft? expression. His lips are shining and plump. “Can you imagine it as this much fun otherwise?” he asks rhetorically.

Yes, I can, Harry thinks, but Draco—the obnoxious bastard—orders, “Now fuck my mouth harder,” then promptly sucks Harry’s cock back in as deep as he can take it, and anything Harry could have said is lost against the blissful wet heat of that sinfully talented tongue.

So, he fucks Draco’s mouth harder.


The first time was precipitated by a pub fight. A real, honest-to-Merlin pub fight with fists flying and blood spraying. Malfoy had torn out a chunk of Harry’s hair in his wild grip.

It had grown back immediately, of course.

But just before that was Malfoy stalking through the dim room and looking around until he spotted Harry, whose flesh had broken out in gooseflesh as soon as the other man had entered. Malfoy stomped up to his table like a complete brat, planted his palms in the centre of it, and snarled, “You can’t stop me from doing my job forever, you know.”

Harry looked at him evenly and leaned back in his chair. He took a slow sip of his drink. “My solicitor says I can.”

“You are public property, Potter,” Malfoy sneered. “Much as it pains me to admit. Your silly little wards won’t keep me away any more than your lawyer will stop other people from writing about you.”

Harry sighed, reaching for patience. “Malfoy. It’s not the week for this shit. Leave me alone, for once.”

“I deserve this interview,” Malfoy said with a curl to his lip, and Harry’s blood began to simmer. “You’re sitting here honouring the dead by drowning your misery in cheap gin, all by your lonesome, surrounded by Muggles. It’s exactly the week for this, and I don’t give a thestrals rotting arse who died if it gets me my quote.”

Harry threw his glass at him.

In retrospect, he was convinced he’d only meant to toss his drink in Malfoy’s smug, stupid face. But the glass had somehow slipped from his fingers, too, colliding hard against Malfoy’s cheekbone before falling to the floor and shattering. Malfoy stared at him, stunned, and before Harry could decide if he wanted to apologise, Malfoy hurled himself across the table like a deranged cat.

It had been fun, finding little ways to outsmart Malfoy’s constant tail. It was common knowledge that Harry disliked reporters and Malfoy, both, so why the Prophet had decided to assign him to reporting Harry was beyond Harry’s comprehension. So, he used his Invisibility Cloak (which Malfoy could still somehow always sense), and Diving Dungbombs (which his solicitor said he was no longer allowed to do unless he paid for Malfoy’s cleaning bill), and set up wards twenty meters out designed to give Malfoy raging diarrhoea if he came any nearer (which resulted in the exact same lecture from his legal counsel). It afforded him a mean sense of satisfaction to trip Malfoy up whenever he could.

Until, of course, Malfoy’s fist met Harry’s nose, breaking it for the second time in his life.

The table tipped over as Harry’s chair rocked back and hit the floor, and Malfoy punched him with savage glee, swinging his arm with furious aim. Harry managed to, somehow, flip and twist them until he was on top. He got a solid blow against Malfoy’s ribcage, which cracked audibly and Malfoy bared his teeth against the pain, fingers scrabbling for Harry’s hair, coming back with a fistful of the stuff when Harry yanked away. He popped Malfoy in the mouth—that nasty, sneering mouth that haunted his fucking dreams. Malfoy twisted again in his grasp, unwieldy little snake that he was, and elbowed him hard in the stomach, and that’s when Harry went to pull him in a chokehold from behind.

And then the whole world dwindled down into the most humiliating moment of his goddamned life, because Malfoy fucking moaned, roughly, and Harry realised two things: he was draped over Malfoy’s back, and he was pressing his very hard cock against Malfoy’s surprisingly round arse.

Harry scrambled backwards, launching himself to his feet. He looked down in blank panic at Malfoy on his hands and knees, the world coming back into focus in a snap of horrified recognition. The bartender was screeching at the two of them, and Malfoy was breathing in hard gasps, the few other patrons were chatting like nothing unusual had happened, but Harry knew.

Oh, Merlin, he knew.

And now Malfoy did, too.

Harry fled to the loo blindly. He ripped his wand out of his pocket and locked the door, then gripped the dirty sink basin and stared into the mirror. Spat out a mouthful of blood and healed his nose.

He heard the lock snick open and closed again, and when Malfoy spoke, he was unable to control a flinch.

“I’ve no plans to write about this, you know,” he drawled casually, as though he hadn’t just stumbled upon something that would rock the wizarding world to its core.

“Do what you want. You will anyway. You always have,” Harry returned, disgusted.

He heard a shuffle of light footsteps behind him. “Tell me, Potter. Was it the violence? I could be okay with that. Or was it my arse? I’ve been told it’s rather spectacular.”

Harry gusted out a dull, humourless laugh. “It is.”

There was a weighty pause. Harry turned around.

Malfoy was staring at him, head cocked to one side as though confronted with some form of Muggle technology he’d never encountered. He’d healed his lip, but his chin was still covered in blood, a bright red splash against his pale skin, and his normally pristine hair was in a state of disarray the likes of which Harry had never seen, even after a Quidditch game. As Harry watched, an unholy smile curled his mouth.

Malfoy prowled up to him in two long strides. He leaned close, his lips grazing against Harry’s ear. “You think so, Potter? Show me.”

Malfoy smelled like soap and sweat and copper, and Harry didn’t think, couldn’t; he shoved him once, twice, following closely as Malfoy stumbled back and flailed his arms to keep balance until he banged into the opposite wall. Harry was just so… angry, and he wasn’t ready, and why did it always have to be Malfoy who pushed him to the breaking point? It felt good to push back, to watch Malfoy’s arrogant, knowing eyes get dark and nervous.

It felt even better to press his body against Malfoy’s long, lanky form and trap him where he stood.

And then, somehow, they were kissing, if it could be called that when teeth were so liberally used. Malfoy was vicious with his mouth in everything, apparently, and he ground it against Harry’s with unrestrained violence until Harry felt the tang of blood against his tongue again. Harry returned in kind, biting at Malfoy’s newly-healed lip, shuddering when he felt the skin break open. Malfoy rocked against him, tongue licking deep, and Harry was so dizzy from the lust pouring out of him, or from the indecent delight of slanting his mouth under Malfoy’s or maybe just the lack of oxygen that he barely noticed that Malfoy was undoing his jeans and tugging them down around his hips. Not until those long fingers, still bruised from fighting him, wound around his aching erection and gave it a sharp tug.

Harry jerked his mouth away. Malfoy smirked, grey eyes gleaming, and did it again.

And Harry didn’t know—he hadn’t ever—not even with—but his body seemed to understand perfectly fine, and he fucked into Malfoy’s tight fist instinctively, letting his forehead fall to Malfoy’s shoulder for a moment as he watched his cock get enveloped by each deliberate, tight stroke. His shaking hands moved of their own volition, unclasping Malfoy’s trousers and yanking them down because if he was already doomed he might as well.

Malfoy gave a low grunt as his cock sprang free, flushed pink and jutting out from his body. His foreskin was stretched tight over the head and Harry reached out, unable to believe his own nerve, to smooth it back with tentative fingers. Moisture glinted from the slit. His hand stilled; the reality of the situation hit him like the Hogwarts Express.

But then Malfoy ducked his head and caught Harry’s mouth in another kiss, just as deep and hard but somehow more careful. Malfoy sucked instead of bit, licked the blood from Harry’s lip before plunging his tongue inside, and Harry felt himself start to kiss back—really kiss, as though he wanted to make Malfoy feel good. His magic pulsed with desire, pushing—pushing out of himself, away from himself, reaching for Malfoy like Harry was, and Malfoy hummed against the whisper of it.

He was too deep in it, now, and he didn’t even protest when Malfoy pulled his lips away to begin nipping at Harry’s ear, then dipped lower to mouth at his throat. His hands fell away from Harry’s cock; he pushed his trousers down farther and pointed his wand between them.

Harry blinked at the abrupt sensation of his erection being slathered with slippery lube. “I—I haven’t—I don’t—We’re in the—”

“It won’t take long. I’ve got you,” Malfoy promised in a low, dark voice that forced the air from Harry’s lungs in a hard breath. He clasped Harry’s hip with one hand and the base of his prick with the other, guiding Harry closer until the leaking crown brushed against the apex of Malfoy’s pressed thighs. He was only a couple of inches taller than Harry, but the height difference allowed for a perfect angle. He adjusted his stance, just slightly, and then Harry’s cock was sliding inward, like a hot knife cutting through butter, flawless and slick and shocking.

Malfoy’s balls were already drawn tight against his body, and Harry let himself watch his shaft disappear beneath them, between Malfoy’s legs, as he gave his hips a few experimental rolls and tried not to come on the spot.

“Go on,” Malfoy panted, breathless, and that was even hotter. His hand found his own cock and he began wanking himself with short, fast pulls. “Do it.”

Harry bit back another groan and began moving heavily against Malfoy, going mindless from the pleasure and sheer, delicious strangeness of his magic fitting so perfectly with other man’s. Malfoy’s thighs were covered in coarse hair, but the skin was soft between them, and he flexed his muscles, closing them tighter around Harry’s prick as he pumped his hips in a frantic push-drag, back and forth. The head of his cock swept against the cleft of Malfoy’s arse on each instroke, slipping against the silky flesh there. Malfoy shuddered; his hand was trapped between them but he managed to move it faster over the length of his shaft, twisting his fist over the glans, and then he began to come in long spurts, shooting across his hand and Harry’s shirt. He made a low yelping noise and gripped Harry’s t-shirt with his free hand to tug him into a messy kiss, and it was so much, too much, Malfoy’s mouth against his and his cock pulsing and his come sticking to both of them. Harry rutted against him uncontrollably, hips erratic, and he felt his cock throb as the coil of tension loosened in his belly. He climaxed hard, balls tingling as he finished, coating Malfoy’s sinewy thighs and the underside of his arse in endless ropes of spunk as his vision went grey around the edges, the same colour as Malfoy’s eyes.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he stood there, covered in sweat and come, as he slowly softened between Malfoy’s thighs, but eventually the world began to seep into conscious thought again. It started with the realisation that he was sort of… petting Malfoy’s hair. And that Malfoy was letting him.

Harry pulled away, unable to meet his eyes. He grabbed his wand from where it had fallen onto the floor, and cast a cleaning charm over himself. Malfoy pried himself off of the wall and did the same, and they spent a few moments in silence restoring their clothing.

“It’s not a bad thing, Potter,” Malfoy said at last, and he didn’t sound kind, but the sharp edge of his cruelty seemed to have faded. “Being gay.”

Harry frowned, but didn’t bother denying anything. What would be the point? “I never said it was.”

Malfoy made a disbelieving sound and stepped up to the sink. He washed his hands, studiously not looking up. “Of course I care who died,” he said, so briskly that it took Harry a moment to understand that he was apologising. He shook off his hands, dried them with a muttered charm, and turned to walk out.


The other man stopped, hand on the door handle, and slanted him a sideways glance.

Harry cleared his throat. “I hate this week. I know there’s a cause to celebrate, but all I can think about is everyone we lost,” he offered slowly. Malfoy stilled, gaze flicking from Harry’s mouth to his eyes. “You can use it,” Harry told him.

Giving a clipped nod, Malfoy walked out. Harry sagged against the sinks, feeling suddenly boneless as his adrenaline dropped and the ramifications of what he’d just done began to set in. He stayed that way for a long while.

That was the first time.


After he comes down Draco’s throat, which flutters around the head of his cock and swallows every drop with expert ease, Harry always feels lightheaded for a few minutes. At first, it was because it always seemed as though he were watching a dream that was happening to someone else. Now, he doesn’t bother questioning the giddy contentment that blooms inside of him.

He allows Draco to guide him to the bed. It’s a massive, four-poster thing that looks to be about five hundred years old, but is covered in such a soft down mattress and a mountain of pillows. The whole thing would be intimidating if it didn’t feel so damn good to get spread out on. Which Draco does, promptly, arranging Harry on his knees and forearms.

They both prefer topping, and have gotten in some rather frustrating arguments about it that resulted in resentful mutual wanks when they were in the mood to fuck after a fight and couldn’t agree whose turn it was. (Harry will never admit to loving that—the brutal way Draco curses at him as his fist flies over his erection—even though he suspects Draco does, too.) But as an unspoken rule, when Harry gets to fuck Draco’s mouth like that, when he gets to make Draco’s voice go hoarse until he heals it later, Draco pretty much has leave to do whatever he wants for the rest of the night.

He has a bit of an obsession with trying out toys on Harry; vibrators and glass dildos and plugs. Once, after losing a bet, Harry went through four hours of practice with a tiny, ridged thing shoved up his arse, which Draco had charmed to grow incrementally throughout the day. Riding a broom with something up one’s bum wasn’t ideal, and almost coming in front of his teammates when the thing had pressed into his prostate even less so.

Tonight, though, Harry only feels the silky glide of fingers ghosting over his puckered entrance. His cock is spent, but Draco unerringly wrenches a twinge of pleasure out of him as he presses two fingers into him, so slowly, with a care he usually doesn’t show. For several long moments, Draco twists them back and forth, like he’s winding a clock, sliding them in a bit more each time and Harry moans roughly, cants his hips up and back just as he feels Draco’s knuckles settle against the inside of his arsecheek.

“You’re so tight, Harry,” Draco murmurs reprovingly, pulling his fingers out and giving them another slow shove in. “It’s been too long, I suppose. You should have let me top, last time.”

It’s an opportunity, so Harry tries again before his mind turns to porridge. “We should be doing this more often, then,” he manages to grit out as Draco scissors his fingers roughly, abandoning the slow push of them.

Draco’s hand pauses for a moment, then resumes its ministrations. He adds another finger and presses it in with no warning. Harry makes an embarrassing pleading sound when Draco locates his prostate. He brushes against it teasingly, and Harry’s cock slowly begins to stiffen again; he reaches down and gives it a squeeze as it fills his palm. He releases himself and flattens his hand against the bed again.

“Poor little Potter can’t get through a week without getting shagged,” Draco finally says, voice husky. He begins stroking oily fingertips over the skin of Harry’s balls and his perineum with his free hand, almost too lightly. It’s barely more than a tickle; the sensation sends little shockwaves of pleasure throughout Harry’s body, and his toes curl. “Wouldn’t want you to deny yourself.”

“Then maybe we can—” Harry breaks off with a groan and buries his face in the mattress as Draco pulls his fingers out too quickly. They’re replaced by the leaking head of Draco’s cock; he rubs it over Harry’s loosened rim, and Harry’s clutching fingers go nerveless against the duvet. Draco’s name falls, muffled, from Harry’s lips.

Draco nudges his hips forward. His cock slides into Harry by degrees; first the thick crown, then an inch, then another and another. Harry tries not to writhe and fails miserably as all of his nerve endings come alive under Draco’s slow, practiced intrusion. He feels the burn, the stretch, but it’s nothing against the way his skin feels as though it’s been dipped in champagne as Draco finally bottoms out inside of him and then stills. The steady hum of the magic enveloping them grows louder, rolling over Harry in thick waves as Draco presses the flat of his palm over the small of his back and gives a soft groan.

Harry doesn’t know if this swamp of colliding magic happens with everyone, but he loves this part.

He loves—

They never talked about it. Neither did anything show up in the Prophet regarding the fight or the sex or Harry’s sexual preferences.

Instead, Malfoy ended up writing a startlingly beautiful piece on the Battle of Hogwarts from the perspective of a young Death Eater, about his regrets from that period in his life, and his gratitude toward those who had been lost in the fight. Miraculously, he’d managed to keep Harry’s quote buried in the second half of the article, which Harry had read more times than he wanted to admit to himself.

Six months after the incident in the loo, Harry had Hermione help him draft a coming out statement. At her reminder of how sensitively he’d handled Harry’s quotes on the war, they’d owled it to Malfoy, who had been entirely respectful in the accompanying article.

The piece had gotten such positive attention, Harry learned later, that Malfoy had been able to negotiate his choice of assignments. He picked Sports Writing, which didn’t officially cover Harry but was near enough in theme that Malfoy ended up writing about him at least twice a month whenever Harry had a game. Usually more often, because he frequently covered the different teams practicing, as well.

He was not always complimentary, and was certainly no longer respectful.

Harry tried not to let it get on his nerves, but reading that Malfoy thought his sweeping dive was getting lazy, or was making his teammates work harder to score, or seemed “drunkenly distracted,” made him grind his teeth together in frustration.

Harry didn’t know why, but he kept those articles too.

They usually coincided with whenever he attempted to date someone new.

Still, in the interests of keeping the peace, Harry plastered on a pained smile whenever he showed up to something his friends were doing to find that Malfoy had been included in part of the group. Everyone had sort of just… adopted the infuriating man, citing his sincere apologies, and the depth of his writing and the decency with which he treated Harry’s coming out statement. (That part rankled more than anything.) Ron was really the only holdout, and Harry had seen him—on more than one occasion—smiling into his drink at some acerbic comment of Malfoy’s before biting down on his lip and stubbornly glaring his annoyance.

But when Malfoy was there, he didn’t often interact directly with Harry, he was relieved to note, which kept their antagonism to a minimum, and their strange, pulsing secret locked up tight. It probably helped that they were never alone together.

Things didn’t stay that way for long.

The second time it happened, Harry was simply trying to get fit for new practice gear; the soles of his boots kept falling apart despite the numerous charms he had in place to hold them together, and the inside thigh seams on his trousers were worn so thin that even Molly had declared the need for new ones.

He heard the bell indicating a new customer as he stood in the back fitting room, half dressed, and looked up in surprise; Quality Quidditch usually closed their doors when he was in the shop. His tailor, Edward, paused in the act of taking measurements with his wand just as Malfoy ducked behind the curtain.

He froze, Harry froze, and even Edward froze. Harry stared at Malfoy’s wide, mercurial eyes for a drawn-out moment. Malfoy’s gaze slowly dropped lower, and Harry’s skin began to heat as he realised he was standing there in nothing but his threadbare practice trousers. He swallowed.

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?”

“I have an appointment,” he said smoothly after an infinitesimal hesitation.

Edward made a bleating sound. “Yes!” He turned to Harry. “My sincerest apologies, Mister Potter, Mister Malfoy. I completely forgot; my appointment charmbook broke the other day, and…” He trailed off and bit his lip.

They stood there for a moment in stark silence until Malfoy snapped, “Well? Are you able to reschedule me, then?”

“Of course! Please excuse me for a moment, I purchased a new charmbook, but haven’t had the chance to implement my customers into it yet. I’ll be right back,” he said to Harry, making it sound like a question. Harry nodded reluctantly, and Edward headed to the front of the shop.

“You happened to have an appointment at the same time I do,” Harry said flatly. “Why do I find that hard to believe?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Because you’ve never been very smart?”

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“Fortunately, you make your living using something other than your brain,” Malfoy continued tersely, then added under his breath, “Not that you do it well.”

Harry stepped off the small pedestal he was waiting on, hands fisting at his sides as he stepped closer. “I don’t know what makes you think I won’t hex you into unconsciousness. Because you managed to fool my friends before reverting to type? Because I was included in that for about five minutes?”

“And which five minutes would those be, Potter?” Malfoy asked with a frosty smile.

Harry gritted his teeth. “The ones where I trusted you not to be an arrogant arsehole when I sent you my story. Which, let me remind you, is why you got the job you wanted, right? If anything, you owe me a little consideration,” he ground out over the rushing in his ears, feeling vaguely ashamed of how good it felt to finally say.

Malfoy’s face went pale, then red. His narrow jaw clenched and he strode forward, closing the space between them, to jab Harry in the chest with his finger. “I owe you,” he repeated nastily. “Yes, I’m aware of what I owe you, Potter. I rather thought I had paid some of that back by not outing you when I had the chance. Just because you’d gotten used to reading little puff pieces on what a good athlete you are doesn’t mean I have to subscribe to the same line when I see something obviously subpar,” he sneered. “Maybe if you dedicated more time to training and less to trying to feed all of your sexual appetites while holding on to your precious virginity—oh, yes, the paper has interviews from every single one of the people you’ve dated in the last few months, and they’re compiling the most delightful story—”

The rushing in Harry’s ears became a roar as Malfoy’s mouth curved smugly, and he knocked Malfoy’s stabbing finger away from his chest. “There you go,” Harry spat, “Proving me right about your journalistic integrity. I knew, I knew—”

“Knew what?” Malfoy interjected, voice going low and dangerous. “I don’t have to write a story to enjoy it immensely you pathetic, arrogant arse.”

“Which one am I?” Harry demanded. Energy crackled between them, as furious as the magic gathering in his fingertips. He’d never trusted Malfoy, he’d always known it would come to this, and everyone would have to see it again—who he was, what he was, and it didn’t matter that Harry wanted—that he wanted— “Arrogant or pathetic? Either way, at least I’m not a slimy, snivelling coward who will only ever be out for his own benefit!” he finished on a yell, and Malfoy tried to deck him again.

Harry dodged, snapping his fingers around Malfoy’s wrist and giving it a hard twist. Knees buckling in surprise at the pain, Malfoy staggered against him but rallied quickly and used his angle to barrel into Harry’s chest with his shoulder. Harry stumbled backward, into a row of mannequins who squeaked out their displeasure and disapproval before they toppled into a pile and fell silent. Harry fell on top of them, the wooden angles of their hands and elbows jabbing at his back, but managed to yank Malfoy along with, who came down on top of Harry in a tangle of limbs with a loud grunt. Malfoy’s hand found his throat and Harry’s mind blitzed out as he frantically Accio-d his wand. It flew into his hand and he prepared to hex the other man when—

—When it no longer mattered because Malfoy’s mouth was covering his, messy and desperate, and his body was suddenly grinding against Harry’s. Harry lashed out his wand without thought and warded the curtains hiding them from the outside of the shop, releasing Malfoy’s wrist at the same time so he could wind a tight arm around his waist. His legs fell open and Malfoy fit himself between them, and it was bloody uncomfortable lying on top of a pile of charmed mannequins that came back to life beneath him to squawk out their disgust at being so mistreated, but Harry barely noticed because Malfoy’s rigid cock was pressing against his own and he was muttering epithets into Harry’s mouth as he kissed it. His hand tightened on Harry’s throat for a moment before loosening, fingers fanning out over his jaw and Harry fisted a hand in the fabric of Malfoy’s shirt the instant before he shoved Malfoy off of him. Malfoy’s arse hit the floor behind him with a thump, and he threw Harry a confused, murderous glance.

Harry climbed off the pile of mannequins and stared hard at Malfoy for a moment, chest heaving. He extended his hand.

Malfoy looked at him suspiciously, anger still etched across his narrow features, but he slid his palm into Harry’s and allowed himself to be pulled into a standing position.

Harry yanked him close and Disapparated.

They hit the floor of his bedroom neatly, and Malfoy barely got out a “What the—” before Harry was kissing him again because there was no way, now, that Harry could deny wanting to, could deny having thought about it for months since the loo and even before. It was always there, in the back of his mind, during every boring date and moderately interesting sexual encounter, that he wanted Malfoy. And he was bloody sick of fighting it.

After a moment, Malfoy began kissing him back. His fingers dug into the muscles on Harry’s back, then slipped lower and clenched against his arse. Harry growled, coming up on his toes to better align the frustrating brush of their cocks through their trousers, and Malfoy made a low noise as they came into contact again. He wrapped his arms around Harry and pulled him flush against his body, lifting him slightly with surprising ease for all of his slender appearance and taking a few halting steps backward until they reached the bed and tumbled onto it.

“Off, take them off,” Malfoy mumbled before shoving his tongue back into Harry’s mouth. Harry sucked on it and Malfoy’s hands scrambled frantically for the fastenings on Harry’s trousers.

Harry pulled out of the kiss for a moment, his breath coming in choppy pants. He smirked down at Malfoy, who was staring up at him with a shocked expression, and snapped his fingers.

Their clothes disappeared.

Malfoy gave a startled laugh, and the bright sound did something strange to Harry’s insides, even as he became aware that Malfoy was stretched out underneath him, and they were both naked, and their cocks were pressed together. Harry gave quick rut against him, and Malfoy’s hands tensed on his waist. His face became shuttered and tense with desire again, and Harry would have missed the open, happy look on his face except… Well, Malfoy was hot like this, glaring lust at him as though furious that Harry was able to make him feel anything at all.

“Always thought you’d be eager for it, Potter,” he muttered with a twist to his face that indicated he was trying to be snide. His lust blown eyes and kiss-swollen mouth told a better story and Harry rolled his hips again, feeling the smear of pre-come between their bellies.

“Why have you been thinking so much about my sex life, Malfoy?” Harry countered, then covered Malfoy’s indignant objection with his lips. Malfoy’s blunt nails dug into his skin in retaliation, and he rolled them in a quick movement so that he was on top.

He wrenched his mouth away from Harry’s and looked down at him. “Fuck,” he gritted out. The disgust in his tone was at complete odds with the strange light in his eyes, and Harry’s cock throbbed. “You really haven’t done this, have you?”

Harry scowled. “I’ve done things.”

“But not this,” Malfoy insisted lowly. His hands wandered, hard, down Harry’s flank.

“I’m not saving my ‘precious virginity,’” Harry grumbled with a quick stroke upward of his hips that made Malfoy close his eyes. He wondered, for a fraction of a second, if that was actually true before continuing, “Is this a fucking problem for you?”

Malfoy’s gaze burned through him and he sought Harry’s mouth in another filthy kiss.

“I don’t generally deflower virgins, despite the rumours,” Malfoy got out eventually, breathless. “It just means we’ll have to do it differently than I’d intended.”

“What puts you in charge?” Harry demanded. He ignored the thrill that shot through him at the thought.

“Experience,” Malfoy said shortly, then sat up on top of him, grabbed his wand, and murmured, “Accio, Potter’s wanking lube.” Harry’s bedside drawer shot open and the small jar flew into Malfoy’s waiting hand. He shot a knowing smile down at Harry—just a flash of white teeth—and Harry rolled his eyes and bit back his own grin.

And it felt—different, for a moment. Calmer and warmer, the world settling around Harry with a disconcerting click of acceptance. For all that the urgency was still burning through him, his anger had ebbed away so easily somewhere between their kisses and the close press of their bodies, leaving him to wonder if he’d ever really been angry at all.

Malfoy unscrewed the lid and Harry reached for the jar, but the other man just batted his hands away before dipping two fingers in and slicking them up.

He reached behind himself, and Harry’s mouth dropped open.

Because Malfoy was—was working himself open, soft grunts issuing from his lips as he half twisted his torso for better reach. His arm worked quickly, muscles bunching. Harry couldn’t see, but he knew that this meant—and he never would have expected, if he’d allowed himself to anticipate anything like this, that Malfoy would ever let him—

Harry skimmed his hands up Malfoy’s ribcage, tracing the lines of his bones with one hand, lifting it higher to rub the pad of his thumb over Malfoy’s dark, pebbled nipple. Malfoy looked down at him with an imperious raise of his eyebrow, a twitch of the corner of his mouth. Harry swallowed hard and circled the base of his bobbing cock with tight fingers to reign himself in.

At length, Malfoy removed his fingers and wiped the excess lube on over Harry’s cock. He straddled him, arse cheeks tight over Harry’s thighs, and Harry pulled him down for another kiss, licking at the seam of Malfoy’s surprised mouth until it opened for him to allow him entrance, and Harry gave a muffled groan at the feel of Malfoy’s tongue against his, at his stiff cock resting against Harry’s groin. When Malfoy finally pulled away, Harry’s glasses were fogged and crooked on the bridge of his nose, and he reached up to take them off but Malfoy flatly said, “Leave them,” looking annoyed. A pink stain spread across his cheekbones and darkened the tips of his ears. Amusement filled Harry, but he held his tongue and settled his glasses back firmly in place.

Malfoy eyed him as though he were about to say something, then inched upward until he was sitting over Harry’s hips and Harry’s prick was caught between them, sliding right into the crevice of Malfoy’s arse. He rose up, clasping Harry’s erection in a steady hand, and guided it to his hole. Harry felt the puckered, slick bit of flesh against the tip of his cock as Malfoy probed for a moment, searching for the right angle, and then he was lowering himself onto Harry, slowly, enveloping Harry in the tight, wet sheath of his channel. Harry’s hands grabbed for his thighs to steady himself and resist the urge to thrust up blindly because—holy Merlin fuck. And then he was in him, all the way, cock squeezed to perfection as Malfoy settled himself against Harry and stopped for a moment to breath and adjust.

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered open, and he raised that expressive eyebrow again. “Am I supposed to do all the work? Merlin, Potter, I hope you’re not as lazy a fuck as you have been a flyer.”

The insult slid off Harry like rain off an Impervious because Malfoy had as much as just given him leave to—Harry began thrusting upward in short, tentative movements. Malfoy made a disgruntled noise; he canted his hips forward a bit and leaned back, and on Harry’s next stroke made a different sound, a greedy, “uhhh,” that caused whatever blood that was left in Harry’s brain to leave in a rush. Harry sought leverage with his feet and started pumping up in a smooth hard slide of in and out, feeling the blur of Malfoy’s magic sparking against his skin as his own responded. Malfoy rose and fell in a quick rhythm, his prick slapping against Harry’s stomach with each rough bounce, and Harry took hold of it, instinctively, winding his fingers around it in a hard clasp. It jerked against his palm, hot and thick, and Harry gave it a squeeze at the root before pulling on it with a quick twist of his wrist.

Malfoy groaned, arched, and Harry plunged deep into him, trying to time his strokes over Malfoy’s shaft with his strokes inside of him. Malfoy’s hips shimmied back and forth; with Harry’s hand on him, he seemed to forget the pace and focused on grinding his body downward. It was too tight, to slick, and Harry was getting too close.

“Malfoy, please,” he gasped out.

Harry looked up at him, sweat gathering on his skin as he tried to hold on. His heels dug into the mattress to steady himself as his cock began to throb and his balls tightened with impending release. Malfoy seemed lost in his own senses, his eyes shut and his face filled with the sort of abandon Harry had never thought him capable of. His hand sped up over Malfoy’s cock; it grew heavier in his grip, harder, even though that seemed impossible, and Malfoy’s eyes blinked open to look down at him as if just realising that Harry was still there just as Harry gave his cock another hard tug. His face changed, jaw bunching as he stared at Harry and his grinding grew erratic; he threw his head back, baring his throat as he started to come, splashing Harry’s stomach and hand with long ropes of his release. Harry wanted to sink his teeth into the pale column of Malfoy’s exposed neck, wanted to mark him, wanted

Malfoy’s hole clenched around him again and again in time with the pulsing of his prick in Harry’s fist, and Harry couldn’t take it anymore; he levered himself up in one swift movement, caught Malfoy around the waist, and rolled them over. His cock, so hard it was aching, almost slipped out of Malfoy’s arse, but he steadied himself and planted his hands on either side of Malfoy’s head as he started pounding into him savagely.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Malfoy gasped, and Harry leaned over him and bit down on the cords of Malfoy’s throat and the combination of Malfoy’s skin between his teeth and his name on Malfoy’s lips and his cock buried deep in Malfoy’s arse was finally, finally enough. His orgasm spiralled down his spine and ripped from his balls; he spilled inside the other man, hips jerking between Malfoy’s splayed thighs as he came and came and came.

They laid together like that for a bit, sticky from sweat and come, but after a while Malfoy gave his shoulders a little shove and Harry rolled himself off, to the side.

Gingerly, Malfoy sat up, grabbing for his fallen wand to Summon his clothing, which Harry had sent to his side chair in the corner of the room.

Harry propped himself up on his elbow, eyebrows drawing down as Malfoy began to dress.

“Where are you going?”

Malfoy’s silvery eyes flicked toward him. “Home.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, confused. “You don’t have to.”

Malfoy snorted as he did up his trousers. “I’m aware of that.”

Something uneasy spread through Harry, banishing the pleasant, lingering aftereffects of his climax. He took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have said what I did at the tailor,” he forced out. “It wasn’t right. You make me angry, but it wasn’t right. I know you’re not—not like that, anymore.”

Malfoy’s mouth curved up into an amused little smile. His skin was blotchy from the scrape of Harry’s stubble, and he had distinct teeth marks against the curve of his neck, and Harry wanted him again.

“It’s fine, Potter,” Malfoy said, shrugging into his shirt. “We fucked. I know you have some nasty little desire to see the good in everyone.” He straightened his collar, then went to work on his cuffs, pinning Harry with a level look. “Don’t sprain yourself trying to do that with me. I quite enjoy our… dynamic,” he murmured.

Harry contemplated him, feeling relieved and disappointed in equal measure. Still, it was strange to just—

“You don’t have to go, though.”

Malfoy chuckled, looking completely at ease. He slipped his shoes on neatly. “Your Floo?”

“Downstairs,” Harry gave in with a sigh. He collapsed onto his back again, and was surprised when Malfoy suddenly bent over him and pressed a kiss against his mouth.

“Thanks for the fuck, Potter. It was educational,” he said with a sly grin. “Probably more for you than for me, but…”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry said against the laugh that threatened. Malfoy’s grin widened, and he walked out of Harry’s room, whistling softly.


Draco’s cock is exquisite, undeniably one of Harry’s favourite things in the world, though he’ll never say as much. When it’s hard, it flushes the prettiest pink, even darker at the crown. The foreskin stretches and smooths, but is soft as velvet under Harry’s hand when he plays with it, sliding it back and forth. It’s also wildly responsive; once, Harry spent ten minutes just looking at it as he’d scraped his fingers up and down Draco’s thighs, and it had bobbed and jerked and twitched and leaked just at Harry’s stare, and if he hadn’t been so eager to taste Draco’s spunk, he thinks it probably would have begun spurting for him, spurred on by the desire in his eyes.

And when it’s inside Harry…

He really does prefer topping; there’s nothing quite like being allowed entrance into Draco’s body that way; the trust that’s inherent in it. He thinks it also has something to do with the way their magic combines; when he presses his cock deep inside Draco’s arse, he feels the fizz of Draco’s magic encompass him. He thinks that’s true for Draco too.

But Draco knows just how to work his hips, knows just how to ride Harry until he’s gasping brokenly which he does now, saying, “Draco, you bastard, let me touch my fucking cock or I’ll—”

Draco laughs, hips picking up speed as he plows into Harry. Harry had wondered why Draco hadn’t used any toys tonight—he’s so fond of his little games—until Harry had tried to reach between his legs and found his hands stuck to the mattress with a durable charm.

“You’ll what?” Draco taunts breathlessly.

Harry could get out of it, they both know, but Draco wants something from him tonight, and Harry wants to know what that is. So he grips the bedspread, instead of arguing anymore, his cock aching for release and bouncing with every one of Draco’s smooth thrusts. He drops his head onto the mattress as the head of Draco’s cock brushes against his prostate in a tantalising drag of friction.

“Draco,” he whispers, and there are so many things that he wishes he could say instead, except that saying Draco’s name like that somehow expresses them all.

Draco’s hips pick up speed; he’s gotten Harry so loose and so wet that he slides in and out of Harry’s arse with ease, and Harry tilts it up, arching the small of his back inward. Draco groans, his hands tight on Harry’s arse cheeks as he spreads them—for the visual, no doubt, which is just what Harry likes to do in the same position. The thought makes his mouth run dry, and his balls draw up tight, and then Draco is pumping into him harder, like he knows what Harry is thinking, knows how close he is to release. Or maybe Draco is, because he seems to lose control at Harry’s moan of pleasure and his mutters something quietly. Harry’s hands release from the duvet, but before he can take himself in hand, Draco is yanking him up to pull Harry's back against his chest. The angle is awkward but brings Draco’s hammering cock straight against his prostate, and Harry grips the bedpost in order to not fall over and lose the contact.

Draco’s arm winds around Harry’s ribcage and he grabs his free hand, pulling him into a modified hug of sorts, his breath hot and moist against Harry’s ear with every ragged pant. He twists his hips, down and up on a hard drive in and tilts his head to nip at the side of Harry’s throat, and the winding pressure inside of Harry finally breaks as he climaxes, his cock completely untouched. He spills on the sheets below them and Draco gives a low grunt of approval as he starts moving even faster, even harder, thrusting into Harry frantically before his body goes as rigid as his cock. Harry feels the splash of wet inside of him spread, feels Draco’s cock jerking, buried in his contracting arsehole, and can’t hold back another guttural moan as he winds his fingers together with Draco's and holds on tight to ride out the wave of sensation, the magic crashing over them both, these sharp, shining spikes of pleasure that make him feel safe and devastated all at once.

Slowly, Draco’s hold on him loosens, and Harry lowers back onto his hands. Draco carefully removes his softening cock, giving Harry’s arse a sweet stroke with his fingertips before they both crawl up to the pillows to rest for a moment.

When his pulse finally stops racing and his breath begins to steady, Harry casts a cleaning charm over the both of them. Draco murmurs a bit, his eyes still closed, his narrow, patrician features soft. Harry impulsively leans over and kisses the arch of his pale brow, which lifts under his lips. When he pulls back, Draco’s eyes are open, slumberous and smoky, and he has a tiny smile pulling up the corners of his mouth.

“Is it—always like that for you?” Harry says after a moment, because he’s wondered for so long and can’t keep the question in anymore. “The—the magic?”

Draco snorts, but he doesn’t sound unkind. “You’ve never felt that with anyone else?”

“Draco,” Harry says, lowly, because it’s only ever been him.

Draco blinks, looking momentarily startled. He looks as though he wants to say something—his Adam’s apple bobs for a second--then rests his cheek back against the pillow.

“But you—” comes the quiet, questioning response at length.

“No.” Harry dates when Draco does, but it never leads to anything more. He can’t imagine there being anything more, and wants to tell him so, but can’t.

Draco’s countenance smooths out, becoming overly casual. He yawns in Harry’s face, and Harry begins to feel the burn of frustration, but then Draco says, “No, it’s not,” dropping the words like stones in water, which create a ripple effect against Harry’s heart, widening out as it travels further through him.

He sighs a little. “Oh. I wondered.” He closes his eyes. “I’m knackered,” he says.

He can feel Draco’s gaze on him, piercing him, but he doesn’t move from his spot. After a minute, Draco’s hand slides, almost possessively, over Harry’s chest and rests there.


The violence stopped, except for occasionally the in the bedroom, when they both agreed upon it first. Harry no longer felt the vicious edge of resentment whenever Malfoy was included in his events, or even when he took apart Harry’s games. They got into horrid arguments with each other that their friends learned to tune out, but it always turned into something different before it came to blows.

They didn’t keep it a secret; there was no possible way to. One minute Malfoy would be sneering in his face, and then next Harry would be hustling him into the darkest corner of the pub he could find to press him against the wall, or locking a tight arm around his waist and Disapparating them. Harry would stomp off to refill his drink after Malfoy insulted him, and Malfoy would follow him like a magnet, leaning in from behind to whisper filthy things in his ear. Their friends all knew; Ron had even walked in on them twice, face a twist of disgusted dismay before he fled when he caught Malfoy’s hands shoved down Harry’s trousers in the loo, or Harry on his knees in the middle of his living room.

They learned to get along, which was the strangest thing; the way they didn’t always have to fight. Malfoy was relaxed and fun to be around; it was as if the unhappiness he’d carried around with him as a teenager had eased with each day, month, year away from that time in his life. They even tangentially approached forbidden topics on occasion, like Malfoy’s father and Sectumsempra. On these nights, they never went home with one another. Malfoy would heave himself out of his chair, clap Harry on the shoulder, and make his way over to whatever bloke he’d been eyeing, which was Harry’s cue to leave.

They learned to use each other’s first names outside of the bedroom; Malfoy was taking drink orders the first time—it was his turn to pay—and he turned and said, “Harry?” just like that, so simply that Harry’s heart had thudded in confused longing as he fumbled out that he wanted a refill of his beer.

But they never had sex without the pretence—or reality—of anger first. It was exhilarating at times, exhausting at others.

Except, afterward, they would talk some more, and Draco learned to relax enough to stay for an hour or so, slinging his long leg over Harry’s and letting his hands wander over Harry’s skin. Their kisses would become softer, sweeter, lingering, and when Harry was really lucky, they would go another round and then even the magic would feel different, sweeping and soothing as it slid through him like cold water against his parched throat.

A few months into their arrangement, Harry asked if Draco wanted to join him at charity function. Draco paused in the act of pulling up his trousers, flashed him a smile, and said he already had a date.

Harry wrestled him to the bed and had him again, then, staring down furiously into Draco’s eyes, which blinked up at him with dark desire as he wound his legs around Harry’s waist.

Hermione, for all of her logic, was a natural romantic, but even she gave Harry a kind lecture about moving on when Draco showed up to the charity function with Wallace Ebbs, Harry’s Keeper for the Falcon’s.

Harry went home and drank until he passed out.

After that, he was careful to find his own dates for functions he was sure would include them both. He tried to recreate it, but there was never a flicker beyond normal attraction, not even that tiny spark he felt the first time with Draco.

“Harry,” Ron said plaintively, looking pained at Harry’s description, and at having to giving advice on the subject at all, “It’s because you’re in love with him.”


Harry wakes up, squinting at the sunlight. He feels blurry and confused and swamped with need, wound up into knots. It probably has something to do with the way Draco’s face is buried between his arsecheeks, Harry thinks sleepily, or the way he’s getting wanked by a slow, silken palm wrapped around his cock.

He blinks, starts to sit up, but Draco stays him with a murmur against his skin. So Harry lays back, not wanting to question, as Draco licks into his softened hole, swipes his tongue over the sensitive nerve endings around the rim, pulling on Harry’s cock each time he presses his tongue deeper.

He latches his lips around Harry’s arse and gives a hard suck, and Harry arches into it, crying out, throwing a forearm over his eyes. He reaches down with his other hand and lets it fall to Draco’s golden-white hair, pulling his head closer so he can ride Draco’s face.

He’s already so tight with need, so close, that it’s barely a surprise when he comes, shooting sticky ribbons of fluid over Draco’s hand. Draco gives a gentle moan that vibrates against his rim and his magic sweeps over Harry in a rush of desperate craving. He finally lifts his head, mouth pink and swollen and slick, and climbs up Harry’s body. Harry finds his leaking cock with one hand; he gives it a few tight strokes as they kiss, and then Draco is coming too, in long spurts of semen that splatter against Harry’s stomach.

They keep kissing when it’s over, messy-sweet, in a press of lips and tangle of tongues; Draco smells like sex and sunshine and citrus, and Harry slides his fingers through Draco’s soft hair and trembles with so much—with everything he feels.

Draco pulls away, breathless. His face is teasing. “You wondered if we always had to fight first,” he points out.

“You said it wouldn’t be as much fun if we didn’t,” Harry reminds him, but he’s smiling, too. He scratches his fingertips against Draco’s scalp, and Draco leans into it.

“Well, you stayed,” Draco says, only sounding a little put out.

“You let me,” Harry counters.

“Because I was tired and you’re revoltingly stubborn and Merlin, Harry—”

Harry stops him with another kiss, because hell, they could find a way to argue about fucking anything, which is probably why they end up having sex so often. But it doesn’t always have to be that way, as Draco has just proven, and Harry's getting a little hungry.

“Let’s get breakfast,” he mumbles against Draco’s mouth.

Draco leans back, giving him a narrow look, and Harry thinks he’s going to refuse. “All right,” he says, a bit grudgingly, and Harry flashes him a wide smile that Draco seems to take as an insult. He sniffs as he rolls out of bed, then heads toward the bathroom.

“Draco,” Harry calls. Draco stops and turns to look at him inquisitively.

And there are so many words, so many things he wants to say; wants to tell Draco about what Ron said, and Hermione, and how glad he is that Draco let him spend the night. Wants to explain all of the vines that wrap around his heart when Draco is near, or far away, or laughing, or angry. But the words won’t leave his throat, which has gone tight; they’re caught there, and maybe it’s not important to say them anyway, because he thinks Draco has to know. He shakes his head.

Draco huffs, turns on his toes, and heads into the loo. His voice drifts out after a moment. “I’m covering a function tomorrow night,” he calls over the sound of running water. “They needed a pinch-hitter for the society section on Sunday.”

Harry frowns. “Okay.”

“It’s formal. Think pureblood formal,” Draco continues to Harry’s confusion. “I trust you have something suitable to wear,” he adds, too calmly for the way Harry’s heartrate picks up.

“I might,” Harry says cautiously, because he still can’t believe that Draco could be saying—

Draco’s blond head peeks out and he rolls his eyes. “We’ll take you shopping after breakfast,” he decides, and ducks back into the bathroom.

Because Draco won’t say it either, not even now that he’s ready, and Harry finds that he’s grinning, madly, and it’s okay—better than, even, because Harry has never been good with words, and there are always different ways to say things.

Sometimes, you say them with a fight. Other times, with a kiss.

And occasionally, with an invitation.