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If you are looking for a love story, this isn’t it. Love is mostly sweet, often tedious, and I stopped believing in it a long time ago.

Passion is what rules us.

If love were the more powerful of the two emotions, then when someone hexed their unfaithful lover into small chunks and dumped them into a lake for the Kelpies to finish off, they would call it a crime of love. But they don’t; it’s a crime of passion.

Fully unleashed, passion is untamable.

As a child, all I could be was his enemy despite the pull I felt to get close to him. When your father lands himself in jail and you have to take up his mantle by following the orders of a crazed dark wizard, you learn just how little choice life affords you. And as a child, I wasn’t about to do the brave thing. I embodied the ideologies of a Slytherin, whether because it’s who I truly am or because it was who I was raised to be. Cowardice is the cost of self-preservation, so I have never understood Potter’s reckless abandon to save what he thinks needs saving, or his bravado that causes him to leap into every burning building to rescue his perceived victim. Sometimes, those inside are meant to be consumed by the fire.

But he saved me. And as I clung to him in the desperation of my new awareness that I did not want to die, I dared to hope for another ending to our story, an ending that at least embodied indifference rather than hate. I never allowed myself to dream of anything more until it was already happening, until a new fire threatened to consume us both.

As adults, Potter and I worked in the same department. Apparently, a former Death Eater with high enough N.E.W.T.s makes an okay Investigator in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I rather liked helping others because I got to exercise my mental prowess and contribute to a cause greater than myself all while keeping my hands clean. Granted, Investigators don’t get the same praise as Aurors, but the satisfaction of catching the bad guy lets someone like me sleep at night—well, most nights. I suppose that watching others take the glory for something they couldn’t have done without my team’s contribution is a form of repentance. I’ve had enough bouts with sacrifice in the name of glory for at least one lifetime.

I was part-time for my first few years, so I only saw Potter on occasion. Turns out, my expertise was wanted but not badly enough for the Ministry to list me openly as its employee. Every time I did cross paths with Potter, I felt a deep pang of…do I call it loyalty? It may have only been regret for never thanking him, but whatever that feeling was, I knew it stemmed from the fact that I owed Potter my life, and probably my sanity. Every time I saw him, I wondered how I could possibly thank him after all this time, so I took to giving him a nod of my head. For the first nod, the bloody git stopped dead in his tracks causing an elderly secretary to run into him and send a flourish of papers swirling through the air. I ducked into the nearest office wondering why I was the one blushing in mortification.

I acknowledge that it may have caused some confusion for Potter, but the next time we crossed paths, he nodded back and added a smile, not that one that lights up a room like when he’s with Weasley or Granger, but a quick little upturn of the lips, just enough to be sure it was a smile, but not enough for an invitation to speak.

Between working as an Investigator and trying to do some reparations to the Malfoy name, I was busy. My parents were insistent that the best form of redemption would come in my marrying and marrying well, ideally to a girl who did not have a history of blindly following murderous bigots. It really didn’t matter that I preferred a cock to a cunt—I’d marry and it would be to a charming, high-society lady from a proper family or I’d spend the rest of my life without an inheritance. At the time, life without money seemed far more tragic than marrying someone I didn’t like or really even know. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence among purebloods for parents to arrange marriage, and besides, it wasn’t like I had anyone in my life that I would have preferred to wed.

A one-off or even a few one-offs in a row with the same wizard wasn’t exactly grounds for a relationship. I discovered that whatever charms I once possessed did not combat the ugliness of the black mark on my forearm. Even though I was pardoned, I was spoiled goods in most respected circles.

I had to get creative to fulfil my needs because I wasn’t about to wander into the recesses of Knockturn alley and pay a toothless whore to suck me off. I did still have my pride—I just needed to…expand my horizons.

As it turned out, a muggle could suck a cock the same as a wizard. Anytime I thought that maybe I was happy with my current one-off partner, I was slapped back to the reality of just what differences lay between us. Not only would I lose my fortune, but if I brought my partner into my world, they would learn exactly who I had been. I’m still not sure if I believe that who I am now is enough to lessen the horror of who I once was.

I thought about living as a muggle for a while and during one particular bender, I spent a month living with a bloke named Wesley. He was a University student studying what the muggles call Forensic Chemistry. One of the things we had in common was a desire to catch criminals—ironically, he never missed a chance to tongue over my “tattoo” when we were fucking and tell me how sexy it was—and I enjoyed listening to him talk of the potions muggles used to track blood, or DNA as he called it. I could listen to Wes for hours. He was so passionate about the good to come from this chemistry, of what he could do to help his fellow man.

And at first, it was exhilarating. His passion made me believe that I could do anything I put my mind to, that I could become whoever I wanted to become. But that passion became exhausting as I thought through the reality of my situation. If I lived as a muggle, I would only ever be half-alive, my true self repressed. For the first time, I appreciated the struggles of someone who chose to give up their magic for a mate and thought, for perhaps the first time with gravity, that no one should have to do that.

Before I returned to my world, I did go so far as to imagine a hilarious scenario in which I introduced Wesley to my parents and asked them to pretend to be muggles. Envisioning doing something to make Lucius apoplectic is one of my go-to stress relievers and that one took the cake.

So, other than my muggle lovers, what did I have to lose by marrying Astoria Greengrass? She was charming, witty enough, and more interested in my money than me. I did cause her some concern when I told her that we would not be living at the Manor with my parents. She stopped arguing with me after a few family dinners.

When I told my parents of my plan, that I would be establishing my own residence and they could help or not, they smiled and ensured us that while Astoria would never go without, if I wanted to carve my own path in the world, I needed to do so on my own.

While Potter and I were making progress with our cordiality (we had upgraded to curt hellos and quick, thin-lipped smiles) we weren’t quite on the level of acquaintances who asked one another for a favor. I knew that there was no way I could get promoted to full-time without his help and without that promotion, I would have to live at the Manor.

My life has been a stream of unpleasant choices. People think this attitude of mine is derived from arrogance, rather it comes from living in a constant state of desperation over the next horrible turn of events all the while having to wear a mask for the world that told of nothing but luxuries and ease. Compared to living a lifetime under my parents’ roof, asking Potter for a small favor seemed like the easier of the two.

Normally, I avoided the Aurors’ offices, but when the Blackwells’ case file needed to be taken to the Auror team, I volunteered. My partner shot me a look of surprise which I ignored, knowing this would give me an opportunity to advance my dance of cordiality with Potter. I knew he was eager to close in on the Blackwell trio and end their sporadic attacks on off-the-clock Aurors. Just last week, they had sent an Auror to St. Mungos. They had cornered him after he left a pub, killing his girlfriend and cursing him with something that the Healers had never seen.

I took a deep breath and knocked on his door. Auror Potter. I was thinking that I was surprised it wasn’t covered in gold stars and labeled Saint Potter, when the door yanked open.

“Malfoy,” Potter said without hiding his surprise. “You usually avoid this floor.”

“I work part-time, Potter. Why would I waste my minutes lollygagging amongst your lot.”

“I thought we were on the same team?”

Was he leering at me? What the fuck is that look on his face?

“Umm, well, right. Here’s the case file on the Blackwells. I triangulated the area of their attacks and all of our known sightings, and I believe they have a base in Stratford.”

Potter stopped staring at me to look at the file I had handed him. He walked over to place it in the middle of his surprisingly tidy desk. I had always imagined that anywhere he occupied for a length of time would be as unkempt as his hair.

“Thank you, Malfoy,” Harry said with relief, before adding, “Say, what are you doing after work?”

I blinked several times. Eloquent, I know.

Harry waited and continued looking at me as if I were either the stupidest bloke on the planet or a tasty snack.

“Uhh, wedding stuff. Astoria and my mother are insistent that I be there to agree on the calligraphist.”

Harry chuckled, “I remember that well, though I don’t think we were important enough to warrant an artist of handwriting. I never knew who was more excited for the wedding: Gin or Molly.”

Harry had wed the littlest Weasley in a quiet ceremony of friends and family, although with the Weasley clan it wasn’t bloody likely it was quiet. Somehow, he kept it all out of the newspapers, excepting for a tiny write up that stated he had happily wed Ginevra Molly Weasley in an intimate ceremony. After the wedding, a few of the less scrupulous gossip columns published tell-alls from supposed former lovers. I had taken note that most of them were men. Eventually, the stories stopped after a few of the writers received some nasty hexes that were delivered by Potter’s fans. He was Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and would never be anything less than a doting husband in the eye of the public.

“Mmm,” I managed.

Harry grinned that grin that was reserved for anyone but me.

“Well, if you get done at a reasonable hour, meet me for a drink. Gin’s out touring with the Harpies and I’m on my own.”

“Potter—I have to be honest. I came up here to ask you for a favor.”

Circe’s tits this was embarrassing. Honestly, though, how bad could it be to live another 50 years or so with Lucius? He’s had a hard time. He’s likely to die early enough. Although, great-great-grandfather lived to be 182.

Fuck.

Harry did not seem surprised at all by my admission, rather he urged me on.

“Excellent. Then you have a reason to end the chore early- gotta meet a colleague. Work stuff,” he said with a wink.

A wink! And then he smiled that smile, which had seemed to take on a more lascivious nature.

“All right,” I said slowly. “Where shall we meet?”

Harry’s grin crossed from naughty to absolutely wicked as he promised me that I’d hate it, but the anonymity would be worth my while.

I left his office, the door clicking shut behind me, and wondered just what fresh hell awaited me.

--------------

Sometimes, opportunity lays in wait, curled up in layers of robes, blushing at the wizard who dares to knock on her door. Other times, opportunity lays herself bare, spread eagle before you, ready to fuck up your whole life.

One glance at Potter and I knew that the pull I had always felt was now encapsulated in lust. I wanted him to drag me into the back, hoist me against the wall, and shove his saintly prick up my arse hard enough that I couldn’t remember my name.

I did find it amusing that he thought I would be horrified at a muggle pub, which spoke to the fact that he really didn’t know much at all about me.

He saw me and smiled, a quick upturn of his lips that held until I slid onto the empty stool next to him, and for the first time I inhaled the scent that I would forever associate with my eternal damnation. Potter smelled like the same color of his eyes- dark green. He smelled like leaves in the fall with a just a hint of something citrusy, maybe like how a lime smells when you’ve taken a shot of muggle tequila and the scent washes over your tongue as you bite into it.

I wondered if Potter’s neck would taste like the salt.

He was looking at me like he could read every one of my thoughts and I quickly waved the bartender over to order an Old Fashioned. My leg brushed against Potter’s and I had to risk a glance to see if my thigh was actually on fire.

It wasn’t.

“You know your way around muggle drinks,” Potter observed.

It was my turn to proffer an indiscriminate grin, and from the ever-so-slight blush that colored his cheeks, I guessed that I had succeeded.
Potter was dressed in a tight pair of jeans that were slung low on his hips. He was wearing a black, hooded sweatshirt that zipped, so I didn’t really understand why it looked like his hair had suffered from a wind gust. From the looks of it, he wore no undershirt and I could just see the smallest expanse of his bare chest—

“You look overdressed,” Potter said smiling into his draft beer.

Seriously?! Could he read my mind, or was I just that obvious?

I raised my chin and said, “Some of us actually know how to present a proper front when in public.”

“Even for muggles? How expansive of you, Draco.”

It was the first time I could recall him saying my first name and I wanted him to say it three more times in a row so I could commit it to my memory and remember exactly how it sounded when I wanked myself to sleep.

And then I realized I should be insulted, not turned on.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the same person I once was,” I bit out.

Harry had the wherewithal to look a bit affronted and said, “I’ve noticed.”

I sat stewing in indignation at both him and myself, finishing my drink and ordering another. I would have left if it weren’t for the looming favor.

He spoke again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up the past like that. Maybe we need to start again…what was the favor you wanted to ask?”

I was quiet as my drink came and I took a large mouthful, steeling my nerves and hushing what was left of my pride.

“I was wondering if you would consider recommending me for full-time.”

Harry said nothing, so I nervously continued. Those green eyes were like Veritaserum.

“My parents sort-of cut me off. I refused Lucius’s request that Astoria and I live with them at the Manor. Apparently, no Malfoy in history ever wanted distance from their parents.”

I finished quickly and returned to my drink which I had grasped in my hand as if it were an anchor to my resolve. I could still feel his eyes on me.

After closing my eyes to steel my nerves, I glanced over at him. He wasn’t wearing glasses--that was what was so unnerving. Gods, if those eyes had belonged to Godric Gryffindor, he wouldn’t have needed a wand to become the most accomplished dueler in all of wizarding history.

Something in my expression moved him to speak.

“I’d be happy to. You’re surprisingly a hard worker and more adept than most of the wizards in that office. Your reports have been right every time—in fact, I’m willing to bet that I bring in the Blackwells tomorrow because of your work.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you putting me on?”

“No. I mean, no one will admit it, at least not yet, but if I push a little, it will be just that. I’ll be pushing them over the threshold of a door that was opened by you. I think it’s important that you know you earned it. You’re a Slytherin, after all. I can’t imagine what it took for you to ask a favor of anyone, let alone me.”

I was speechless. Maybe Potter did understand me.

He ordered two shots of whiskey.

“Cheers?” he questioned.

“Cheers,” I acquiesced.

The fiery shot of liquid felt like a raindrop compared to the heat that enveloped us as our practiced amiability melted away. Passion drifted in like haze on a humid summer day, and wrapped us in its grip.

----------

The music in the club thrummed through my entire body and I closed my eyes, feeling only him. I pushed my hips into Harry’s and our bodies moved together to the fast beat. Somehow, that favor and our shared shot of whiskey went as far as we needed it to. We talked for hours at the pub, my tongue getting looser with every drink.

Not long after I admitted my reluctance to marry Astoria because she wasn’t exactly my type, Potter asked if I wanted to go somewhere else. He apparated us to another muggle establishment; this one, though, was clearly a club, the consistent beat of the music vibrating into the darkness of the alley.

From the overwhelming ratio of male to male, I figured that we were in a gay club. I had went once or twice with Wes, but it wasn’t my scene—it was a little too public for me.

Yet, here I was, grinding with the most famous wizard in a world that these men knew nothing about and I did not give a single shit. Potter was intoxicating, far more than the whiskey, and he easily overpowered my sense of propriety. He was currently grinding into my ass, his hands on my hips, and his erection obvious. I turned around, emboldened by his arousal, and slid my hands up his chest and around his neck. That was all he needed to start pushing me out of the crowd. He took my hand and headed towards the exit. We half walked, half ran into the ally, giggling like teenagers until he turned and faced me. Despite the darkness, I could still clearly see his face. The smiles both melted from our lips, and Potter pulled me into him and kissed me.

I should’ve said no, should’ve pushed him away, but I returned his bruising kiss which was nothing more than lips on lips, a question of whether I wanted more.

A heavy sigh escaped him and a moan came from low in my throat.

I burned. My body melted into his and I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anyone. All thoughts of my impending marriage and his very real marriage were pushed from my conscious. Passion shattered all sense.

“Come home with me,” he breathed into the spot just below my ear, his body trembling against mine.

His words were impregnated with lust and I smiled into his hair.

“Okay.”

----------

The silence of his house was such a stark contrast to the pulsing music of the club that I immediately felt as if I should leave, that I had done something very wrong and everyone I knew was waiting in the shadows to leap out and point at me in ridicule.

“Potter, this is—”

He crushed our bodies together, and this time his kiss was brutal, his teeth nipping and pulling until my mouth opened in a moan. He kissed me until neither one of us could breathe. When he pulled away, he gave me another one of those searing grins, so vibrant I could make it out in the dark.

Potter whispered a spell and the room became dimly lit with candles. He walked over to what I deemed to be a speaker, playing around with a little gadget that I recognized as an iPod. It started to play music, more subdued than the club’s relentless beat, but there was still something sexy in the rhythm. The music broke up the silence of the house, making me feel more at ease.

We were in a tasteful living room, decorated in hues of cream, brown, and green. It reflected the earthiness that seemed to embody Potter. I wobbled my way to a rather nice-looking love seat, plush and cool under my hot body as I collapsed onto it, one of my legs dangling over the end and the other planted on the wood floor.

Harry smiled, a bit predatorily, and did not hesitate as he moved to lay on top of me, pressing me into the couch, winding my arms above my head and kissing me. I wondered, for the last time that evening, what the hell I was doing, why I was here, and why the fuck I was doing it with Harry gods-be-damned Potter.

For the hundredth time, I wondered if had heard my thoughts because he pulled back, asking, “Do you want me to stop?”

I searched his eyes and then smiled as I rolled my achingly hard cock into his.

“I think it’s a little late for that, Potter.”

“And I think you can call me Harry now…or at least I hope you will when I make you come.”

I didn’t try to hide the shiver of lust his declaration elicited. He released my hands and stood up, holding out his hand out to me in an archaic display of chivalry. I gave a little huff of a laugh and placed my hand in his and he led me to a bedroom. I didn’t ask if it was the one he shared with his wife.

The bedroom was lit in the same manner as the living room, dim, but enough light for us to see each other with clarity. Potter—Harry—hadn’t let go of my hand. He laced his fingers with mine and turned to face me. We were mostly matched in height, I having just a slight advantage. He crooked his neck a fraction to look at me, bringing his unengaged hand up to my hair, running his fingers through the mess he created. He released the grip on my hand and raised that hand to tangle in my hair, too. My eyes closed at the pleasurable pressure crossing over my scalp as he gripped my hair, pulling my head back so my neck was exposed to his mouth. He placed tongue-filled kisses up and down my neck, occasionally sucking on a pulse point.

I pushed him back a bit so I could reach out to unzip his sweatshirt, such an ugly garment, but unzipped and hanging off his body, he looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some muggle magazine. He was completely bare of hair, so the definition of his muscles stood out. He popped his hands onto his hips and grinned.

“Sodding slag, aren’t you?” I said narrowing my eyes, barely containing a grin of my own.

Harry raised an eyebrow and rocked his shoulders so his sweatshirt fell the rest of the way off. He popped the button on his jeans and I didn’t need him to pull down the zip for me to know he wasn’t wearing pants.

He kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks, still not removing his partly undone jeans. I moved to kick off my own shoes, but was blocked by Harry’s naked torso as he shoved his fingers into the gaps of my shirt and pulled hard, buttons plinking into the abyss. He shoved my shirt off my shoulders and dug the hem of my undershirt out of my trousers.

“So many fucking clothes, Draco,” he mumbled into my lips.

I had no reply because his hand was palming my cock through my trousers and I wanted to come like a 15-year-old boy.
I stepped back and swallowed hard, my breathing irregular, and I could only imagine the wild expression on my face.

“You don’t have to hold back. Show me how bad you want this,” Harry breathed, his own eyes dilated with lust.

I yanked my undershirt over my head, toed off my shoes and pulled off my trousers and socks, leaving myself clad only in a pair of black briefs.

“Mmm. You make underwear sexy—always prefer nothing myself, but not you. This is better.”

Harry dropped to his knees and I could just see the top of a trimmed patch of black hair peeking out from his unbuttoned jeans before my view was obscured by the shock of black hair on his head as he pressed his lips to the outline of my cock and mouthed his way to the band of my pants.

He pulled the band with his teeth and let them snap back against my stomach. I knew I was in decent shape, but Harry’s gaze made me feel like a god. He took in my body from the trimmed hair on my chest to the indentations of my abs between my hips. In fact, that was where he planted his thumbs after he discarded my underwear somewhere over his shoulder.

I expected him to make quick work of my cock, but he opened his mouth to take in my balls, sucking them and rolling them on his tongue. I gripped his messy hair, unsure if my knees were going to keep me up. Harry didn’t seem to care and moved his tongue slowly up my prick until he dipped it into my slit, sucking on the tip and tasting my precome—no, savoring was probably the better word for how it looked from my vantage.

I wanted to watch, my mind in disbelief that Harry Potter was on his knees, eyes closed in pleasure, his tongue teasing my cock. He looked so sexy, and even sexier as he swallowed me, enveloping me in his hot mouth, his cheeks hollowing as he worked on sucking me off.

“Oh, fuck…Harry!”

I came quickly and violently, my come filling his mouth so he could only swallow the first shot before the rest landed onto his lower lip and chin. The bastard poked his tongue out to lick what he could and it was the most erotic sight I had ever seen—Harry on his knees, my come on his chin, his mouth and eyes both smiling, chuffed to bits.

I rolled my eyes and stumbled over to the bed, collapsing onto my back.

“Yes, you arse. That was fucking fantastic.”

Harry laughed and I heard the rustle of his jeans as he discarded them, then felt the bed dip as he laid on his side, propping himself up with his elbow.

He was still looking intently at me when I finally opened my eyes, convinced I was seeing the word in color for the first time.

“What happened to your glasses?”

He quirked his free shoulder in a half shrug and said, “Haven’t worn them for a while. Got my eyes fixed by an Optohealer after breaking them for the millionth time.”

“Your eyes are so intense. I feel like I’ve had a bottle of Veritaserum when I look at you.”

Harry was quiet for a moment before he spoke.

“So, everything you’ve told me tonight is true? You’re not…here just because of—”

I sat up and looked down at him, my icy glaze stilling his tongue.

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Potter,” I growled.

Harry put his hands up in a sign of defense.

“Hey. I just wanted to be sure. I’m not a slag, you know. I haven’t done this since I got married.”

“That was a joke, Harry,” I said, softening at his admission and laying back onto the bed. I reached up and pushed his fringe off his forehead. Before I could stop myself, I ran my thumb over his scar in one small movement.

He closed his eyes to my touch and I continued to slide my thumb down his forehead and over his nose, catching it just a bit on his lower lip.

“Thank you. I know I’ve never said it, but I’ve thought it every day.”

Harry opened his eyes and reached out to trace one of the tiny ridges of a scar on my chest.

“I’ve thought about some things every day, too. I’m sorry—for that.”

I pushed him onto his back and kissed him; my repressed longing, denied fantasies, and all of my buried passion were put into that kiss. I never wanted it to end, but when my thigh pressed yet again into his hard cock I remembered that he hadn’t come.

“Fuck me, Harry,” I whispered into our kiss.

Harry groaned and rolled me onto my back, spreading my legs. He reached past my hard-again cock and under my balls to run his thumb down to my arse, pushing just enough to elicit a hiss of want from me.

“Please,” I begged.

Harry held out his hand and I heard a little slap against the skin of his palm as a bottle zoomed into it. He opened it and slicked up his cock so I could see it glistening. He made eye contact with me as he touched himself, his strong hand gliding from base to tip, base to tip. I bit my lip to keep from moaning like a whore.

Next, I felt that slickness at my entrance, circling and sliding, until his thumb slowly pushed in. He whispered a lubrication spell and I felt the slickness leak from inside. My body relaxed into the wetness, acknowledging how badly I need Harry’s cock to fill me.

He continued to stretch me with his fingers, adding another, then a third. I’m so open, so ready.

Harry shifted and positioned his cock, pushing in slowly. I reached up, searching for something to grip. Gods, he is big.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern fighting its way to his countenance while it beat back the pulsating barricade of lust.

I pushed myself further onto him in answer and we both make the same inhumane noise, a growl caught in a scream.

Harry pushed the rest of the way into me and both of my hands grip the headboard, my body trembling from the pleasure of being filled with him. Harry’s arm circled around my back and pulled my head up to him so he could kiss me. His movements are soft and nearly imperceptible at first. My cock is sliding between the sweat on our stomachs. I don’t think that I’ve ever been this close to another being in my life. It’s like I can feel him inside of me and know what I feel like around him. Passion surges between us and not even Harry can hold on to control.

He started to fuck me in earnest, pulling his hips back and snapping into me, each time with a little moan of pleasure. I am lost in the sensation of our bodies clashing together and creating some sort of order out of the chaos that has always been the foundation of our relationship. I feel like I’ve swallowed every potion in the medicine cupboard and I am so sick with want. I need to know what it feels like to have Harry come in me, all the while I dread the emptiness that will follow after he does.

Our bodies, so slick with sweat that I can taste the salty little beads that have formed on my upper lip, are shaking with impending climaxes that I know we both feel from head to toe. I pressed my lips together to wick away the moisture and watched as one drip of sweat slid down Harry’s chest and dipped into the ridge of his abs before it fell onto my body.

I felt his thrusts become more erratic as he stretched over my body, slamming into me once, twice, and then he’s biting my shoulder and I can feel my own cock spurting come and slickening our bellies.

Harry didn’t move for a long time. I could feel his prick dying inside of me and as I predicted, my body mourned the loss of contact. Harry sighed and rolled off of me, hooking my hip and pulling me to face him. We are a mess of legs and arms, tangled together, as he strokes my face, sliding his thumb across the edge of my jaw.

I tucked my head under his chin and burrowed into him, and Harry sighed with such contentedness before we drifted off to sleep.

----------

Too soon, the inevitable morning arrived. In the light, everything always looks different, shining with a brilliance that makes reality impossible to ignore.

I slid out of bed and dressed quietly, not wanting to wake him. It took an impossibly long time to retrieve my clothes from the corners of the world—god what the hell were we thinking?

Harry appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, my belt hanging from his finger.

I walked to him, looking into those still so animated green eyes, my bare feet cold against the wood floor. I grasped a length of the belt and Harry crooked his finger, pulling it and me closer. His arms wrapped around my waist and he kissed the side of my jaw. He kissed down my neck and my cock grows harder.

I leaned into his kisses and he mumbled against my neck to ask me what I wanted for breakfast.

The thought of having breakfast with Harry Potter is what breaks me out of my trance. It’s just too domestic.

I picked my discarded belt up and shoved it through the loops of my trousers, looking around once more for my shoes and socks.

“I have to go,” I said to my shoes once I located them and began to slip them on.

“Okay.”

And the wanker said it so sadly that I looked up and almost apologized.

I walked out into the entry way to apparate and it’s the only time that I ever had the willpower not to look back.

----------

A year later…

“There will always be obligations in a marriage, but you need to decide how important your happiness is,” Harry’s voice rumbled softly from above me.

I am nestled into his side, my head resting on his shoulder while his arm wraps around my back and his hand curls into my hip, his thumb brushing back and forth across my skin.

“Is that why we do this? I’m unhappy?”

“Sometimes that’s what I tell myself. It’s a lot easier to believe you’re unhappy than I am,” Harry said with a shrug.

----------

The present, another year and one divorce later…

Christ. Here we go again.

“I asked you to explain your reluctance, Draco,” Harry says firmly as he peels the label off his beer bottle.

With a heavy sigh, I answer, “She’s pregnant.”

His fingers still.

I swore, even after his divorce, that we were just going to be friends, but he’s got those eyes on me, and I can feel passion banging to be let out of her cage.

Yes, yes I can. I’ll look away.

Circe’s tits he smells so good, and his leg is so close to mine. No, not this time.

Damn, he’s moved his thigh so it connects with mine, and he’s still got those bloody eyes on me and I can’t help but look at him.

Resolution, exit stage left.

We pay and apparate and now I am spreading my legs as he moves on top to kiss me, a familiar beginning to an extraordinary ending.

My hand slides down his back and dips into his jeans to squeeze his firm ass.

Muscles shift and tense. Warm lips are nipped by teeth until tongues are sliding together. Our hips rock and we groan.

Passion clouds my mind and I feel nothing but him and the simplicity surrounding the immediate situation. I want to will my sense to take over, to stop, to un-complicate this by walking away and never coming back, but I fail. Every time, I fail.

And so does he.

Clothes are gone. There’s nothing but skin between us and sometimes that feels like too much because I want to consume him, swallow him up and keep him inside me.

I no longer want him; now I need him. And I can’t figure for the life of me why he doesn’t have the willpower to stop. He’s so much stronger than me.

I doubt that I could even tell you my name when he--

One deep thrust and everything but physical ecstasy dies. We writhe together and cling to the moment, stretching time until our bodies overpower our control. My muscles are clenching and he’s so close.

Our culmination is always volatile, our bodies spilling everything our minds cannot contain.

When it’s over, everything is softer, and when my breathing regulates, my thoughts drift back.

He smiles at me and I want to fold myself into his arms and stay.

But I have obligations; he was right about that. It was time to face what passion had long ago annihilated and for me to begin carefully picking up the pieces.