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Chasing Treacle Tart (and Draco Malfoy)

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Harry stares at the gorgeous slice of treacle tart left on a table a short distance away. The tart looks brilliant, with a crumbly, light-brown crust and a thick, glistening layer of golden syrup sitting on a bed of crust. A generous dollop of clotted cream tops it off, with half of the cream oozing off the side of the tart. It’s his favourite sort of treacle tart — simple and sweet, with none of that strange pastry crust criss-crossing at the top.

The din of the Ministry canteen fades away for a moment as Harry gazes at the tart with longing. Even though he has just finished his lunch, his mouth waters at the thought of savouring a bite of tart (with the perfect proportions of crust, golden syrup and cream, of course), Merlin, the medley of flavours, the sweetness of the syrup and the texture of the crust…

He swallows and licks his lips. 

“What’s up, mate? Is there a fit bloke or…” Ron’s voice breaks Harry out from his tart-adoring reverie. Ron follows his line of sight, and then glances at the expression on his friend’s face. “You look at treacle tart like how I look at Hermione when she’s all dolled up,” he remarks, shaking his head in amusement as he polishes off his fish and chips.

“It’s just sitting there, Ron. All alone.” Harry points at the tart, sighing wistfully. “I didn’t know we had treacle tart on the menu. I didn’t even see any at the serving line just now.”

The only things on the table (besides the tart) are a thick book and the usual condiments. Hang on, the book looks familiar… He leans forward and squints at the spine.

Theodore Nott appears, holding a fork and a napkin. He sits down, and frowns at the tart. With the side of his fork, he scrapes the clotted cream away and smears it unceremoniously on the side of the plate.

Harry makes a pained sound.

Theo nudges the tart away and pulls his book towards him. He opens it — the heavy cover thuds against the table — and flips to a page. With growing annoyance, Harry watches as Theo reads while he eats, forking in distracted mouthfuls of tart as he skims the pages.

“Look at him, he’s not even giving it the proper respect it deserves!” Harry complains when a good chunk of tart tips off Theo’s fork, plopping down on the table. “You’ve got to enjoy every bite!”

“Well, he’s your Auror partner,” Ron says.

Harry scoots closer to Theo and hisses his name. He’s not surprised when he gets no response; he knows how engrossed Theo can be when he’s got his nose in a book; he’s as bad as Hermione sometimes. He calls his name again, but his words are swallowed by the sounds of the lunch crowd — laughing voices, clinking cutlery, and scraping chairs. Huffing, he balls up a clean napkin and lobs it at Theo.

Instead of landing on his book, the napkin plops right onto the middle of the treacle tart.

Harry looks sadly at the ruined tart and lets out a long, drawn-out sigh.

Theo finally looks up, his brows pulling together. Upon spotting Harry’s apologetic grin, his frown abates, but his expression changes into one of exasperation. “What d’you want, Potter?”

“Where’d you get that?” Harry asks, pointing to the dessert.

After wrinkling his nose and removing the napkin from the tart, Theo makes a show of looking around. “Well, since we are at the canteen, one would assume that food, such as this tart, would be obtained at the serving line,” he says, jerking his chin towards the direction of said line.

Harry doesn’t react to Theo’s sarcasm. After partnering with him for a year, he’s learnt to pick his fights — if he takes offence at every sarcastic thing that Theo says, it would be disastrous for both his blood pressure and their working relationship.

“They’ve never served treacle tart before, and it wasn’t there while we were queueing—“ Harry stops short as understanding dawns on him.

“Hmm, I wonder why,” Theo says lightly. He taps a finger on his lower lip, pretending to think.

Harry glances at Ron. Their eyes meet, and he’s sure they’re thinking along the same lines.

Malfoy.

He looks at the serving line, his eyes narrowing in determination when he spots a flash of a blond head, now visible because of the shorter queue. He presses his lips together, annoyed at the thought of Malfoy withholding his dessert.

“I’m gonna get my treacle tart,” he mutters, scraping his chair back and standing up. He pushes up his sleeves. “You want any?”

Ron shakes his head. “Treacle tart’s always been your thing.” He clears his throat and says, with an amused twinkle in his eye and a faint sigh of resignation, “Just like Malfoy.”

Harry pretends not to hear that. 

“Hey, Potter.”

He looks at Theo, who closes his book and dabs his mouth with a napkin.

“Ask him nicely, and you might get exactly what you want.” The corner of Theo’s lips hike into a smirk, his dark-brown eyes glittering with mischief, as if he knows more than he’s letting on. 

Harry huffs. Bloody Slytherins and their riddles.

“See you back in the office,” Theo says. He tucks his book under his arm, picks up his plate, and then leaves.

Harry approaches the serving line, squeezing through the queue and muttering apologies (“Sorry, just here for the tart, excuse me, sorry”). He brightens considerably when he notices Malfoy isn't around anymore — he must've nipped back to the kitchens — and at the lovely sight of a lone, unguarded treacle tart. Well, that makes things easier. He'll toss the money into the pouch (which accepts payment and dispenses change by magic) at the counter, grab his tart and then run off. Pleased, Harry pulls out his wallet and tips his Galleons onto his palm, spilling a few on the floor in his haste. Sighing in frustration, he bends down, scrambling to retrieve the runaway coins, only to be greeted by Malfoy hovering over his tart when he straightens up. Malfoy’s palms bracket the tart as he arches a brow at Harry.

"Potter," he says. He frowns and tugs off his hairnet (charmed to match the colour of his hair, unlike the other canteen workers with their black hairnets), shaking his hair free. He puffs a breath out, flicking his fringe off his forehead. It's a habit that Malfoy has, ever since Hogwarts. Once again, Harry tamps down the urge to run his fingers through his hair, wondering if the strands are really as soft and silky as they look.  

Hang on, why is he going on about Malfoy's hair? Harry returns his focus to his task. "Malfoy," he replies politely. Ever since Malfoy started his sentence at the canteen, they’ve been on civil terms, maybe even acquaintances, so perhaps Malfoy would give him his treat.

Harry clears his throat, motioning to the tart. "I'm here for that, really. If I could just..."

Malfoy merely gives him a bland smile and pulls the tart closer.   

A familiar indignation flares within Harry at Malfoy acting like he's some... gatekeeper of treacle tart!

"Look, I just want my tart," he says, trying to keep his tone even; it's not a good idea to hex the bloody git.

Not until after he’s got his tart, of course.

"Your tart? Oh, of course," Malfoy says, snapping his fingers as if he's just been struck by an idea. "We should've stocked treacle tart earlier, knowing that it's your favourite, isn't it?" He folds his arms across his chest and sniffs. "Why, Potter, I know you're used to getting your way in the Ministry, what with being the Saviour and all, but now you're demanding desserts for free?”

That is so blatantly untrue, that Harry suspects Malfoy is saying a whole lot of tosh just to rile him up.

And it's bloody working.

Harry jangles the coins in his hand. "I'm paying for it, alright? When have I not paid for my food, you tosser? I want my tart!" he snarls, making a lunge across the counter for it. Malfoy barely has enough time to react, but he does so with the reflexes of a Seeker, snatching it out of Harry's grasp. 

He laughs and lifts the plate high up in the air, away from Harry's reach. "You've filled out well during your training, but it's a shame you haven't grown an inch.” 

"Give it to me," Harry hisses, stretching and making grabby hands. When Malfoy's words finally sink in, he freezes. "Wait, what did you say? I've filled out... well?"

Malfoy's cheeks bloom with colour, and he lowers his arms behind his back, hiding the tart. "Nothing, that wasn't anything."

This sudden change in behaviour disconcerts Harry, and he leans away from the counter, curious at Malfoy’s fluster. When Gawain Robards's voice booms from behind him, Harry starts.

"What's going on here?"

"Nothing," Harry says at once, standing up straighter as he turns to face Robards.

"Treacle tart, Auror Robards?" Malfoy asks sweetly, offering it to Robards. "New addition to the menu on Fridays, and freshly baked in-house." 

Harry tilts his head towards Malfoy, skewering him with a death glare.

Robards hums thoughtfully. "Well, it does look good." He looks at Harry. "Do you want it, Potter? I know it's your favourite."

It takes every fibre of Harry's control and respect to reply in the negative; he's not desperate enough to snatch it from the Head Auror. "Er... no, sir. I've already had it," he lies through his teeth, looking miserably after Robards as he leaves with his beloved treacle tart. Harry whirls back to Malfoy, raging at the injustice of it all.

"Why, you do know how to share," Malfoy drawls. He peels the blue latex gloves off his hands, revealing elegant wrists that taper into long, pale fingers. Harry stares at his hands, some of his bluster trickling away. He wonders how those fingers would feel as they trail their way up Harry’s—

"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy says, his voice low. Harry’s gaze rises to his face, confused by the softness of his expression. The spell is broken when a pair of witches — he doesn't know them by name, but he’s seen them with Malfoy sometimes — pass by, and he catches a strain of their conversation as they gush about the tart.

Disgruntled all over again, he meets Malfoy's gaze, which sharpens when Harry juts his chin out combatively. "I deserve the tart, just like everyone else here!”

A refreshing, thrilling coil of heat wells up in Harry — the sight of stormy grey eyes, Malfoy’s plump lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line, this clenching of fists is enough to transport him briefly back to their years at Hogwarts, when it was so easy to get under each other's skin.

They spend a moment glaring at each other over the counter.

"I'm gonna get my hands on a treacle tart, one way or another," Harry declares.

Malfoy scoffs, inching his face closer towards Harry and flashing him a challenging sneer. "Come and get it then, Potter.” With that parting shot, he turns away, bins his gloves and retreats to the kitchens. 

Fuelled by disappointment and frustration, Harry hurries back to Ron, who glances at his empty hands.

"No luck?" he asks.

"Not now, but soon. I'll get my tart, Ron, just you wait and see," Harry mutters darkly. "I need a strategy." He grabs a clean napkin. He pats his pockets, and when Ron fishes inside his own pockets and pulls out a pen, Harry accepts it gratefully. He uncaps the pen, its point hovering above the napkin as he figures out what to write.

"Are you sure you're interested only in the tart?" Ron asks lightly, to which Harry simply pretends he has no idea what he's talking about.

Ron nibbles on his thumbnail, this motion telling Harry that he's strategising about something.

Hopefully he's hatching a plan to help Harry get his tart. 

Eventually, Ron leans forward, eyes alight with mischief. "Shall we up the stakes? It's been quite some time since we've had an old-fashioned challenge."

"Yeah? What d'you have in mind?"

"Let's make it into a competition." Ron shrugs his shoulders casually. "Say, the first person that gets the tart from Malfoy wins."

"Wins what?"

Ron stops, stumped. "Er, I don't know, but I reckon we'll figure it out somehow."

Harry turns it over in his head; Malfoy dislikes them both, but there's the entire Malfoy-Weasley bad blood that won’t be in Ron’s favour. Sure, Harry has shared a tumultuous and antagonistic history with Malfoy, but it was passionate, so that has to count for something, yeah?

"Let's do it. May the better man win," Harry says, sharing a grin with his best mate as they shake on it. He smooths out the napkin and begins to write.

THE POTTER-WEASLEY FIGHT FOR TREACLE TART, WHICH IS UNFAIRLY HELD HOSTAGE BY DRACO MALFOY (A.K.A POINTY, FERRETY GIT)

Next, to track their progress, Harry draws two lines that intersect like the x- and y- axes of a graph. On the horizontal line, he writes their initials, while he labels the vertical line with time. Feeling absurdly accomplished, he pats the napkin and leans back, linking his fingers behind his head.

It's bloody on, now that his pride and treacle tart is involved.


"Good afternoon, Malfoy."

Harry gapes at Ron, his arm falling away from the fruit basket, his banana forgotten. Ron is even attempting to smile, although his jaw is rather clenched.

Malfoy blinks at the greeting, which is a departure from their usual barking of last names and brief nods. The saltcellar in his hand pauses in mid-air. "Same to you, Weasley," he says, before returning to salting the chips. He darts a look at Harry, who is watching the scene unfold in disbelief.

"How was your weekend?" Ron forges on, pointing his finger at the almost-empty tray of Shepherd's pie. The air around the tray shimmers, triggering the ladle to rise by itself and dole out exact amounts of pie onto his plate.

Malfoy continues politely. "It was alright. Caught a game with Theo — Portree versus Wasps — so that was interesting." He puts the saltcellar down and picks up the ladle on the empty tray. With a wave of his hand, the tray floats up from the serving line and back to the kitchens. "Mind organising it next time so that the teams are evenly-matched? The Wasps had their arses handed to them by Portree."

Ron, who works at the Department of Magical Games and Sports, lets out a genuine chortle. "I didn't plan that match, but sure, I'll let the blokes know."

Malfoy tilts his head curiously; Harry guesses he's trying to work out whether Ron's mocking him or not. Apparently convinced that it's the latter, his shoulders relax.

Someone clears his throat behind Harry; he's holding up the line. Muttering an apology, he nabs a banana from the basket and scurries forward, pointing at some spag bol.

"D'you still play, then?" Ron asks, sliding his tray onwards.

Malfoy hesitates, and then shakes his head. "Theo's not really the Quidditch sort."

"Ah." Ron pauses, studying the selection of meats on offer.

"I would recommend the roast chicken."

"Brilliant." He dutifully loads up on chicken and sausages.

A new, piping-hot tray of Shepherd's pie comes sailing in from the kitchen, nestling itself into place. Malfoy looks intently at the pie, before nodding and plonking the ladle into it. When Harry catches his eye and chooses the roast chicken too, Malfoy merely arches a brow at him. 

"Well, see you tomorrow," Ron says, dropping some coins into the pouch. They disappear, to be replaced by his change.

"Wait, Weasley.” Malfoy snaps his fingers at the chip tray, and a handful of chips jump onto Ron's plate. He blinks at the addition, while Malfoy raises a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Fresh out of the fryer."

"Cheers," Ron says, grinning. He angles a triumphant look at Harry, who is Not Having It At All. Not to be outdone, he steps in front of Ron, elbowing him in the ribs a bit harder than necessary.

"Malfoy."

"Potter." Is it his imagination, or did Malfoy stand up straighter? A bright glint of interest enters grey eyes, and Malfoy lifts his chin up, leaning forward with his palms on the counter. Harry suddenly feels warm all over when the other man eyes him up lazily, taking in his white shirt and his dark-grey trousers — Harry had left his Auror robes in his office. Malfoy's lush lips curve up into the beginnings of an infuriating smirk.

Harry sticks a finger down his collar and adjusts it, is Malfoy checking him out?

Flustered, his mind latches onto the first thought drifting in his brain. "You look good," he murmurs.

Wait, what?

"What?" Malfoy and Ron squawk in unison.

An awkward silence ensues. Harry wishes for the ground to swallow him up, while Malfoy is staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth, although there's a rather fetching blush staining his cheeks. Ron is looking expectantly at Harry, an amused grin playing on his lips.

He even pops a chip into his mouth, as if he's at the movies. 

Harry can only stare helplessly at them, desperate to plaster over this strange silence.

"I mean, I'm not saying you look good only today, y'know, you look good on all the days, with your hair all... er..." He flaps a hand in the air as he rambles on, mounting panic and embarrassment flooding him, but it's as if he's lost control of his mouth. "Blond and shiny. Your hair's always nice and blond, soft and silky, not like mine, all..." He pats his own head. "Messy and everything. What hair product d’you use, d'you use a lot of it? Nothing works on mine." He abruptly stops himself, his toes curling in his boots with the awkwardness as he inwardly cringes to hell and back.

His chatter is answered with another long pause. Malfoy stares at him, Harry stares at everything but Malfoy, and Ron, who is sipping serenely on his cuppa, stares at the both of them.

"So er... I'm just trying to say... nice hair," Harry finishes rather lamely, and then promptly musters a watery smile with his lips plastered across his teeth — hey, Hermione says he’s got an endearing smile — in the hopes of salvaging the situation.

Malfoy recovers his equilibrium, and addresses Ron. "Weasley, what's wrong with Potter? Has he been hit in the head with a curse or anything like that?" He turns to Harry, squinting. "You look fairly constipated, Potter."

And just like that, Harry's smile slides off his face.

Ron snorts with laughter into his tea.

"Not having enough veg? Here, have some on the house." Malfoy waves his hand, and the ladle in the broccoli hovers. At Harry’s expression of distaste, the ladle drops. "Oh, I forgot, you don't like broccoli." Instead, Malfoy piles his plate with carrots, one of the few vegetables that he likes.

"By the way, my hair's natural, no product needed," Malfoy says, his lips curving up into a cocky grin. With another heated look at Harry, he turns and saunters back to the kitchen, with a spring in his step that wasn't there before.

Ron, best mate that he is, offers Harry his tea for a bit while Harry promptly spirals into a "I Can't Believe I Said That" meltdown at the serving line in the Ministry canteen.

After they're settled at their usual table with their food, Harry finds himself revising his evaluation of Ron as his best mate.

"Nice and blond, soft and silky," Ron recalls, guffawing. "You could put that in a song!" He wipes away his tears of mirth. "That was really bad flirting."

"That was not flirting!" Harry hisses, stabbing his fork into his chicken. "I was... exchanging pleasantries, like what you were doing!"

"Oh no. I was exchanging pleasantries, you were flirting. Really badly, if I might add." Ron sticks a hand out for the napkin. Sighing, Harry takes out the napkin from his pocket and watches grumpily as Ron scribbles a few words: Talked properly to Malfoy (didn't flirt horribly, unlike some people). Reward: chips, putting him in the lead.

"I wasn't flirting," Harry insists. "Besides, why would I want to flirt with Malfoy, haha!" He squeaks out a rather high-pitched laugh, thinking that he sounded rather mad. "He's Malfoy. Plus, if I wanted to flirt, the other person would definitely know!"

"Sure, like Cho in fourth year?" Ron says, dragging out the word sure in a disbelieving tone.

"I was fourteen!" Harry defends himself, yanking his fork from his chicken and pointing it at Ron. "I'm twenty-one now, I'd like to think I'm better at it."

Ron shrugs and spears a sausage. "It didn't go so bad, did it? Malfoy didn't make fun of you, come to think of it."

"You're taking this awfully calm.” Harry frowns suspiciously at Ron. "According to you, I just flirted with Malfoy, and you're saying that he's alright with that."

"Eh, Hermione and I think it's bound to happen sooner or later," Ron says dismissively, biting into his sausage. "Doesn't mean we're entirely alright with it, but you're our best friend. Would help if you'd stop denying it, to be honest." 

Once again, Harry coughs and pretends not to understand.

The rest of lunch passes uneventfully, although when they exit the canteen, Harry risks a glimpse at the serving line, only to catch Malfoy looking at him. When their eyes meet, Malfoy hurriedly glances away, busying himself with the trays.

Ron and Harry part in the lift, with Harry stopping at Auror HQ while Ron continues on to Magical Games and Sports.

Harry winds his way through the Auror cubicles, and when he reaches his desk, he stretches to shake the post-lunch haze away before sitting. A familiar heat flares in him when he recalls how Malfoy had eyed him up. There's a rustling sound, a heavy thump of a book on the cubicle to his left, and Harry perks up when an idea strikes him. Theo would know about Malfoy's likes and dislikes, which would give Harry an edge over Ron!

He pokes his head over the divider separating their tables. "Hey," he greets Theo, who is in the midst of folding his Flourish and Blotts bag. He grins at the sight of his partner’s new book, something about charms and defensive magic — Theo has just returned from the bookstore, which usually lifts his mood. He wheels over to Theo's cubicle.

"Yes?" Theo asks as he slices open the wrapper around the book.

"I've got to talk to you about Malfoy."

This gets Theo's full attention. He blinks at Harry. "What about him?"

"You live with him and work in the same place. You're best mates with him, yeah?"

"And the sky is blue. Get to the point, Potter," he replies crisply, binning the wrapper. Although he pulls the book closer, he keeps it closed, which tells Harry volumes about his interest in the conversation.

Harry casts a privacy charm, aware of the cubicles around them. Theo raises his eyebrows at the spell, but says nothing. Harry chooses his next words carefully. "If one were to... get on his good side, what does one have to do?" 

Theo stares at him. "You... plan on courting him?" He looks away and mutters, "Well, it's about time, I reckon."

Harry is so busy finding rebuttals for the idea of courting Malfoy, that he almost misses Theo's mumbled words.

"Hang on, what d'you mean by that?"

Theo backpedals, tidying the quills on his desk, which are already arranged by size. "You mean the courting bit?"

"No, after that."

"Can't remember," he says smoothly, although his demeanour becomes increasingly prickly, a tell that he's getting defensive. He taps his fingers on the cover of his book. "Care to tell me why you're suddenly so interested in Draco, after seeing him around the canteen for two years?"

The answer because I want treacle tart would probably not go over too well, so Harry hedges by saying, "I'm not courting him. I dunno, it's been so long after the war, maybe it won't hurt to get to know him a bit better. And he's er... rather fit," he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I reckon he's straight, yeah?"

"I wonder, Potter, are gays the only ones with functioning gaydars, or do bisexuals like you not come equipped with one?" Theo says, letting out a genuine laugh. His abrupt air has vanished, replaced by something softer and warmer.

Harry frowns at Theo's words; Merlin, must Slytherins always be so bloody cryptic? "So you're telling me that Malfoy's gay? He likes men?"

"I highly doubt that anyone would describe Draco as gay, as in the happy meaning. Yes, you big knob, he likes men."

Harry sinks into his chair, his mind reeling with this brand new information. Well, it doesn't come as a surprise, going by how Malfoy looks at him sometimes, but to have it confirmed so irrevocably...

This changes everything

Inexplicably excited, Harry rolls his chair closer, his questions rapid-fire and eager. "So what's his type? Is he seeing anyone now? What does he like to eat? If someone wants to compliment him, what sort of things should he say?"

Theo rears back at the sudden proximity and places both hands up, a crafty smirk quirking his lips. "Why, Potter, you seem... almost desperate to get this information."

Harry tries to rein in his enthusiasm, but fails horribly. "C'mon, Theo," he wheedles.

Theo opens his drawer and retrieves two case files. He pushes them to Harry, his brown eyes sparkling slyly. "Last I've heard, I've got a report to finish up."

Harry glances at the files, his spirits sinking at Theo's insinuation. They had just closed the Labelle and Glassfeld missions two weeks ago, and Harry had already finished his part of the reports, handing them over to Nott to complete them. "Have a heart, I did the first half."

"Well, if you don't want to know..." Theo sniffs, making to return the files back to the drawer.

"Oh, give it here," Harry grumps. Theo smiles sweetly at him as he grabs the files, stands up and lobs them over to his table. He sits back down and pinions Theo with a dark look. "Now will you tell me?"

Theo rattles the answers off. "No, Draco's not seeing anyone. He's got a wicked sweet tooth, I'm sure you recall the sweets that his mother sent him during school. He has a penchant for all things chocolate, but he detests white chocolate and raisins. In terms of compliments..." He pauses. "I cannot be certain, since I don't look at him in that way, but the last bloke he was with, Nicholas, I think... I've heard him compliment Draco’s eyes before."

Well, Malfoy does have lovely eyes, all grey, dangerous and fiery. Harry pushes down the sudden surge of jealousy at Nicholas and presses further. "What sort of bloke does he fancy?"

Theo fights to keep a grin off his face as he fixes Harry with a level stare. "He likes black hair, best if it's a bit messy. I've heard him say he's prim and proper enough, he prefers someone on the scruffy and rumpled side. Shorter than him would be a bonus too. He likes someone that's a challenge. In fact, that was why he broke up with Nicholas, the passion and the heat fizzled out, so did their relationship." He pauses. "Oh, and he likes someone with a good sense of humour."

Well, Malfoy had said before that Harry has a funny face.

Does that count?

As for the other qualities... a challenge, huh? Well, he can bloody well hold his ground with Malfoy, judging by their history. He puffs his chest out, before deflating at Theo's earlier words. "Hang on. I've got black hair," he says, patting his head as if to verify that. Theo laughs at the action. "And I'm shorter and rather scruffy too," he continues, running a hand along his jaw and the top of his throat, where a beard is beginning to form.

He narrows his eyes. "You're describing me. Are you taking the piss?"

Theo stares at him incredulously, before shaking his head in exasperation and chuckling. "Oh, Potter." He turns serious after a moment. "You can't tell Weasley about this conversation, mind you. Draco is a very private person, he won't appreciate me saying all of this." His voice drops. "Especially to you."

"Yeah, got that." Harry knows that Theo's willingness to tell him this is a testament to their unlikely friendship (although Theo would rather endure a week-long stakeout than admit that to anyone).

"Good. Do not make me throw my new book at you."

Harry snorts. "You won't."

It's true, because they both know that Theo wouldn't chuck his books at him; not because of Harry's welfare, of course, but because he doesn't want to "damage my precious books with your bloody hard head, Potter!"

Theo removes the privacy charm, while Harry returns to his cubicle, sighing deeply at the two files. Theo snickers. Harry pulls one of the files towards him and opens it.  

The only thing drifting in his mind is the thought of Malfoy, wrapped in the arms of some shorter, scruffier bloke with messy dark hair, both of them laughing at something.

Despite Harry’s best efforts to staunch his imagination, the bloke morphs into him instead.

He shuts the file, takes off his glasses and closes his eyes.

What the bloody hell does this mean exactly? And the more pressing issue is, what is he going to do about it?


Harry looks up from the pork chops, his gaze drawn towards Malfoy's arse when Malfoy, with his back turned to him, leans against the doorjamb to holler something to the kitchens.

Malfoy is wearing jeans under his apron — tight, dark-blue Muggle jeans that hug his pert arse and highlight the length of those fantastic legs. Harry's eyes trace the long, lean line of Malfoy's body, the straight back with the perfect posture (so unlike Harry who has a terrible habit of slouching), the pale forearms (the only blemish is his Mark) with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows; even though he works in the canteen, Malfoy is always impeccably dressed. Harry's gaze drops to the curve of his arse again, and he swallows when his fevered imagination conjures a fantasy of Malfoy, wearing only his apron, bent over the counter and begging for him.

Fuck, he bets Malfoy's arse looks fantastic.

Harry presses his hips closer to the counter to hide his growing erection.

He pushes his tray onwards, distractedly pointing at the bacon as he continues to check Malfoy out. Would be hot to strip him naked too, squeeze handfuls of that tempting arse and spread him out, he’ll take his own sweet time prepping Malfoy, until he's gasping for Harry's big prick— 

His bubble of lust pops when a scowling Malfoy whirls around. He scans the queue, and when his eyes find Harry's, his frown eases, and something in his pinched expression softens.

He nods at Harry. "Potter."

Harry had planned this out even before he stepped through the canteen doors this afternoon. He would reply with a suave and sophisticated answer, which will then kick off a light-hearted and entirely humorous conversation that would have Malfoy throwing his head back and laughing at Harry's witty repartee.

But of course, since he has the conversational skills of a Flobberworm when he's nervous, along with his raging erection mucking things up even further, he simply croaks out an answer that tosses him further into the abyss of doom.

"Nice arse, Malfoy."

...

"What the fuck, mate," Ron hisses, slanting his face towards Harry.

Malfoy goes very still.

Shit, fuck, fuck, what did Theo say, the compliment that Harry had originally planned for—

"Nice eyes, I meant eyes, of course, why would I be looking at your arse anyway, haha, I mean, it's not as if it's... it's..." Harry trails off as he looks at the stricken expression on Malfoy's face.

Shut up, Harry, just shut the fuck up!

Still, he plods on, as if by rambling he can sweep away all of his previous words. "I'm not saying that your arse isn't nice, I just meant..." He motions to Malfoy's entire body with a limp hand. "Everything is nice," he mumbles, dropping his eyes to the food on display. He cheers up considerably as he latches onto another subject with the desperation of a dying man.

"Just like the potatoes!" he says without thinking, frantically looking for said potatoes.

"Potter, there're no... we're not serving potatoes today," Malfoy says rather weakly.

Ron wheezes with laughter beside Harry.

"Oh, yeah. Right." Harry clears his throat, slanting a withering look at Ron. "I like potatoes. They're nice and round."

Like your arse.

His face flames at the errant thought.

"Yes, I've... noticed." Malfoy takes a step closer, looking at him with concern. "Are you sure you're alright?"

...

Oh God, Harry is the one acting like a complete potato.

"Gotta go, bye!" he squawks, his famous Gryffindor courage failing him when he grabs his tray and escapes.

When he's back at their table, Harry takes off his glasses and buries his head into his hands. He has forgotten to grab a fruit, but he'll be damned if he's gonna return to the line after that fiasco. Ron appears a moment later, sliding into the seat opposite Harry. He hands an apple over to Harry, who accepts it gratefully.

"Well, did you have a good laugh with him, then?" he asks in a defeated air, his shoulders slumped as he pushes his bacon around the plate.

Ron pauses in forking a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. He puts his fork down. "Course not. He did look at me all shocked for a bit, but I just shrugged, said something about you being stressed lately, and paid for our meals."

Harry fidgets. "Did he say anything?"

"Nah, in fact, he looked mighty pleased with himself." Ron pops his food into his mouth, chewing slowly and contemplatively. 

"I think he liked it, Harry."


According to Ron, since Malfoy hadn't been that horrified by Harry's "potato disaster" (as coined by Ron amidst hilarious laughter as he recounted that incident to Hermione), a more composed Harry decides to be more aggressive in his advances.

"Hey, Malfoy."

"Yes, Potter?" Malfoy looks up at him, and then smirks. "Potatoes are over there, by the way, and they're roasted, your favourite." He picks up two empty serving trays, and he's got one foot turned towards the kitchens.  

Excellent. That’s a brilliant opening.

"Really? I think I'd like something else rather than potatoes this time," Harry says, feigning disinterest. He cocks a hip out against the counter, cards his fingers through his hair, tousling it more, and then folds his arms across his chest (Julia, one of his exes, had said that that makes his biceps pop). He runs a hand along his jaw, his fingertips grazing his thick stubble. He's not particularly good at the whole smouldering thing, but he tries his best, tilting his face and meeting Malfoy's eyes with an intense look, hoping that he doesn't look like a raccoon.

Malfoy isn’t smirking anymore.

Harry raises a hand to thumb quickly at his lower lip, intrigued when grey eyes dip to his mouth to catch the movement. Harry's lips part into a cheeky grin, and when he speaks, his voice is husky.

"You should be on the menu, 'cause damn, you look delicious."

Malfoy's thighs clench, he releases an embarrassing squeak, drops everything and flees.

As in, he literally drops everything — the trays clatter to the floor — turns tail and runs away to the kitchens, and it all happened so fast that Harry is left staring at the swinging doors.

He blinks in astonishment. "What the fuck.”

"If this goes on, we'll have to cart him off to Mungo's for shock," Ron deadpans, looking at the spot where Malfoy was standing seconds ago.

They finish their business at the serving line, although Harry chooses his food slower than usual, hoping to see if Malfoy will emerge. But he doesn't, and with disappointment tugging on his heart, he follows Ron to their table. He takes out the napkin, and together, they look at it. There has been no progress since Ron got that extra helping of chips.

Ron cranes his neck and glances at the serving line, but Malfoy is still nowhere to be seen. "I can't believe you chased him out of his workplace." He turns back to the napkin. "Could you actually get negative points for this?" he says gleefully. "I reckon I'm gonna win, then." 

Harry sighs and munches sadly on a potato.


"I've got to talk to you about Potter."

At Draco's words, Theo stops flipping through his book, peers at him and lets out a long-suffering sigh. Astonished, Draco watches as his friend slowly lowers his forehead onto his book in a sign of utter defeat.

"What's the matter with you? It's a simple question," Draco says, his brows drawn together as he joins Theo at the coffee table, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. Theo lifts his head, closes his book and accepts Draco's offer of post-dinner beverage — a glass of red wine.

"What about him?" Theo asks, swirling the wine and sniffing it before taking a sip.

It doesn't escape Draco's notice that Theo has ignored his question. Nevertheless, he sticks to his original train of thought, because Theo has to know something, being Potter's Auror partner and in his company eight hours a day, while Draco only catches glimpses of him during lunch...

... which is barely enough Potter-watching for him.

"He's been acting off the past couple of days," Draco says. "He's started complimenting me and yesterday, he told me he liked my shirt, makes my arms look nice and all. I was wearing my apron, so how could he see under that?" He powers on while Theo makes appropriately soothing noises. "And he was talking to Weasley really loudly the other day, as if he wanted my attention, and when I looked at him, he kept touching his hair while leaning over the counter, and his elbow tipped over the entire pot of chicken soup!"

It was a sodding mess that afternoon, the soup splashing all over, soaking Potter's shirt and getting on Weasley's shoes. A very apologetic Potter had cleaned everything up, of course, but Draco noticed his wet shirt clinging to his taut stomach, and when Potter untucked the hem of his shirt from his trousers, Draco caught a tantalising peek of dark hair leading down to his—

Never mind that.

"He was mumbling something about my hair again the next day, whether I did anything to it." Draco takes a deep breath, pausing for dramatic effect. "I've worn the same bloody hairstyle for years!"

Theo fixes him with a disbelieving look and says airily, "Oh, don't play dumb with me, Draco. Trying to worm out information from me, when this is working as planned? Introducing treacle tart into the menu two months before your sentence is up at the Ministry?" His tone softens, and he puts his wine down. "No points for guessing the person you're trying to attract. This is your final effort to make something happen, in your own subtle way, before you leave the Ministry and never see Potter like this again. You want more than just greetings and polite conversation shared between acquaintances. You’ve always wanted his attention." He licks wine off his lips. “Old habits die hard, eh?”

Draco deflates, his shoulders slumping.

Well, the game's up, then.

"And we both know you're a hopeless sod for Potter, have been for an absurdly long time.” Theo sighs. “At least you're doing something about it now."

Draco opens his mouth to deny Theo's remark about being a hopeless sod, but there isn't much point when that’s the truth, isn't it? His misdirected and entirely inappropriate ardour for Potter had lingered, staying mulishly like a permanent love bite. He had quietly fancied Potter in school, repressing those feelings during the war, but they had resurfaced with a vengeance when Potter had testified for him, releasing him from the possible shackles of Azkaban and instead, tossing him into the Ministry canteen to carry out his sentence for the next two years.

When he had started working in the canteen, on some particularly bad days, he thought that Azkaban would be better than being spat on and verbally abused every single day by Ministry employees (however, if Potter was within earshot, he’d scowl at the person, who would shut up immediately. Draco never figured out if he should be relieved or annoyed at this). His pride, ripped into shreds, was a bitter pill to swallow as he served them their lunch (and sometimes dinner), but it was the most mortifying whenever he saw Potter and Weasley. The delight on Weasley’s face, the pity and embarrassment on Potter’s…

Draco didn’t know which one was worse.

He’s lucky that his supervisor is a rather decent bloke, moving him to the kitchens where he worked on food prep until the novelty of having a Death Eater in the lunchroom had worn off, after the furore and suspicion surrounding Draco had faded. Eventually, he was moved back to the frontline, and now, he juggles between cooking and serving duties.

It’s hard and tedious work, but surprisingly rewarding, when Draco realised that he liked working with his hands, creating food that people enjoy. A drawback, however, is seeing Potter every day, close enough to hear him and touch those black, messy curls (his hair is longer than usual, like in fourth year of school), making it difficult to get over him.

It is both a blessing and a heartache.

Although the uniform, along with the job, isn’t glamourous at all, Draco is determined to not let Potter see him as a slob that had given up. He’d charmed his hairnet to match his hair colour, used spells to tailor his apron to fit his frame, and refreshes the wrinkle- and stain-free charms on his clothes every night.

Mother had always said that clothes make the man.

For months, he watched Potter from a distance. He buried the ache of longing reserved solely for Potter under the trapdoor in his heart and brought it with him everywhere, acting out on it only when he learnt the identities of Potter's ex-girlfriends through the grapevine. Fuelled by a streak of jealousy, whenever Potter's exes (those that worked at the Ministry) came for lunch, he would spell the ladles to dispense lesser food on their plates. It was spiteful and petty of him, he knew that, but that went a long way in assuaging his misery about not having Potter.

He never would've thought that Potter fancies blokes, but one day, Theo mentioned Potter's then-boyfriend, stunning Draco. Hope flared in him, but it lasted only for a moment before he doused himself in a heavy dose of realism. Potter might be bisexual, but that doesn't mean he’d fancy Draco.

"Good one, Theo," Draco says, nodding. He grabs a cushion from the sofa and fiddles with its corners. "I didn't expect it to work. It's rather like..." He wrinkles his nose, trying to put it into words. "Like suddenly winning a windfall of Galleons and not knowing what to do with it at first." He recalls Potter's smouldering, arresting gaze, the absolute shock and arousal to Draco’s senses and mind. He got so hard so quickly that it hurt, and he could only panic and flee.

Not one of his finest moments.

"It's Potter. It's always all or nothing with him," Theo says, taking another cushion and tucking it under his head as he leans back against the seat of the sofa. He closes his eyes. They lapse into a companionable silence.

"You can't tell Potter about this," Draco says.

"Oh, what a tangled web we weave," Theo says blandly. He opens his eyes and reassures Draco that Potter would never hear of this. "Oh, and a small tip? You've got Potter's attention, all of it. You've lured him in, and he's taken the bait." 

A scheming glint lights up in dark-brown eyes, and Theo drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, although there's obviously no one around.

"Now it's time to tighten the net."


"So, which body part is it today, Harry?" Ron asks. He points at the macaroni and cheese.

Harry looks at him, confused, until Ron raises his eyebrows meaningfully at Malfoy, who is clearly eavesdropping, despite faffing about with the hash browns.

"I... I like Malfoy's hands," Harry says after a long moment, wondering if he's making a colossal mistake.

Malfoy stiffens.

"Oh, I see." Ron pushes his tray along. "You've complimented his hair, his eyes, his arse, and now his hands. Are you working your way down his body?"

Harry’s face heats up at the image that those words conjure, but then Malfoy suddenly says something that engulfs Harry in a full-body blush.

"I don't mind if Potter's going to work his way down my body."

Harry's thoughts screech to a stop.

"Did you just..." He stares at a mortified Malfoy, who has a hand clapped to his mouth, his eyes wide. Harry slowly turns to Ron. "Did he just..."

"Yep," Ron says.

Harry looks at Malfoy. "You flirted back," he says faintly, a happy realisation dawning on him. "You actually flirted back!" he croons in triumph, grinning.

"It's your fault for flirting with me in the first place!" Malfoy wails, taking a step back. "Which decent person says things like you're delicious, anyway?"

"You liked it!"

"That's… that’s not the sodding point!"

"You fancy me!" 

"Go away, Potter!" Malfoy looks wonderfully cornered, his eyes darting from side to side. He whirls around and hurries towards the kitchens.

But Harry is ready for it this time. "No," he snarls. He scoots to a clear space on the counter, plants his palms onto the surface and vaults over it. He pushes past the swinging doors and sees Malfoy leaning against the adjacent wall.

"Staff only!" Malfoy pushes himself away from the wall, jabbing at the sign tacked on the doors.

"I'm staff."

"That's not what it means!"

"Tell it to someone who cares."

Damn, a flustered and blushing Malfoy is bloody attractive.

"Piss off," Malfoy warns, backing away while Harry prowls forward.

"Nope."

A nearby clang distracts Harry, and they both turn towards the kitchen, which is bustling with the lunch rush. The roaring stoves and the instructions hollered back-and-forth between the workers seem to have shaken Malfoy back into his senses.

"Take this and go away. This is what you want, isn't it? Just desserts?" he says, bitterness creeping into his words. He snatches a slice of chocolate cake and thrusts it into Harry's hands. "I've got to work," he adds brusquely, pushing past Harry — a thrill sparks through Harry at the contact — and disappearing into the kitchen. Green eyes track him, until he can no longer see Malfoy anymore, his blond head hidden by the towering shelves and racks.

He looks at the cake.

Harry releases a long sigh, brimming with feeling. He's finally come to terms with it then, because the thing is...

No, he's no longer interested in only the desserts.


The paper bag crinkles under Harry’s fingertips when he enters the kitchens.

It’s mid-afternoon, well after the lunch rush, hence the relative quiet. He comes bearing gifts for a certain stubborn blond git, for Ron has bounded ahead in the competition, judging by the large helping of bread and butter pudding (which counts for more points as it’s a dessert like treacle tart) loaded onto his plate yesterday.

“What did you do to get that?” Harry asked in amazement, eyeing the luscious dessert.

“Got him tickets to the Pudd U and Magpies match. There were some leftover seats,” Ron replied, grinning around a mouthful of warm pudding. He mistook Harry’s frown for disappointment at missing the game and added, “You don’t even like Pudd U!”

Harry pokes his head around a large shelf holding pots and pans, blinking rapidly at the side view of Malfoy standing between two stoves. Something simmers in a stockpot on one stove, while on the other, a spoon swirls lazily by itself in a saucepan. The scent of fresh herbs, tomatoes and spices permeate the air, and Harry licks his lips.

With a hand holding a large slab of raw salmon, Malfoy peers into the saucepan and mutters a series of spells. The spoon floats and drifts to the sink, where it joins the other utensils, which are washing themselves. The lid rises from the counter and covers the pan, and with another twirl of his fingers, Malfoy lowers the heat.

A strange thrill jolts in Harry at the casual command of wandless magic.

Malfoy slaps the salmon skin-up on the board in front of him, grabs a knife and rests the blade on the fish. He bends down, and with deft and steady cuts, he begins to score the skin of the salmon, his lips pursed in concentration.

Harry doesn’t expect to see Malfoy in his element in the kitchen, out of all places. He’s so engrossed in the rhythmic movement of Malfoy’s bare hands that he starts when he says, “What brings you here, Potter?”

He approaches Malfoy and places the paper bag on the counter. The knife pauses as grey eyes flicker to him, and then to the bag. Malfoy resumes cutting the salmon.

“I brought you something,” Harry says.

Malfoy’s eyes gleam with interest, and he tells Harry to wait. When he’s finished cutting, he puts down the knife, summons a bowl of salt (with a lot more flourish than before), and begins to part the cuts on the salmon with his left thumb. Harry stares at the way Malfoy’s thumb strokes the tender fish, and at the hypnotising turn of his right wrist as he sprinkles salt on the cuts. He scatters a last pinch of salt on the fish and pats it. Harry gazes at Malfoy’s fingers resting on the salmon.

“You like how I handle the meat?” Malfoy says with a smirk, lifting his eyes up to Harry, who blinks at the double entendre. Malfoy puts the fish away and washes his hands. “Perhaps you’ve got some meat that needs handling?”

His gaze flickers to Harry’s crotch, triggering a rush of arousal.

Harry shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “Depends. Dunno if you can handle it the way it deserves, though.”

Malfoy’s smirk vanishes, and his fingers curl on his apron. He clears his throat and looks away, clearly flustered.

Harry grins, and he inwardly congratulates himself.

Smooth, Harry, smooth.   

Malfoy pulls the bag towards him, raising his eyebrows at its contents. “Quidditch tickets from Weasley, and chocolates from you? If the both of you are trying to court me, I should alert Granger, shouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know whether he’s trying to court you,” Harry replies innocently, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air.

“How did you find out that I like sweets?” Malfoy asks, rummaging about in the bag.

“I remembered your mother’s presents in school,” Harry says. “I don’t know if you fancy these in particular, but I hope you like them.” This is, of course, a blatant lie, as he grilled Theo mercilessly this morning about Malfoy’s favourite chocolate brands. He popped into Diagon to pick up the sweets during his lunch break, but he didn’t get the exact brands, though, or Malfoy would probably find it suspicious.

“I… thank you. The chocolates are lovely.” Malfoy looks inordinately pleased, and he puts the bag down. He rakes Harry with an appraising gaze, and a shadow crosses his eyes for some reason when he glances at the chocolates again. Harry frowns, and Malfoy is about to say something when the oven chimes.

“Excuse me,” he mutters instead. The moment the oven door opens, Harry spins, sniffing the air like a bloodhound scenting its prey.

It’s treacle tart!

Excitement floods through him as he scurries towards Malfoy, stopping behind him. Oh, there it is, a perfect treacle tart, the hot, irresistible treacle still bubbling away. Harry can’t help the grin plastered all over his face as he gazes lovingly at it, his eyes following as it soars through the air when Malfoy levitates it onto a cooling tray on the counter. Malfoy bends down, hunching until he’s eye-level with the tart. He turns the tray in a circle, studying the tart at all angles, Merlin, the crust is perfect, on the right side of light brown, and Harry can imagine cutting a slice, slathering it in clotted cream…

He goes very still. Hang on, this means that…

“You made this?” Harry asks, astonished.

Malfoy nods, his fingers tracing the curves of the crust as he continues turning the tray. “I did mention that it’s baked in-house.”

Harry’s mind immediately conjures a picture of Malfoy sitting in his lap, feeding him an everlasting supply of treacle tart.

Oh God, Harry’s going to become so fat and happy.

That’s it.

Malfoy is the man for him.

“You can’t have any, by the way.”

“What?” Harry yelps, Malfoy’s words pouring cold water on his Malfoy and tart-related daydreams. “But, why? I brought you chocolates and all!” he protests, gesturing to said chocolates.

Something hardens in Malfoy’s eyes, before disappearing as quickly as it had arrived.

“I didn’t buy you chocolates to get your desserts,” Harry backpedals at once. “Honest, I didn’t. I really don’t know why I said that.”

Malfoy straightens up and sighs at him, not in exasperation, but in something like fond amusement. “I would cut a slice for you, but this tart isn’t really for Ministry employees. It’s for someone else. No, it’s not for my own use; I’m not using Ministry resources for personal reasons.”

“Who is it for, then?” Harry asks. It can’t be for a boyfriend, can it? A hot sear of jealousy sparks through him.

Malfoy releases a low, playful laugh. “Maybe I’ll tell you if you get to know me better.”

“Yeah?” Harry’s heartbeat quickens at the flirtatious lilt in Malfoy’s voice. “Shall we go to the game together, then? The one that Ron gave you tickets for.”

Malfoy blinks and stares at him. His face then breaks into a smile, a genuine, bright smile that lights up his features and makes Harry’s heart flip-flop in his chest. “I’d like…” His grin dims abruptly. “Oh, but I’ve given Theo the other ticket, so…”

Harry thinks fast. “It’s alright, Ron and I have tickets too,” he lies — Ron can bloody well get a pair for them. “Maybe we could go together, the four of us?”

Malfoy’s radiant beam returns. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d really like that,” he whispers, more to himself than Harry.

“So I’ll see you this Saturday, at the game?” Harry asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Malfoy replies, looking rather dazed.

“Brilliant. Well, I gotta go,” Harry says, grinning. Yeah, I need to get tickets from Ron and convince him to follow me to a match with two Slytherins. He waves goodbye to Malfoy, and leaves.

But if he had stayed and hidden himself from Malfoy’s view, he would’ve seen Malfoy looking around furtively, and then hugging the chocolates to his chest and bursting into an embarrassing jig of pure, undiluted glee.


Potter in full Auror regalia is enough to make Draco weak in the knees, but when he’s dressed in casuals (a rare sight for Draco) for a day out, he looks pretty darn fit too. Of course, he’d undoubtedly look the best without a stitch of clothing on his person, but Draco will take what he can get.

Once again, he edges a discreet gaze towards his left, relishing the sight of Potter leaning forward in anticipation, looking at the Quidditch pitch with wide eyes. His body is as tense as a coiled spring; back hunched, elbows on his knees and hands curled into fists as the bob of his head follows the flight of the Seekers. When his hand clenches anxiously, his biceps flex, and Draco can’t help but bite his lower lip. His plain black T-shirt (Draco has no idea what the words The Ramones on it mean) is stretched across his shoulder blades, and he’s matched it with classic blue jeans and well-worn Converse trainers with mismatched laces. As Potter’s concentration is on the match, Draco shifts, allowing his gaze to sweep his body with naked desire.

He’ll have plenty of chances to catch another game, but he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see Potter like this again.

His eyes roam Potter’s lower back, and fuck, that’s the waistband of his pants peeking out from the top of his jeans—

Draco looks up when Weasley, seated on Potter’s left, clears his throat. Weasley raises an eyebrow at him, and Draco flushes in embarrassment. He looks away, turning his attention to the game and keeping it there. Well, for most of it — his focus wavers whenever Potter groans in disappointment at Puddlemere’s goal or cheers in delight when a Magpies Beater deflects the path of Puddlemere’s Seeker with a well-placed Bludger.

"C'mon, c’mon..." Potter mutters, shifting closer to Draco. Draco's breathing hitches when Potter's thigh touches his; the heat of Potter's body radiating through his clothes. He doesn't know whether Potter's doing it on purpose, but he's definitely not complaining, as he basks in the warmth of this connection.

The Magpies are leading, and the game is about to end, judging by the roar of the crowd and the escalating aggression of the Seekers. It appears as if Potter is about to get his wish — Ellis Connors, the Magpies Seeker, surges forward, and there he goes; the Snitch fluttering in his hand as he noses his broom upwards in a triumphant dive, with the commentator shouting to make herself heard over the commotion. The Magpies celebrate their win by executing a victory formation in the air.

Potter springs to his feet and yells in elation, punching the air, his shouts joining the whoops of half of the stadium. Draco cracks a smile; he’s not a supporter of either team, but it’s nice to see Potter so thrilled. Theo stands up and stretches, and Draco is grateful for his company — Quidditch has never ranked highly in Theo's favourite activities.

The spectators around them are dispersing, and so, they follow suit.

"Hey, the match ended later than expected; it’s almost six," Potter says, checking his watch. He looks at Draco, his lips curving up into an inviting smile. "I could do with an early dinner."

Behind him, Weasley perks up at once. "Great idea, Harry—" he starts, but his words break off into a grunt when Potter discreetly elbows him in the stomach.

"Oh, er, I’m not that hungry after all. I think I'm meeting Hermione, anyway," Weasley mumbles.

Theo snickers. "Yes, and I've got a book club meeting," he says, the lie tripping smoothly from his tongue. "Looks like it's just you and Draco, then."

"Book club?" Weasley remarks in distaste. "Bloody hell, Nott, you'd probably get on brilliantly with Hermione."  

They exit the stands, and Weasley and Theo take their leave after a round of goodbyes.

It’s just the two of them now.

Draco catches Potter's eye and they share a small, hesitant smile. An atmosphere of anticipation and blossoming potential crackles in the air. Potter jams his hands into his jeans pockets and scuffs the toe of his trainer against the ground. "Any place you have in mind?" When Draco shakes his head, Potter suggests, "Pub food alright? I know a good place. It's near my flat, so Ron, Hermione and I have been there loads of times. Muggle, so no one's gonna bother us."

Draco agrees, and he takes Potter's proffered arm for a Side-Along, the contact sending a frisson of thrill zinging through him.

"Take off that silly cap," he orders at once when they land at a dark alleyway.

"Oh yeah.” Potter touches the brim of the cap pulled low over his eyes during the match, worn to avoid unwanted publicity. He tugs it off and ruffles his hair, making it stick up everywhere. He looks adorably rumpled, and Draco wonders if that's what he looks like when he wakes up.

Potter leads the way, and they walk along a bustling street, passing by Muggle clothing stores and coffee shops, before they stop in front of a pub called Lion and Castle. A server greets Potter by name when they enter. On their way to a table, Potter shouts out a hello to the barkeep, who returns it with equal friendliness. Once they're seated, along with their menus open in front of them, Draco sneaks a glance at Potter across the table.

It's bloody surreal to be having dinner with him.

Draco scans the menu, and he looks up when Potter closes his and sets it down decisively.

"Let's make things interesting, shall we?" Draco says. He regards the other man with a sly look and says, “Let me guess what you plan on ordering. If I get it wrong, I'll pay for dinner."

Potter's eyes sparkle at the challenge. He leans forward, his forearms on the table and hands clasped. "Go for it, then."

Draco flips to the front of the menu and automatically ignores the sandwiches and burgers — he's never really seen Potter pick either choice in the canteen.

“I want to hear what you're thinking as you're working it out," Potter says.

Draco takes a sip of water and runs a finger down the selection of main courses. "Chicken Cordon Bleu is easily out, first of all; if you can't pronounce it, you won't order it. Despite your personality, you're a highly predictable person when it comes to food. You also have a fairly unadventurous palate, so there goes the chicken curry." Curry occasionally appears on the Ministry menu, and Potter does seem tempted at times, but he ultimately settles for his tried-and-tested fare.

"You brought me here, which indicates you've got a craving for proper pub food. This leaves us with... hmm... steak and mushroom pie, bangers and mash, fish and chips or sirloin steak." Draco frowns as he considers the choices. "Pie is out, because you told Weasley earlier that you're not in the mood for pie. I've seen you pick bangers and mash, along with fish and chips more than sirloin steak, but then again, we don't serve steak often in the canteen. Which leaves me with either the bangers or the fish..."

Draco's grin widens when a gleeful expression plays on Potter's face. Merlin, he is ridiculously easy to read.

"Sirloin steak. You're ordering steak tonight, with a medium doneness, and your sides..." Draco looks at the selection of sides. "A nice and round potato." Potter flushes, probably remembering his awkward flirting that day. "Probably a loaded baked potato."

Potter simply stares at him, his startled expression telling Draco that he's correct. Draco closes the menu and leans back on his chair, triumphant. “Dinner’s on you, then.”

"Why didn't you pick the other two instead?" Potter asks.

"You're clearly familiar with the place, so I assume that the bangers and fish would be your usual here, yes?" At Potter's nod, Draco continues. "Dare I say that this might be a more special occasion, therefore you might be more willing to splurge, hence the sirloin steak," he says, indicating the menu with a flourish.

"Why would you say it's a special occasion today?"

"Because you're out with me," Draco says, splaying a hand over his chest.

"Still think rather highly of yourself, don't you?" A wry smile flickers on Potter's lips.

"Well, you did call me delicious, if you’d care to remember," Draco says, not keeping the smugness out of his tone.

Potter huffs, and they place their orders — a steak for him and a Chicken Cordon Bleu for Draco.

"Bet that's all you know about my food preferences, yeah?" Potter says, a challenge apparent in his voice.  

"Hah, you wish." Draco counts them off his fingers, eager to prove him wrong. "If it's a cold day, you’d fancy a stew or a chowder. If you come for lunch after a field mission, and I know this because of the stains on your clothes and how tired you look, you'd order double potatoes, a starchy main, and a huge mug of coffee. However, if you're leaving for the field, you'd take less carbohydrates and more proteins, probably a salmon or roast chicken, along with some fruit or an energy bar to go. If you're having a bad day, probably too much paperwork piling up, you'd be more tempted by sugar, going for double desserts or a sweet drink like juices."

Instead of looking surprised, like what Draco expected, Potter looks rather pleased with himself. "Didn't know you've been watching me like this.”

"What? No, that's not what—" Draco splutters when he realises he'd played right into Potter's hands.

Sneaky git. 

Draco looks around, while Potter fiddles with his napkin. He smiles at Draco, and even though that makes Draco’s heartrate speed up, it does nothing to dispel the awkwardness. Draco cudgels his mind for conversational topics, but comes up short. Even though they see each other almost every day, this is the first time they’re spending time alone, without Theo — sometimes Potter will drop by their flat for work-related issues after hours — to buffer things along.

“Nice place. Cosy,” Draco says, gesturing to the pub. “Do you come here often?”

“Yeah, at least twice a week, if things aren’t mad busy. Ron and I live a few blocks away, so it’s really convenient, especially if we end up getting sloshed.”

“Ah, I see.”

Potter’s smile fades, and he goes back to folding down the corners of his napkin. Draco finds his gaze wandering to the other patrons, and he hopes their food arrives soon. Doubt creeps up his spine. 

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea after all.

He takes another sip of water and shifts around in his chair. He runs his finger along the rim of his glass, something for his hands to do.

The silence between them stretches, and Draco has a vision of them, heads bowed over their plates as they eat in mute, awkward silence and a tense atmosphere, their turbulent history wedged between them like a third shadow. Potter would probably be wolfing his food down and checking his watch every few minutes, while Draco would be ransacking his mind for things to talk about (he can’t talk about Potter’s work, due to its confidential nature, and he’s certain Potter isn’t interested in his canteen work).

It’s going to be a disaster, really.

“Do you cook everything that is served at the canteen?” Potter pipes up.

Apparently, Draco is wrong about Potter not being interested, or perhaps he’s just desperate enough to erase the silence.

“No. We run shifts, and we’re in charge of different things. Most of the food is cooked fresh, yes, but some of them, such as the salads and some of the desserts, are sourced from external vendors.” 

“That day, when I saw you cooking…” Potter puts his napkin away, and he smiles as he recalls the memory. “I never thought I’d see you so capable in the kitchen. I thought you would’ve relied more on magic.”

“Yes, perhaps. I could have charmed the knife to cut the salmon and the salt to sprinkle itself, but I’ve learnt that relying too much on magic would affect the taste of the dish, so I limit myself to summoning, cleaning and warming charms. You must be close to your food to cook well, and I find the monotony of chopping, slicing and frying to be… calming,” Draco says. “Do you cook?”

Something closes up in Potter’s expression, and Draco wishes at once that he could take his question back, although he does file this titbit of knowledge away.

“I used to. A long time ago,” Potter replies, his words brisk, and his tone clearly indicating that he isn’t keen on this topic. He quickly changes the subject. “Theo’s lucky to be living with you, then. Our diets, Ron and mine, I mean, would consist entirely of pub food and takeaways if not for Hermione and her occasional home-cooked meals, and her lectures on proper eating.” He laughs, smoothing over the brief tension. “Or are you the sort to not cook outside of work?”

“I’ve got nothing against takeaways; I daresay Theo and I rather like the Indian place near our flat. I do cook for him sometimes.” Snapshots of memories tumble in Draco’s mind: Theo, bundled up and recovering from a fever, sighing in satisfaction as he tucks into Draco’s macaroni and cheese; Theo sipping on chicken soup, easing his irritation as he rants about Potter at the start of their Auror partnership (“Honestly, who the hell does he think he is, running head-first into danger, expecting me to cover his scrawny arse!”); and Theo falling asleep face-down into his empty bowl of spaghetti carbonara, bone-tired after a stakeout. 

That day, as Draco had nudged Theo to bed, he caught himself wondering what Potter likes to eat when he’s this tired.

The arrival of their food jolts Draco back to reality, and they tuck in. Potter eagerly prods his fork into his baked potato, gathering equal amounts of potato, melted cheese, sour cream and bacon bits. He chews, and then happily declares, “Best baked potato I’ve ever eaten.”

“You and your potatoes,” Draco says. It’s difficult to keep the affection out of his voice at Potter’s blissful expression.

“Want some?” Potter asks around a mouthful of potato.

Draco’s tempted, but they’re not familiar enough to be nicking food off each other’s plates, so he declines.

Potter swallows. “Theo’s said before you’ll be finished soon at the Ministry. D’you have any plans after that?” He pauses. “Sorry, do I sound like one of those annoying people that keep asking you that? Like how people used to bug me about what I was gonna do after… er… everything.”

No, it’s not annoying because there’s not many people left in my life to ask me that. “Not at all. I… do have plans.” Draco pauses, before making up his decision. Potter is making an effort here, after all. “You asked about the treacle tart you saw me baking.” He places his utensils down. “We provide food for charities. My supervisor is aware of that, and since the charities are Ministry-affiliated, it’s alright for me to use Ministry resources. A majority of the food given is leftovers at the end of the day, but we do cook fresh for them.”

“What’s in it for you? I know you well enough to know that you don’t have a habit of sacrificing your time and effort for nothing in return,” Potter says, his gentle tone soothing his words. He’s stopped eating, and the full glare of his attention is slightly disconcerting for Draco.

He would be offended at that, but Potter isn’t that far off. A small part of him is pleasantly surprised at Potter’s perceptiveness. Draco lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I might get a job out of it. In fact, I know there are one or two openings available in some branches, and they know me well enough to look beyond my Mark.” His arm clenches when Potter’s eyes flicker to said Mark. Draco’s words are steely, and he holds his head high. “I’ve lost more or less everything after the war, and the only marketable skill I have is cooking. I’m certain that my supervisor will give me a decent recommendation letter. The money won’t be fantastic at first, but I have to start somewhere.” And maybe I can finally pay Theo the rent he deserves instead of simply keeping house. “Eventually, I’d like to pursue the culinary arts, perhaps in desserts, and I’ll see how it goes from there.”

“That sounds absolutely brilliant,” Potter declares after a moment. “I think you’ll be great at it.”

Perhaps he’s simply saying it to be nice, but he’s so sincere and earnest about it that Draco can’t help but flush with pride at how far he’s come. It might’ve been a quick mention, but at least by bringing up the war in passing, they’ve silently agreed not to pretend that it hadn’t happened, and conversation flows better after that, although there are still pauses when they enjoy their food. Draco even manages to get a few laughs out of Potter when they talk about some of their Ministry colleagues. Afterwards, they discuss Quidditch over beer (Potter’s) and wine (Draco’s).

Eventually, the conversation winds down, and Potter foots the bill. They leave the pub, a warm feeling enveloping Draco when Potter leads them away from the main thoroughfare of the streets, turning into a quieter road.

They look at each other expectantly for a moment.

“I’ll see you again, yeah?” Potter says.

“Well, I should think so. You’re working on Monday, aren’t you?”

“No. I mean. Like this.” Potter gestures between them in a frustrated, impatient motion. “See you like this. Oh, fuck it,” he says, and everything’s happening so fast that Draco barely has time to react, just a blink of an eye, and Potter’s pulling him close and they’re kissing—

He’s kissing Potter.

Or more accurately, Potter’s kissing him while Draco stands there limply in his arms, his mind still reeling with the shock of it all, Merlin, is this a dream, because— oh, and Potter’s pulling away, looking rather flustered.

“I’m rushing things, aren’t I? We just had dinner, and now I’m manhandling you like this.” He worries his bottom lip as he stares at Draco with mounting dismay. 

Draco finds his voice. “Rushing things? Come back here, you tosser.” He yanks Potter towards him, cups a hand around the back of his neck and captures his lips in a heated, fiery kiss that has Potter groaning into his mouth. An arm wraps around Draco’s waist when Potter deepens the kiss, and Draco’s toes curl in his shoes at the intensity of the kiss. He pulls away just a fraction to nip at Potter’s lower lip, and then laves across the nibble with a long sweep of his tongue.

“Wow,” Potter says after a while, looking rather dazed, eyes bright and lips kiss-swollen, and Draco longs to kiss him all over again, but there’s something bothering him.

“You’re… you’re not in this just for the treacle tart, are you?” he asks. “I’m not a fool, you gave me all this attention after we argued about treacle tart. Going to write it all off when I give you your tart?”

He conveniently excludes his purpose for introducing the tart in the menu in the first place. Potter doesn’t have to know about that.

“Does it feel like I’m doing this just for the tart, you prat?” Potter says, before enveloping Draco in another heart-stopping, breath-taking kiss that ignites Draco’s senses into a slow burn. Potter breaks the kiss but stays close, whispering as he feathers Draco’s jaw with soft kisses that has him melting in his arms. “Yeah, maybe it was the whole treacle tart thing that started it, but I’ve… I’ve been eyeing you up for ages, and I’ve been thinking more about you, so I…”

He pulls away, serious. “I can’t promise you anything, but I would like to get to know you better.”

“I’d like to get to know you better, too. A lot better,” Draco replies, his words low and sultry as he presses their hips together. Potter’s breath hitches at the slide of their clothed erections. He leans in and licks his way down Potter’s neck, a corner of his lips ticking up into a smile as he kisses the words into Potter’s skin.  

“Would you be free next Tuesday?” 


Harry closes the door behind him and drops his keys into the bowl on top of the shoe cabinet. 

"Oi, lover boy’s back!" Ron calls. Beside him, Hermione turns. Ron switches off the telly and puts down the bag of crisps. Still smitten, Harry can't keep the grin off his face when he sits next to his friends on the sofa.

"How did it go?" Hermione asks. She spies something on his neck, and when her eyebrows raise, a blushing Harry slaps the side of his neck at once, covering the fresh love-bite blossoming on his skin. Malfoy was quite... vigorous with the snogging. 

"Looks like things went rather well," she says.

"Yeah, I'm seeing him again next Tuesday after work," Harry says, emptying his pockets of his things and placing them on the coffee table.

"What will you be doing?" she asks, brushing crumbs off Ron's chest.

"Dunno, he said he'd owl me." He toes off his trainers and chucks them in the general direction of the shoe cabinet.

"I really don't think you're interested in treacle tart anymore, mate," Ron says.

"Well, if this is what you want..." Hermione says, looking concerned.

Part of Harry's exhilaration disappears. He hadn't really thought about how this would affect his friends. "You think I'm making a mistake?" he asks. "I didn't make any promises, we just agreed that we'd like to get to know each other better."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Hermione explains, her tone gentle. "You do have a... colourful history with him." She shares a look with Ron, a motion that irks Harry sometimes, but not now, as he's still buoyed up by the memory of Malfoy’s hands on him. Hermione smiles. "But we are glad that you're finally doing something about it, after all the pining."

Harry splutters, his hand hovering near the bag of crisps. Pining? Pining? "I didn't— I haven't been— what?"

Ron looks at him and lets out a long-suffering sigh. "Even Mandy, the Welcome Witch at the Ministry reception knows about you mooning over Malfoy like a first-year, let alone us, your best friends. I’ve seen you stare at him so intently until your elbow ends up in your pasta."

Harry's gaze flickers between them, and he withdraws his hand. "If it becomes more... maybe a long-term thing... would it bother you?" They've clearly been discussing this without his knowledge, and he isn't sure how to feel about this, that his friends have come to terms with it even before he has.

Ron and Hermione trade another look.

"He's kept his head down and his nose clean, yeah? Second chances and all that," Ron says.

"We've gone through too much together to let this break us. This doesn't mean that we're not... worried, but if you think it's worth a shot, then we’ll support you." Hermione smiles and takes Harry's hand in hers, squeezing it.

Ron peers around her bushy hair. "I don't want to see you snogging him all over our flat, mind." 

Harry grins at his friends, and grabs the crisps as he puts his feet up on the coffee table. He indicates the telly with his chin. "What're we watching then?"

"Oh, it's brilliant, mate!" Ron says, enthused. Hermione settles into the cushions, sandwiched between them. Ron switches on the telly and rambles about the plot of the movie so far, and even though Harry's making noises to show that he's listening, his mind has scampered far away to images of Malfoy beside him, the four of them on the sofa and watching telly together.

Yeah, it's still a long way to go when, or if, that happens, but well...

It's something nice to think about.

He's pleasantly surprised at this new aspect of Malfoy; at the spark in his smile and the twinkle in his eye when he talks about cooking. He's changed, of course. Who wouldn’t, after the war, but he still has that same sharp wit, that resourcefulness and a newfound resilience. Things had started rather awkwardly, but well, they've never been best mates.

Overall, tonight went a lot better than expected.


"What are we— hey, hey!" Potter’s words break off into a startled yelp when Draco roughly pushes him up against the wall of the darkened Ministry canteen. He raises his forearms to press them on the wall on either side of Potter’s head, trapping him. He works his right thigh between Potter’s legs, hissing in pleasure when Potter grinds on his thigh.   

Draco draws himself up to his full height, gazing into Potter’s wide eyes. Potter turns, glancing at the entrance of the canteen. The light spilling from the hallway outside throws shadows on half of his face and illuminates the other half — revealing blushing cheeks, pink rosebud lips parted slightly, and half-lidded green eyes brimming with lust and uncertainty. His eyes dart back to the open doors, and he opens his mouth, no doubt to protest, but before he can form words, Draco growls, grabs Potter’s hips and kisses him.

He closes his eyes and runs his tongue along the seam of Potter’s lips, swallowing his sharp inhale. The tip of his tongue traces the cupid’s bow of Potter’s upper lip, before brushing across his plump bottom lip. The kiss heats up quickly, Merlin, Potter’s a full-bodied kisser, his greedy hands roaming all over Draco’s body while his tongue licks eagerly into Draco’s mouth, accompanied by the slow roll of his hips. A hand presses on the small of Draco’s back, and Potter growls — a sound so deep, hungry and ravenous — as he deepens the kiss. Draco matches his snarl, shoving him back against the wall and kissing him hard. Potter’s other hand snakes downwards, slipping into a pocket at the back of Draco’s jeans to cup his arse.

Draco breaks the kiss to throw his head back and let out a breathy moan.

Potter’s mouth latches onto his neck at once, biting, sucking and licking, and when Potter squeezes his arse again, he buries his fingers into dark messy hair. “Is this my dessert?” Potter whispers, reaching down between Draco’s legs and rubbing his erection. Draco groans, his hands clenching on Potter’s hips. When Potter pulls away, his eyes are twinkling with mischief and an impish smirk flitters across his lips.

“Mmm, I did promise you dessert after dinner,” Draco says, his grin widening when Potter toys with the zipper of his jeans. “But I meant that in a more literal sense.” He leans in close, his lips hovering near Potter’s earlobe and his breath grazing his cheek. “It’s treacle tart day tomorrow, that’s why we’re here on a Sunday. How’d you like an advance tasting?”

Potter answers by winding a leg around Draco’s lower back and jerking him closer. “Only if I get to have you as dessert too,” he says in a voice so husky and deep that Draco bucks his hips up, arching into his touch. Potter smirks as he pops open the button of Draco's jeans, his fingertips coasting along the waistband of his pants.

Control, control.  

Every fibre of Draco’s being wants to let Potter have his way with him, let him work him hard and good and fast till he comes all over his hand, but no, it’s not going to happen like that, because shagging Potter in this canteen is one of Draco’s favourite fantasies; fantasies that have increased in frequency and fervour ever since their first kiss three weeks ago. He wants Potter to beg, he wants to make it last, so that Potter will never, ever forget tonight.  

Summoning every vestige of control, Draco bats Potter’s hand away, moving out from the circle of his arms. The other man’s grin fades. Draco grabs his wand and lights up a few lights in the canteen — not too many that it’s glaring, but enough that they’re not swamped in darkness.

“You’re in my lunchroom now, Potter. Know your place,” he hisses. Potter’s eyes flare with a combative fire that Draco knows all too well. With both hands, he grabs the bottom of Potter’s jacket — this fucking sexy black leather jacket that he looks so dangerous in, Salazar, just looking at him in this is enough to make Draco hard — and uses that to yank Potter towards him. Potter lurches forward as Draco walks backwards.  

“Come along, that’s a good boy,” Draco taunts.

“I’ll show you what’s good,” Potter growls, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down Draco’s spine.

Draco merely laughs, another shot of lust flooding him when Potter’s jaw tightens.

They stumble through tables and chairs, shoving them out of place, and when Draco’s hip bumps against another table, Potter pulls him into another rough and hard snog. He wraps his arms around Potter’s neck, while Potter leans forward, bracing his palms on the table. The kiss is all sharp teeth, duelling tongues, huffing breaths and saliva-slick lips; intense, filthy and wet, just the way Draco likes it. He tugs the jacket off Potter, letting it fall onto the floor.

“Yes, oh yes,” he says around a moan, biting his lower lip as his hungry gaze follows the circuit of his hands; he skims his palms across Potter’s shoulders, the slopes of his chest, the pebbled nipples below a tight white T-shirt, finally down to the tense muscles of his abdomen. He brings his hands up to frame the sides of Potter’s jaw, before abruptly removing his glasses.

Potter blinks once, twice. Draco hasn’t seen him without his glasses before, oh fuck, he could get lost in his eyes like this; those long, thick lashes fluttering in confusion, pupils dilated in full-blown lust, and he’s so close he can see darker flecks of emerald in the irises.

“What are you—“

Draco briefly presses a finger to Potter’s lips. “You want me?” he asks in a purr.

Potter’s gaze follows when Draco oh-so-slowly trails one arm of the glasses down the middle of Potter’s chest, his abdomen, down to the dip of his navel, and then back up again.    

“Yeah.” 

“Mmm.” Draco pouts. “You don’t seem to want it enough.” He curves his lips into a coquettish grin, lifts the glasses up, and then slowly licks along the length of the arm. He laughs, low and gravelly, when Potter presses the heel of his palm against his own cock. 

“Fuck, I want you so much, let me touch you, please—“

In a smooth, fluid motion, Draco pushes away Potter’s grabby hands. “You can have me anyway you want, but only if you catch me.” He punctuates his words with a playful laugh and a wave of Potter’s glasses. He whirls around and struts away, his grin widening at Potter’s agitated huff, “Christ, Malfoy, you fucking tease,” behind him. Draco sways his hips seductively as he threads through the tables and chairs, hoping to give the other man a good look at his arse—

Draco freezes when he hears a crash behind him, and then a loud groan.

He doubles back to where Potter lays, sprawled out on the floor, an upturned chair beside him.

Well, there goes the sexy mood.

“My glasses aren’t for show, y’know,” Potter points out as he sits up, leaning on the leg of the nearest table and squints up at Draco.

“I sure hope not, because your glasses were in fashion sometime in the last century,” Draco says. “Are you alright?” He bends down in front of Potter and returns his glasses. Potter shrugs and puts them on, and then as quick as a whip, there are hands pulling at Draco’s shirt, tugging it up over his head and then flinging it away. He’s now half-naked — he shivers as green eyes caress his bare chest and stomach — and straddling Potter, his knees on either side of Potter’s hips.

“Oh, I’m feeling much better now,” Potter says impishly. Draco slips a hand between Potter’s legs, flush with excitement at the thought of finally touching him there—

“Wait,” he rasps, fastening a hand around Draco’s.

Draco releases a grunt of frustration. “What, Potter? Why can’t I feel you?” He’s so close to touching him — they’ve fooled around before, with Draco letting Potter stroke him to completion that one time, but every time he tries to return the favour, his advances have been rebuffed.

“It’s because I’m…” Potter looks away, his lips pressed together. “I’ve been told I’m too… y’know.” He clears his throat in embarrassment. “Er.”

“Too small?” Draco guesses. Why else would he be self-conscious about something like this? He frowns; Potter’s size feels rather decent when they’re grinding, though.

Potter laughs dryly.

He’s not denying it.

Draco is at a loss for what to say — what do you say to someone insecure about their size? In his fantasies, Potter’s not too big, nor too small; in fact, his imagination has given him a cock similarly sized to Draco’s own.

“Hey. So you’re small. So what?” Draco is careful to modulate his tone so Potter won’t think he’s taking the piss. “We’ve got fantastic chemistry, you’re fucking fit, and a great kisser. I want you too much to let something like that mess us up.” He gives Potter what he hopes is a reassuring smile, and he sags in relief when Potter grins back. He takes Draco’s hand and kisses each fingertip, before dropping a kiss on the inside of his wrist.

Draco’s heart expands at the affectionate gesture.  

“That’s sweet,” Potter says, tucking a lock of hair behind Draco’s ear. “But it’s not that.” He undoes his jeans. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he says in a rather resigned air.

Draco’s brain barely has time to process the last few words before Potter lowers his jeans and his pants, reaching inside to ease his cock out—

—his unbelievably huge, huge cock.

“So much better,” Potter groans in relief.

Well, that might’ve been what he said, but Draco is too busy marvelling at the biggest cock he’s seen in the flesh. He’s seen bigger ones in porn mags, but this one is right before his eyes — so hard, so long that it stretches beyond Potter’s navel, sure, he’s hunching against a table, but it’s so gloriously long, curving slightly to the right, and so thick that Draco’s arse is clenching at the thought of being stretched by it. There’s pre-come dripping from the tip, and he’ll give anything to taste it, swirl his tongue all over Potter’s masterpiece of a cock.

“Stop looking at it like that,” Potter whispers.

Draco tears his admiring gaze from Potter’s cock to look at his face. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Why would you be self-conscious about this?”

Potter ducks his head, his murmur equal parts embarrassment and shyness. “It’s fucking obscene, isn’t it?” He gestures to his prick, and Draco can’t help but glance at it again. “When someone sees it, they stare, like it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen, but then it’s too big for… for…” he trails off, looking away. “It’s different after that.”

Draco lifts his chin. “I’m not everyone else,” he says, his lip curling in disdain. “When I say I can take it, I can fucking take it.”

Potter blinks, the hesitance fading in his eyes. “Yeah?” A playful grin forms on his lips. His right hand forms a loose fist that encircles his prick, and he begins to stroke himself, his thumb smearing pre-come all over the head. “You sure?”

Draco’s mouth waters, the sight of Potter indulging in a slow wank triggering a hot sear of arousal deep in his belly.

Fuck, his own jeans are so fucking tight.

“Get up,” he demands. “I’m going to suck your cock at the table where you and Weasley eat your lunch every day.”

“Oh, fuck.”

He grins at the glazed-over look in Potter’s eyes — no doubt he’s imagining that very scene. He slides off Potter’s legs, and they scramble up from the floor, stumbling through tables until they reach their destination. Potter loses his shirt on the way, adding on to the snaking trail of clothes left in their wake.

“Turns you on, doesn’t it? Doing it here?” Draco whispers when Potter hoists himself up to sit on the table. “In twelve hours, this place will be full with your colleagues and friends for lunch, but now it’s just two of us here, on a Sunday night, where I’m gonna blow you—“

Potter’s legs are already splayed open in invitation, his jeans and pants pushed to mid-thigh, his cock so hard that it’s parallel to his body, Merlin, what a view—

Draco gulps, finding his voice. “Gonna do it so good until it’s all you think about tomorrow, your cock getting hard under the table as you struggle through lunch with Weasley.” He lets out a throaty laugh when Potter urgently grabs his hand and places it on his crotch, the plea in his eyes and the low snarl building in his throat flooding Draco with a heady sense of power and arousal. Oh, but he’s not going to make it easy for Potter. “Wait here.”

“No, now, please—“

“Time for your dessert.” Draco leans in, capturing Potter’s lips in a brief, but scorching-hot and desperate kiss. He pulls away, satisfied at the frustration scrawled all over Potter’s features. “Think about this: treacle tart and clotted cream on your lips, and your come on mine.”

Draco’s smirk widens at Potter’s moan of need. He gestures to Potter's trainers and clothes. "All off. I want you naked, ready and waiting when I come back. And don't you dare touch yourself without me." He wrests himself free from Potter and hurries to the kitchens.

“Hurry back, you tease.”

Draco’s reply to Potter’s breathy words and the rustle of clothes is a light laugh. He heads straight for the large fridge, snatching a treacle tart and setting a heating charm on it — Potter likes his tart warm, with a good helping of clotted cream.

"C'mon, where are you," he mutters as he roots around in the fridge for clotted cream. It's not in its usual place; someone must've misplaced it. After messing up the contents of a compartment, he gives up and summons the jar. He quickly plates the tart and chucks the jar back in the fridge.  

Potter twists his upper body around when Draco approaches, and Merlin fuck, he loves how Potter’s legs fall apart, leaving enough space for him to step in between them. He dips his fingers into the cream and lifts them to Potter's mouth. Potter's half-lidded eyes peer up at him through his tousled fringe, holding Draco's gaze as he laps the cream up. Draco licks his lips at the delectable sight, and then breaks off a chunk of tart and feeds that to Potter too.

"Tastes good," he says hoarsely.

"Oh, I know something that'll taste as good." Draco hooks his ankle around the leg of a chair, pulling it closer. He sits down between Potter's spread thighs.

"Please," Potter says around a sigh, scooting forward on the table. His calves are dangling from the edge of the table, his toes curling. His cock bobs in the air, and Draco swallows thickly. Fuck, he's not sure he can fit such a big cock into his mouth fully on the first try, but he sure as hell is gonna try. It's so tempting to release his own prick from his jeans and wank while he sucks Potter, but it's not about his pleasure tonight.

He wants to make it so good for Potter, so damn good that whenever Potter enters the canteen, he'll always be reminded of this night with Draco. 

"Please what?" he asks, batting his lashes in mock innocence.

"Please suck my cock," Potter whispers, and Draco grins, knowing that he has the upper hand now. Until a mischievous gleam seeps into green eyes, and Potter says casually, "Unless it's too big for you."

Draco snarls, indignant. "Too big? Fuck you, Potter. I'm gonna suck you so good you’ll lose your fucking mind."

With that, Draco lowers and tilts his head, his tongue flicking out to lick the pre-come on Potter's leaking cock. He holds Potter's gaze while he does it, dragging the flat of his tongue up to the crown, pressing down on the slit. He smiles when Potter hisses and bucks his hips up. Potter’s fingers card through blond hair, and his foot shifts, pushing on the seat of Draco's chair to give him some stability as he thrusts gently into Draco’s mouth.

Unfazed, Draco takes more of Potter's cock, sucking him slowly and luxuriously. Obscene slurping noises, along with Potter's moans and pants, fill the air, these sounds ramping up Draco’s arousal further. His right hand fondles Potter's balls, cupping and rubbing them, while his left hand lingers on Potter's hip, ready to restrain him if he gets too rough. Draco knows his limits, and he's not going to ruin things by gagging. 

"Fuck yeah, Malfoy. Take it, just like this," Potter mumbles, his eyes drunk with lust as they trail over Draco's face, staring at him as if searing this memory into his brain. Draco knows how good he looks when he's giving head — hollowed-out cheeks, lush lips stretched around Potter's thick length, his teasing tongue licking a hot, wet stripe from the root of his cock up to the crown. He repeats this motion, and on the way back down, he goes even lower, mouth on Potter’s balls while his hands inch up, oh, Potter's big enough for Draco to stack his hands for a nice, slow wank. He keeps his left hand on the base of Potter's cock, squeezing him in a constant tempo while his other hand rubs up and down the shaft. 

Potter's strangled cry tells Draco that he likes it very, very much.

Draco pulls off, although his hands continue stroking. "Is it too big for me? Hmm?" He pouts, knowing how red and plump his lips must look.

"No, I take it all back, just don't stop, so good, so damn good," Potter babbles.

Draco laughs. "Stop? Oh no. You taste too good to stop." He runs his fingertips lightly along Potter's shaft. "So easily satisfied. And I haven't even deep-throated you yet."

"You what?" Potter's eyes widen behind his glasses, his gasp dissolving into a low groan when Draco swallows him down again.

Or as much of it that he can.

Draco relaxes his throat as he closes his eyes and sucks hard, easing it deeper into his mouth. Potter's abdomen clenches, and he longs to pull off to look at Potter's expression, but he has to concentrate. He paces himself, breathing through his nose while his mouth works its magic. His eyes watering, Draco swallows another inch, and another, until it nudges the back of his throat, and even so, it’s not fully in yet.

Fuck, he might've underestimated Potter's size.

Draco withdraws slightly. His right hand cups the remaining length of cock that's not in his mouth, it’s just a bit more, fuck, but he doesn't think he can do it. He opens his eyes, and is rewarded with the hottest sight in his life — Potter's completely wrecked and blissed-out expression as he looks down at Draco with such unbridled lust that if Draco was wanking, he would've come at once.

"Look at you, Christ, taking it all in, Malfoy, no one else, don’t want anyone else," Potter mutters between heated gasps, his words cut off as if he can't form full sentences anymore. His hands are clenched on the edge of the table, arms trembling.

No one else.

A hot flush of jealousy burns in Draco at the thought of Potter being with someone else, bird or bloke, and he curves his fingers on Potter's hips possessively. Potter belongs to him, and only him.

He's going to ruin Potter for anyone else.

With that desire lodged in his mind, Draco closes his eyes, opens his mouth wide, ignores his  aching jaw and pushes in just a bit more. His tongue swirls around the girth as his throat works to swallow Potter down, and it's so overwhelming, having Potter’s entire length in his mouth as he sucks and sucks and sucks. A shiver rackets up Potter’s spine, and he gasps out Draco's name, a string of vulgarities, and finally, a long, drawn-out moan until he breaks off into a sharp, choked cry.

"Gonna, I'm gonna, nggh—"

Draco pulls back, letting most of Potter's cock slip out, but keeping the head inside. He wraps his hands around the shaft, squeezing and stroking him like before. He opens his eyes, locking his sultry gaze with Potter as Potter shouts and comes so hard down his throat. Draco swallows it all, but purposely leaves a smear of come on his bottom lip, letting Potter memorise the sight of that.

He makes a good show of licking the come on his lips.

"Fucking hell," Potter slurs, threading a shaky hand through his hair. Seconds tick by, and Draco waits for the other man to catch his breath, more than pleased with his own performance. He stands up, his palms sliding along the tops of Potter's thighs. Potter smiles and thumbs away the tears at the corners of Draco's eyes — that's how wide he had to open his mouth. Potter then engulfs him in a kiss that leaves Draco rather breathless himself, and this time, it's his turn to moan when warm, capable hands free his cock from his pants.

"Fifty points to Slytherin," Potter says, a devilish tilt to his eyebrows when he strokes Draco lazily. "Fuck, that was so good."

"Only fifty?"

"Greedy arse. Let me take care of this, yeah?" His speed on Draco's prick increases, but Draco moves away and begins to take off his clothes. 

"Yeah, strip for me," Potter mutters, his eyes eagerly drinking in the sight. Draco steps out of the pool of clothing on the floor, displaying his body in all its glory. He smirks when Potter's half-hard cock twitches. He leans forward, whispering in Potter's ear while cupping him, "How long do I have to wait? I only want to come with your massive cock so deep in me."

Potter tenses, and not in a good way.

Draco withdraws. "What?"

He looks away, rubs the back of his neck, and says rather sheepishly, "I… er… bottom."

Draco blinks. "You... bottom?" he repeats, surprised. His fantasies about Potter fucking him hard vanish with a disappointed little pop. "With a prick that size?" The words escape his mouth before he has fully processed it, and he's ready to take them back, knowing about Potter’s shyness.

"I bottom because I'm big. I've tried topping before, but it… er… didn't really work." Potter says, resigned. "I mean, it’ll be nice to top once in a while, but I don’t want to hurt you."

Draco pounces on his last few words. He caresses Potter's chest, two of his fingers tiptoeing up the slopes of his chest. He waits until Potter's staring at his fingers, transfixed, and then he carefully modulates his voice to the sexy, seductive purr that he knows is irresistible.

"If I told you I've been wanking myself raw to the thought of you fucking me, you still won't top?" He feathers kisses along Potter's jawline. "Imagine this, you on top of me, panting and thrusting so hard, so deep in me, your gorgeous cock stretching me to my limit, and if you're afraid of hurting me," he quickly adds when Potter opens his mouth to say something. "I'll tell you, and we'll do it nice and gentle, slow and sweet. I'll make sure it's good for us both. Let's try?" He takes Potter's hand and places it on his own bum, making a delighted sound when he receives a gratifying squeeze.

"When you put it like that..." Potter murmurs, and gropes him again. He looks around at the utilitarian tables and chairs littering the area. "But we're not doing it here. We need a bed, somewhere comfortable. You need proper prep."

Draco bites back a growl of frustration. Fuck, they're so close to fulfilling his all-time favourite fantasy of sex in the Ministry canteen. "I want to shag here, tonight," he insists. 

"You a strict bottom?"

Draco shakes his head. "I've done it both ways, but I prefer bottoming."

"Well, since that's the case..." Potter trails off, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Still bracketed in Draco's arms, he hops down from the table and turns around, until Draco is facing his back. He twists around to look at Draco, his eyes smoky and his grin lascivious. With his palms pressed on the table, he shuffles a bit to the right, moving his hips to nudge Draco's erection in between his arse-cheeks.

Draco moans at the contact — he's been hard for so long, and Salazar, look at Potter offering himself like this... Potter rolls his hips in slow, sexy motions, sliding Draco's prick along the crease of his arse. Instinctively, Draco grinds back, sliding his cock deeper between his arse-cheeks. He moves closer to kiss the nape of Potter's neck, and the friction between their bodies is so hot, so heavy that he can't help rubbing the head of his cock against Potter's entrance.

"Fuck, Potter, fuck," Draco snarls, a hot jolt of lust zapping through him when Potter's thighs fall apart even more, his upper body dropping till his elbows are on the table. He tiptoes, moaning as he increases the roll of his hips, the sweet slide of Draco's prick along his cleft driving Draco out of his mind.      

"C'mon, Malfoy. Fuck me, I want it so bad," he begs. "I'll fuck you some other day, but right now, right here, I want you in me so bad. Wanna come all over again with your cock up my arse." He turns his head, his chin resting on his right shoulder as he shoots Draco a gaze so sexually potent and smoulderingly hot that Draco aches to please him in any way possible.

Fuck, he'll do anything Potter wants.

"Get up," he says abruptly. "I'm going to fuck you at the serving line."

Potter glances at the serving line.

"I'm going to bend you over and fuck you right there, where everyone queues for their food." Draco gives Potter's erection a lazy stroke. "You don't know how much I've thought about that, having sex with you here, where I see you almost every day." Potter's breath hitches, and Draco increases the speed of his strokes. "Yeah, I'm going to fuck you so good, make you come so hard with my cock so deep in you and—"

"Shut the fuck up and fuck me," Potter snarls, his words laced with urgency and lust. "I can't believe you're this mouthy too during sex." He grabs Draco, and they hurry to the serving line.

"And I can't believe you have no appreciation for the fine art of seduction and subtlety," Draco says, huffing. "Just setting the mood."

"Right, right, the mood's all set," Potter says impatiently. "Now fuck me, won't you, preferably sometime within the year?" He bends over at once, his elbows pressed against the surface where people slide their trays as they progress along the line. He arches his back and spreads his legs wide, presenting his arse to Draco, who steps behind him.

"Demanding git," Draco says. He conjures some lube on his fingers and circles Potter’s rim with two fingers. Potter gasps at his touch, pushing back eagerly. Licking his lips, Draco slides his index finger in, easing through the tight ring of muscle. His eyes closed, Potter tilts his head back and lets out a needy moan as Draco takes his time in preparing him.

"Now, now, now," Potter begs. Draco lubes up — fuck, he's never been this hard for anyone before — and lines himself at his entrance, the head of his cock catching on Potter's slick rim.

"Yeah, just like that," Potter breathes. "C'mon, c'mon."

His throat dry, his heart racing, and his hands fastened on Potter's hips, Draco pushes in slowly, his brain short-circuiting at the view of his cock disappearing into Potter. Potter shouts wordlessly, a fist thumping onto the surface. Draco stills after a moment, allowing Potter to adjust. His left hand remains on the other man’s hip, steadying him, while his right hand caresses Potter's spine, soothing him.

"Alright?" Draco asks.

Potter takes a moment to respond. "Yeah." He wriggles his hips, and Draco hisses when another inch of his cock sinks in. "More, give me more, I want it all."

"I'll do anything you want," Draco murmurs. He pushes in further, his stroke slow and sure, until he's fully seated, so deep that his hips are pressed flush against Potter's arse, his balls brushing against Potter's flesh.

"Yeah, that's how I like it.” Potter flings his glasses off, closes his eyes and lowers the side of his face to the surface. "That's how I fucking like it," he growls. He bumps his arse out, and Draco takes the hint, pulling halfway out before easing back in again, the slow and slick slide bringing his pleasure to new heights.

"So tight, so hot, oh fuck, so good." It's Draco's turn to babble now, and he's certain he would be embarrassed at the sounds he’s making, but his world has narrowed down to sex with Potter: his low moans, the searing-hot sight of his cock fucking into him, the exquisite heat and pressure engulfing him. "Potter, oh fuck, Potter..."

"Harry," Potter manages between gritted teeth. "Harry."

Draco chuckles and smacks his arse. "So conceited you'd moan your own name during sex?"

Potter's eyes flutter open and he mirrors Draco's weak grin. "Fuck you, Malfoy. Reckon it's time to call me Harry since you've got your prick so far up my arse."

"If that's what you want, Harry," Draco says pointedly, his words intentionally dissolving into a moan on the name. It does the trick; Potter sighs and reaches down to fondle his own cock. "And fuck you, since I'm doing the fucking."

 Potter scoffs. "You call this fucking? You're going so damn slow, a Flobberworm could do better."

Annoyed, Draco pulls out and drives in, hard, eliciting a sharp cry from Potter. Fuck, it's unbelievable how much they can rile each other up even during sex. Potter rests both hands on the counter to brace himself for the ride. Desperation and determination fuelling his thrusts, Draco begins to fuck him proper, pumping his hips hard and fast, and Merlin, Potter's a ferocious fuck, matching him thrust for thrust with equal force and intensity, bouncing his arse back on Draco's cock as Draco pounds into him. Potter props himself up on his elbows, his head hanging and his entire body jerking in rhythm with Draco's thrusts.

"Hope the service here is to your liking," Draco slurs as he fucks hard. He pulls out halfway; Potter whines in dismay. "Would hate for anyone to leave here without a glowing experience." He tilts his hips at just the right angle, and then slams back into Potter so hard that he rises up on the balls of his feet.

Potter throws his head back and wails.

"Hmm? No answer?" Draco taunts, picking up the rhythm. 

Potter is so fucked-out of his brain that he can't even string words together. He's panting and gasping; Draco can catch snatches of his first name between his moans, but fuck, he could be wrong because the blood pounding in Draco’s ears is so loud, along with their cries, echoing in the still air of the canteen.

"Gonna, oh, make me, please, make me, Draco, Draco!" Potter howls. It's how Potter drips sex all over his name, how his arse clenches tight around his cock, the crescent marks of Draco's fingernails littered all over Potter's hips that drives Draco over the edge. He pulls out, squeezes his cock once, twice, and then he shoots his load all over Potter's arse and lower back, coming so hard that some of it reaches his shoulder blades. 

Potter's wanking himself now, and Draco snarls and shoves his hand away, replacing it with his own. He strokes Potter — oh, so hard and big and leaking and he feels so good — and leans forward, his breath coasting past Potter's ear. 

"Come for me, Harry," he purrs, going faster. Potter gasps at the sound of his name, and he thrusts harder into Draco's fist, his hips snapping back and forth. "Feel good, fucking my hand like this?"

"Mmhmm, yeah, so good—"

Draco licks his lips in anticipation. Oh, Potter's going to come so hard at this. Draco whispers, "Imagine how good it'll feel when you fuck my arse like this, how good it'll feel when you come so hard in me."

Potter's eyes fly open, staring at Draco. His entire body tenses; the tendons on his neck standing out like cords, his hands trembling into fists, his stomach clenching, and then he's yelling Draco's name and coming, his huge cock pulsing powerfully as he spurts in Draco's hand, so much of it that come trickles between his knuckles, dripping to the floor.

Potter turns around, sagging against the counter. Draco lifts his hand to his lips, his tongue sliding up and down between his fingers, grazing the web of skin between thumb and index finger. "Delicious," he declares, licking his lips in an explicit show of desire.

“Three weeks of getting to know you, and I get the best sex of my life,” Potter mumbles, sated.

“Why, you sound like you’re complaining,” Draco says, smirking in triumph at the praise. He summons a cloth from the kitchen to wipe his come off Potter’s skin. Three weeks have passed since the Quidditch match, and with every date, he’s falling harder for Potter.

“Far from it. You’re brilliant,” Potter says, gathering Draco into his arms.      

There's a long moment of silence as they simply hold each other, taking their time to return to reality after a bout of phenomenal sex.

Draco nods towards Potter and Weasley's usual table. "Come on. Our wands and clothes are back there." He looks at the serving line. "I'll have to scour this area with strong cleaning charms."

"There's still a half-eaten treacle tart for me," Potter says, perking up.   

Draco grins. "So I take it you enjoyed dessert tonight?"

Potter replies by plunging him into a kiss so intense and thorough that it throws all of his senses into free-fall. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air, and he can feel Potter's heartbeat against his chest, his warm flesh under his fingertips, and when they break apart, Potter's beam is as bright and cheerful as summer sunshine, and Salazar, Draco would do anything, anything at all, for Potter to smile at him like this, always and forever.

A swooping sensation fills Draco's belly at that realisation. 

Theo's right.

He really is a smitten, hopeless sod for Harry Potter.


Harry grins when Malfoy slides two slices of treacle tart on his tray.

"Wait," Malfoy says, peeling off his gloves, revealing his hands. A memory of last night barges into Harry’s mind: those fingers teasing him as he fell apart under Malfoy's skilful hands and cock. Warmth floods his face when Malfoy stretches across the counter to dip two fingers into the swirl of clotted cream. He licks the cream off his fingertips.

Christ, that was what he did before he sucked Harry's cock down his throat, and the way he's lapping at those fingers, like how he licked his come off—

Harry's trousers tighten.

"Probably won't taste as good as last night, but I reckon it'll do," Malfoy drawls. The corner of his lips hike up into a secretive smirk, and he winks. "Enjoy your dessert."

Harry watches him go, sighing dreamily at Malfoy's pert arse and long legs. Harry glances at the counter, where Malfoy had bent him over and shagged him silly. Fuck, he had come right at this very spot—

"Two tarts?" Ron yelps, shaking Harry out of his recollection of Malfoy stripping.

"Last night?" he continues, frowning at Harry in suspicion. "You came home late last night, and Malfoy’s saying that you ate this tart then. Something must've happened last night, that's why you got two tarts. You blush like that only at the mention of sex—" He breaks off, his gaze skittering all over the place as he tries to figure things out. He follows Harry's gaze towards the counter, then back to the tarts on his tray, which is at the same height as Harry's crotch, so there's no way he could've missed—

"Oh, oh!" Ron squawks, aghast, when he gets it. Harry quickly turns his hips away, trying to hide his erection, shit, why did he leave his robe in his cubicle?  

"You and him..." Ron says, gaping. "Here? Bloody hell, Harry!"

"Let's go," Harry hisses, mindful of the curious looks coming their way. He throws down a few coins, and without waiting for his change, he snatches his tray and hurries back to their table, Ron spluttering behind him the entire time.

"You shagged him here?" Ron asks.

"Depends on what you mean by here.”

Ron pales when Harry confirms his guess. "You can't mean..." He gestures to the table. "Here? Where we eat every day?!”

"And there too," Harry says in a conspiratorial whisper, unable to keep it to himself anymore. He tips his head towards the serving line, fighting to keep a grin off his face. "No one was around and I just... went with things." His smile fades at Ron’s alarmed expression. "Oh come off it, we cleaned everything up, he was saying something about adhering to hygiene standards and all that."

"I should bloody well hope so!" Ron casts another disbelieving look at Harry, who merely shrugs and tucks into his food. Ron prods his lasagne with his fork. After a moment, he looks up. "That's why you came home so late last night looking so bloody pleased with yourself. I should've known." He throws a dark look at the tarts on Harry's tray. "No way I can top that."

"Oh yeah, he was a really good one," Harry adds, chuckling when Ron splutters.

“Details that I don’t need, mate.”

Harry pats his pockets, wondering if the napkin is in this pair of trousers, ah, there it is. He fishes it out, along with a pen. "I win," he announces, victorious. He indicates so on the napkin, embellishing it with a childish doodle. Ron nicks his pen when he’s finished and writes on the other side, "Shagged Malfoy in the canteen, you slag."

"We never did agree on the prize," Ron says.

Harry cranes his neck to steal a glance at Malfoy, who is moving around behind the serving line. "Prize?" he says distractedly. He had started things with just a plain desire for treacle tart, but now, he has so much more.

"Nah, I don't need a prize from you," he says, his eyes tracking Malfoy's blond head. His voice drops, and he smiles. "I've already won it."


Draco cries out as his orgasm thunders through him, his back pressed against the sheets, his fingers clenching on the pillowcase and one heel digging into Potter’s bed. He’s still gasping when Potter, on his elbows and knees between Draco’s spread thighs, eases the fingers of his right hand out from Draco, while his left hand lets go of Draco’s cock.

“That was fucking amazing.” He groggily reaches down, curling his fingers in Potter’s hair — messier than usual, what with him gripping it in ecstasy during the foreplay that made him come so hard he saw stars. Potter had him floating on a cloud of pleasure for the last… ah fuck, he’s not sure, nor does he care; all he knows is the bliss of Potter turning his entire body into one erogenous zone.

Potter wipes Draco’s stomach clean with a towel. He tosses the towel aside, and then eyes Draco’s body, his gaze lingering on his prick. “I could play with you like this for the whole night, make you feel good.” 

Draco replies with a satisfied smile. He sits up, and motions for Potter to straighten to a kneeling position. “I want to make you feel good too. Preferably with your cock in me.” Draco’s cock twitches at the mouth-watering sight: Potter’s so hard that the head of his leaking cock peeks out from the waistband of his boxers. Draco eagerly tugs his boxers down, and Potter helps by kicking it off.

“Perfection,” Draco murmurs. “All of it in me, from here,” he kisses the crown of Potter’s cock, and then the base, “to here.” He peers up at Potter — at the bright green eyes burning with a fiery, single-minded focus. Potter shoves him back on the bed, and grabs the lube. Draco fumbles for a pillow and tucks it under his hips, his arse clenching at the sight of Potter lubing up his thick cock. His breathing quick and shallow, Potter climbs on top of him, and Draco’s legs fall apart in invitation, his arms winding around Potter’s neck. He bucks his hips up, making a noise of impatience as Potter lines himself up.

“Tell me when it hurts,” Potter mutters, pushing in. Desire and anticipation burns in Draco’s blood like a liquid inferno — it’s finally happening, after so many months of unbridled lust — when the head of Potter’s cock slips in easily; the reward of his patient prep. Draco rolls his hips in tiny circles in encouragement, groaning when he sinks in deeper, continuing his slow, slick slide into Draco, and oh, there it is, that tell-tale burn of his body stretching to fit Potter’s girth. He huffs out a breath, concentrating on relaxing his muscles, breathing evenly and parting his thighs more, until his feet hang off either side of the bed. 

“You’re doing so well,” Potter whispers, his words ending in a sigh as he eases in. “So good, so tight for me.” He gazes at Draco’s face, searching for any signs of discomfort. His arms are trembling with the effort of holding himself up, careful not to push harder than necessary.

“Ah, ah,” Draco gasps, his body straining to accept him and enjoy it. As Potter continues, the sharp edge of pain overwhelms the soft haze of pleasure, and despite himself, Draco is tensing, his toes curling, his arse bearing down on Potter’s cock, and his fingers gripping Potter’s wrist. His other hand touches himself, and he’s mortified to discover he’s gone soft.

“I want it,” he stutters, afraid that Potter will think otherwise, because he does, oh fuck, he does, but Potter’s so big—

“Shh, s’alright,” Potter murmurs. He pulls out, but not completely, granting him enough space to lean down and press a gentle, soothing kiss on Draco’s lips. “Feels good like this, I could just fuck half of it in you… so tight, so hot…” When the pressure eases, Draco’s body relaxes at once, and he wraps his hand impatiently around his cock, determined to get hard for Potter. 

“Half? Only half?” he croaks in disbelief.

Potter looks down, his hips jerking forward when Draco begins wanking. “Half now, but was two-thirds when it got too much.” He runs his tongue over his lips, his words slurred. “Keep going, keep touching… look so good…”

Draco does so, gratification returning as he jacks off, with Potter leaning back, his hands on Draco’s thighs, holding him open as he fucks him cautiously and carefully with controlled strokes. He’s gazing at their joined bodies, as if mindful of the extent that he can go. Draco closes his eyes and tips his head back to hide his frown. It feels good, yes, but…

Mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex is never careful, cautious, nor controlled.

And he’s not going to accept anything less than mind-blowing sex with Potter.

With each thrust, he can feel his muscles relaxing, his body adapting with each stroke paving the way for him to take it deeper, harder, more, but will it be enough?

Only one way to find out.

“Stop,” Draco says.

Potter withdraws at once, the speed of the movement telling Draco that he was expecting the command.

Well, wouldn’t he be surprised, then?

Potter noses into the crook of Draco’s neck, rutting wildly against his thigh, the rubbing of that slick cock against his skin ramping up Draco’s lust. “I’ll make you come like just now,” Potter pants into his heated skin between desperate kisses. “Just let me, I swear, please…” His fingers stroke Draco’s rim, pressing in—

“No.” Draco closes his legs.

Potter scoots backwards and plops down on the bed, his face falling. He opens his mouth, probably to apologise — such a silly, silly Gryffindor — and Draco doesn’t want to hear that, because he has absolutely nothing to apologise for — he’s been such an attentive, thoughtful lover. Draco shushes Potter and sits up, moving so that he’s face-to-face with the other man. He smooths Potter’s hair back, brushing away the sweat trailing down the sides of his face.

“Because I meant it, when I said I’m not like the other blokes,” Draco whispers, his voice as light as silk. He lays down and stretches, relishing the way Potter’s eyes indulge in a languid tour of his body. “I meant it, when I said I’m going to come only with your cock in me.” He turns over, landing on all fours, his elbows and knees pressed into the bed. He arranges himself, each movement seductive and deliberate to show off the best attributes of his body — the artful ruffle of blond hair, the wide expanse of pale skin begging to be licked and mapped, the graceful line of his spine, the tantalising arch of his lower back, ending in the two round globes of his arse.

For his efforts, he’s rewarded with a gasp from Potter, and he turns back, smiling at him in wicked delight. Transfixed, a kneeling Potter shuffles forward until his cock, hot and heavy, is resting against Draco’s crease. Hands touch Draco’s waist, trace the jut of his hipbones, squeezing greedy handfuls of his arse.

“Not half, not two-thirds. Every single inch of that big, hard, thick cock all in me, yes?” Draco says, punctuating each word with a sharp roll of his hips, rubbing said cock along his cleft. 

Potter’s hands fasten on his hips. “But I’ll hurt you.” Despite his words, he’s already pushing in, oh Salazar

“Easier like this. When it gets too much,” Draco’s words melt in a strangled cry as Potter enters faster than before, as if he can’t wait any longer. The sensation of being stretched to his limits makes his words spill out in chunks. “You’ll stop moving and… oh fuck yes… I’ll take it… take it ‘till it’s… all in.”

Potter merely grunts, continuing that intoxicating, sweet slide into him, until there’s that familiar burn, although Potter feels much deeper than before. Encouraged, Draco relaxes, arching his back more and spreading his legs wider, until the delicate balance between pleasure and pain tips more towards the latter. The second Draco tenses, Potter stops, giving him time to catch his breath, get a better grip on the sheets and wriggle around to ease the knotting of the muscles on his back and his thighs. 

“Just a bit more,” Potter murmurs. “So fucking good.” He snakes a warm, comforting hand down Draco’s spine, going lower until his fingers are around his prick, stroking it gently. Draco moans at this new sensation, biting his lower lip as he very, very slowly begins to back up on Potter’s cock, moving his hands and knees backwards bit by bit, breathing and relaxing, until, until

“Oh fuck.” Potter’s hands return to his hips, squeezing hard. “Oh fuck, Draco, I’m all in, fucking balls-deep, I’ve never, Christ, Draco, I’ve never—“ His words escalate to a choked cry.

Draco laughs weakly. “I’ve never had anyone so deep before.” The pressure is enough to render him speechless; and he has just enough presence of mind remaining to manage a single word, forced out between gritted teeth.

Move.

Potter obeys, his thrusts slow as he rocks gently into Draco, his thumbs pressing into Draco’s flesh to spread him open while he steadily fucks into him. It doesn’t take long before the pain morphs into the heady beginnings of pleasure. Every hard thrust knocks Draco’s breath out of him, and the upper half of his body flops down to the bed. He’s face-down, arse-up for Potter, just for him, only for him, moaning and groaning into Potter’s pillow. Draco grabs the headboard for support, and oh fuck, Potter’s going faster now, his hips snapping and cock pumping hard and sure in him, the headboard banging against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. When he hits that spot, starbursts of pleasure radiate deep from within Draco, exploding across his skin— 

“Harry!” Draco shouts, throwing his head back. “Right there, Harry, right fucking there!” The pillow is snatched from his grasp, and when he opens his eyes, the pillow is tossed to the side. Potter leans down, pressing his body onto Draco’s back. When he speaks, his hot breath glides across Draco’s ear, his words coming out in pants as he fucks him hard.

“Wanna hear you. Scream for me, Draco, just like that, fucking scream for me.”

Draco is only all too eager to comply, gasping out Potter’s name, filthy encouragements and wordless cries; Potter’s long and thick enough to hit his prostate every so often. No one’s ever fucked Draco like this before; hard, fast, desperate and primal, guaranteeing him such pleasure with every movement. His arms and his hips give way, and he collapses facedown onto the bed, his entire body surrendering to the sheer force of the exquisite thrill reverberating to his very core. Potter slips out, but he syncs to the change in position at once. He climbs on top, brackets his legs around Draco’s spread legs, his palms on either side of Draco’s head, and he’s sliding back into him, in a single stroke as smooth as velvet, and oh, it’s even better than before, ‘cause Potter’s slamming into him hard, hitting his prostate with every thrust, how is this possible—

Draco turns his head to the side, pressing his cheek on the sheets. “More, Harry, please,” Draco sobs. “Don’t stop, so good, so good—“

“Fuck, you demanding, sexy little shit,” Potter growls, his voice low and guttural as he picks up the punishing pace. "Look at you take it. You're made for this, made to take this big cock—"

“Yes, just for you, all for you, only for you," Draco babbles, gasping in a breath when Potter slows down to vary the speed and rhythm of his thrusts.

The mattress squeaks under them, the fabric of the sheets is rubbing against Draco’s cock, amplifying his pleasure. Potter huffs and bites the side of his neck as he fucks him like an animal, passionate and primal. His world has narrowed to the luxurious sensation of Potter’s cock ramming into him, the slick slide of sweat between their bodies, Potter’s grunts and his own cries, he’s close, oh, he’s so close—

“I’m gonna, gonna— please, don’t stop—“ Draco begs. Of course, Potter, being the contrary bastard, pulls out at once, but before Draco can form a protest in his sex-addled brain, he’s being turned over, his back pressed on the sheets, Potter moving on top of him, arranging his legs so that the backs of his knees are resting on Potter’s shoulders.

“Wanna watch you come. Your beautiful face,” he mumbles, his breath hissing between his teeth as he fucks into Draco all over again, his thrusts so hard and urgent that he bends Draco in half, the movements lifting his hips clean off the bed.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Draco wails, clinging onto Potter. His heels dig into Potter’s back, and his fingers clench into the bedsheets to ground himself in the onslaught of the sex.

“Look at you,” Potter says. “Look at you take it, come all over me, come for me, look at you,” he chants under his breath as he pounds Draco hard into the mattress. All it takes is one look at Potter: brilliant green eyes bright with lust and desire, the red-hot flush on his neck and chest, the sweat glistening on his face, those sexy as fuck shoulders, the frantic snapping of Potter’s hips, and when his cock pushes against Draco’s prostate one more time—

Draco tips his head back, eyes rolling back into his head as he shrieks Harry’s name and comes the hardest he’s ever come before, spurting it between their bodies. Potter looks down at the mess, manages a few more strokes, and then, balls-deep in Draco, he goes very still, throwing his head back and crying out Draco’s name before pulsing deep into his body. With half-lidded eyes, Draco admires the sight of a stunned Potter staring down at him with wide eyes and parted lips. He makes a small, happy sound when Potter laces their fingers together and lowers his face to sweep him into a breath-taking kiss. When Potter gently pulls out, Draco’s thoroughly fucked body goes limp.

Potter collapses beside him, their breaths slowing and heartbeats calming with every second. They stare at the ceiling, recovering from the buzzing high and the adrenaline rush of amazing sex. Potter links his fingers behind his head, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Draco is tempted to say something sarcastic, but he doesn’t have the heart to do so. Besides, he wants to remember this moment forever, Potter’s relaxed face framed in such post-coital bliss, and the beatific smile resting on the gorgeous curve of his lips. Potter turns his head, directing his sunny beam to Draco and reaching towards him to hold his hand.

Draco practically melts into the bed. 

After some time, he squirms at the mess between his legs and declares, “I need a shower.” He sits up gingerly, wincing at the twinge in his lower back.

“Need a hand?” Potter asks eagerly.

“I won’t say no to that, since you got me into this mess in the first place.”

They head into Potter’s bathroom, taking a lot longer than expected due to Potter’s tendency to snog Draco senseless in between gropes and washes. Eventually, they make it out of the shower, both of them dressed in their underwear. Draco waits while Potter tidies the bed; plumping up the pillows, cleaning and straightening the sheets — Draco blushes when he realises he’d tugged free a corner of the bedsheets off the bed during sex. He scans the scattered items on the bedside dresser with a disinterested eye, but frowns when he spots a familiar napkin with scribbles on it. He picks it up, his curiosity growing when he sees his name.

“C’mon, Malfoy— hey!”

Draco blinks when Potter snatches the napkin and lobs it to the other side of the bed. “What’s that?”

“Nothing. Come to bed.” Potter flips the duvet open invitingly and slides into bed, giving Draco his best come-hither look.

“I want to look at it. I saw my name.” Draco lunges across the bed, but Potter springs forward, wrapping his arms around his bum to pull him back.

“No, you won’t!” he grunts. Draco struggles in his grip, his fingers scrabbling on the edge of the bed. An idea strikes him, and he fakes a cry of pain. “Ow, my arse, you inelegant buffoon!”

Potter’s hold slackens at once. “I should’ve been gentler with you,” he says in a small voice, and if Draco was a better person, he would’ve taken Potter in his arms and comforted him.

But he’s not, so Draco takes advantage of the chance and stretches to grab the napkin. He waves it in the air with glee. Potter sighs in resignation and leans back on the pillows, crossing his arms grumpily.

Draco wrinkles his nose at the dried ketchup and coffee stains on the napkin. "The Potter-Weasley fight for treacle tart: unfairly held hostage by one Draco Malfoy, also known as pointy ferrety git," he recites blandly. Potter flushes with embarrassment. "And they say Slytherins are the overdramatic ones.”

"I was er... upset," Potter offers as an explanation.

It’s not difficult to figure out; it appears to be a record of Weasley and Potter’s attempts to win treacle tart from him. Draco laughs at the words (he assumes it’s Weasley’s) — "Shagged Malfoy in the canteen, you slag" at the finishing line, where Potter declared himself the winner by sketching a rough doodle of two stick figures. One figure has a lightning-bolt scar and spiky hair shaded black with ink, its arms raised in triumph and standing on a pile of treacle tarts, while the other figure is freckled and scowling.

“I’m glad I got a lot more than treacle tart out of this,” Potter says, plucking the napkin from Draco’s hands and putting it away. He turns out the lights, and they settle into bed.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.”

“Goodnight, Potter.”

A pause, full of expectation.

“C’mere, you git,” Potter whispers, and Draco wriggles closer. He shifts an arm up for Draco to tuck his head near his chest, and they link their hands together.

Draco asks, “It’s going well, isn’t it?” He wets his lips, wary of the answer. “Us?”

“Yeah. It’s good. Really, really good,” comes the reply, and he can almost hear the smile in Potter’s voice.

Draco is so damn happy he feels like he could fire off a hundred Patronuses. He untangles their hands, wrapping an arm around Potter’s waist. He snuggles into Potter, who sighs dreamily and holds him closer. It’s not long before Potter drops off to sleep, his breathing evening out.

He’s in Potter’s bed, cuddling after sex.

Fuck, if this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Draco smiles, a wide, dopey grin spreading across his face as he stares at Potter.   

I like you as much as you like treacle tart.

And that’s saying something, isn’t it?


/fin