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Licking a Path to You

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Draco braced himself against the wall, digging his fingers against unyielding plaster, listing all the names of his forefathers in alphabetical order to avoid coming on the spot.

Potter knelt in the space between Draco and the wall, a dangerous glint in his emerald eyes.

Draco looked down, holding Potter’s hungry gaze. He knew what it meant when Potter arched an eyebrow while biting his bottom lip.

Looking back on it, that was the reason Draco had hit on that guy earlier that night. He and Potter were at a pub with the usual gang —Ron, Pansy, Hermione, Luna— when a brown-haired bloke offered Draco a pint. Draco had glanced back quickly at Potter —who looked positively murderous— and smirked.

It didn’t take long. Draco accepted the pint and headed over to the dance floor with the bloke. He didn’t even remember the stranger’s name, or even the colour of his eyes, for that matter. Draco had kept his gaze fixed on Potter— on how Potter’s jaw clenched from anger, on the way his tongue had darted out to lick his probably rage-dried lips, on the almost-white knuckles of fingers curled around a glass of whiskey.

It was all a show, an anticipatory show to finally get to see this look. To finally get Potter on his knees, furious, fired-up, ready.

“You like to live dangerously, don’t you, Malfoy?” Potter talked slowly, his hot breath ghosting over Draco’s aching erection, which was throbbing towards Potter’s lips, so close yet so far.

“Shut your mouth,” Draco all but growled. “And suck my cock. You like it more than I do.”

Potter smirked, his teeth showing. It shouldn’t look so appealing but for Draco, it sparked his arousal.

And there it was. The moment Draco was waiting for the entire night. That little detail he had come to know about Potter and couldn’t help but chase every time they were in each other’s presence.

Potter lowered his gaze, staring at Draco’s cock with half-lidded eyes, his tongue swiping out to lick his lips and then the glistening tip of Draco’s cock. The appearance of Potter’s tongue had Draco exhaling loudly, anticipation prickling over his body.

Potter smiled, his tongue delicately collecting the pre-come gathered on the tip of Draco’s cock before slowly circling the foreskin.

So. Fucking. Slowly.

The first time they did this Draco had thought it was a game, that Potter only wanted to tease. How very wrong he was. Soon enough, he discovered Potter liked licking every inch of Draco with the devotion of a cat lapping every drop of cream from a bowl. Potter acted like he could never get enough, and Draco was more than happy to be the object of such admiration.

Resisting the impulse to simply shove his cock past Potter’s lips and down Potter’s throat always proved to be one of the hardest tasks in Draco’s life —even harder than sitting patiently through a crowded table of Malfoys asking him when he was going to produce an heir— but it was worth it. Every time.

Potter’s tongue slid further down Draco’s shaft, pressing lightly against the swollen vein that ran the length of it. Fuck, Draco could already feel his legs trembling from Potter’s ministrations and breathy moans against Draco’s cock.

With a groan, Potter pushed his tongue down to Draco’s balls, dragging it over each one, closing his mouth to suck them in.

Draco felt the warmth of Potter’s mouth engulfing him and he wasn’t able to hold back the needy moan that escaped his lips. He leaned his forehead on the wall, closing his eyes, forcing his hips to stay still. Just a little bit longer.

With a small pop, Potter released Draco’s balls, licking his way up Draco’s cock once more, this time lapping more insistently, not leaving one single inch of it dry. When he reached the tip, he stopped, then licked it with the flat of his tongue, covering it all. He curled the tip of his tongue to press it over Draco’s slit, licking away every drop of pre-come, capturing each pearly bead and swallowing it down as if it were the finest nectar in the world.

“Fuck, Malfoy, you taste so bloody good,” Potter said, lips brushing Draco’s now-sensitive head, sending jolts of pleasure throughout Draco’s body. Draco opened his eyes, directing his gaze downward, only to find Potter looking up at him, his hand palming his still-clothed cock, desperation darkening his eyes like a storm reflecting on the ocean.

He smirked and sucked the tip of Draco’s cock back into his mouth, groaning around it as he reached his hands around Draco’s legs to cup Draco’s arse.

“Fuck, yes.” Draco hated how close to coming he already was, how desperate he sounded, how badly he needed Potter on his knees and worshipping his cock. But then Potter swallowed his entire length, his cheeks hollowed and it was enough to make Draco forget all about his pride.

He pushed his cock just a fraction more into Potter’s mouth, grazing the back of his throat, making him gag. He’d be worried if this was the first time they were doing this, but by now Draco knew for a fact that Potter loved having Draco’s cock throat-deep in his mouth just as much as he did bollocks-deep in his arse.

Potter grasped Draco’s thighs tightly and pushed them back, opening his mouth to swirl his tongue around Draco’s cockhead, repeating the movement once, twice.

On the third time he added his teeth; it was only a graze, quickly followed by his soothing tongue as he mercilessly lapped around Draco’s cock.

“Fuck, more Potter, more, I need—” Draco’s hips bucked forward, making his cock bump against Potter’s cheek. Potter’s tongue darted out again to lick down his shaft. “Please, for all the magic in this world, suck—”

With a snort, Potter finally took Draco in his mouth again. He worked his throat around Draco’s cock, bobbing his head up and down.

“Yes, fuck, yes, don’t you dare stop,” Draco whispered. He felt his strength give way as his knees buckled under the power of the orgasm that ripped out of him in waves and waves of come down Potter’s throat. Potter’s tongue was firmly pressed against Draco’s foreskin, making sure not a single drop leaked out.

Their eyes met, Draco’s mind going blank as he registered Potter’s blissful expression. Sometimes, Draco wondered if he really ejaculated cream.

With a deep moan, Potter released Draco’s cock and leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes.

“Mmh,” he murmured, sounding satisfied. “God, Malfoy, I’d lick your spunk any hour of the day.”

Draco smiled, feeling stupid the second after he did so. Post-orgasm Draco was dangerously soft and cuddly.

He slid down the wall next to Potter, feeling drained of all energy. “I’m not gonna stop you,” Draco said, voice rasping, his eyes falling closed.

Potter clicked his tongue, looking annoyed. “You know, you gotta stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” Draco knew perfectly well what Potter was referring to. He smirked internally, hoping to play innocent well enough.

“You think you can fool me?” Potter’s voice was half-amused, half-nervous, which had Draco opening his eyes to look at him. Potter’s head was resting against the wall, his gaze drawn somewhere towards the bed. He clicked his tongue again and continued. “You flirt with other guys to get me angry and possessive and out of control.”

Draco snorted, a light puff of air which dragged Potter’s attention. Potter snapped his head to him and Draco smiled. “I know you like it, Harry Potter.”

Potter smiled back, understanding passing between them. It felt intimate, close. Too close. Draco shook his head, inhaling slowly. They were only fuck-buddies; no need to read meaning into a simple smile, little confessions like these.

It was all about sex. It wasn’t jealousy.

“I have to go.” Draco got up from the floor, straightened his clothes, readying to go home.

“Hey!” Potter protested, still sitting on the floor. “Don’t I even get a little fuck?” He raised an eyebrow, firmly grasping his hard-on. “I’m already prepared, you know.”

“Arrogant git,” Draco muttered, his spent cock giving a throb at Potter’s words. His mind reeled with images of Potter fucking himself with his fingers in a pub’s loo, thinking about what he’d get after.


“Sorry, but I really can’t. I have to work early tomorrow.” Draco knew he was being a complete jerk. But he needed to be out of Potter’s apartment before he gave any more meaning to Potter’s smiles, or the way he’d licked Draco’s cock as if he’d die not doing it.

Draco turned and grabbed the handle of the door, lingering only a second before opening it and exiting without turning back.

Draco liked his life. It wasn’t what his father had envisioned for him, but Draco was perfectly fine with it.

He understood very soon that the “marriage with a pureblood girl and three-kids-life” wasn’t what he wanted— no matter how strong his desire to satisfy his father’s wishes. Draco was gay and he had always known.

Back in school his friends would talk about weddings with the perfect pureblood girls, kids, and a castle-like house with a big garden. Draco would listen to them, knowing he should say something along similar lines, but only able to think that he really wished he didn’t have to marry a girl. Girls were gross. If he had to choose between Blaise and Pansy, he would have chosen Blaise a thousand times.

Apparently, that didn’t work well for the only male heir of the Malfoy dynasty. Two wars later and several years in Azkaban can change a man, however, and now Lucius wasn’t too fussed by whom Draco slept with.

A drop of rain fell onto Draco’s nose as his thoughts unravelled. He cursed and sped up his steps. He needed to hurry if he didn’t want to arrive late to his appointment with Pansy at Sweet Prophecies.

This is one of the constants in Draco’s life. After years of uncertainty, lies, and fights to accept his very nature, Draco discovered routines helped him stay sane. They were little things: the same song played every night before going to sleep (Bohemian Rhapsody, of course); reading every day; breakfast with his mother every Sunday morning; eating at Sweet Prophecies at least once a week (preferably a couple of times, or three. Four. Damn, Draco would go there every day of his life if he could).

Opening the door of the restaurant, Draco stepped inside, a puddle of water already forming at his feet. The waitress, Sarah, laughed, shaking her head. Everyone here knew him by now.

“Why do you always forget to cast an umbrella charm?” Sarah asked. She pointed her wand to the floor, evaporating the rain Draco had brought inside. “I’ll take you to Pansy’s table; she’s already here.”

“Thanks, Sarah. You know me.” Draco smiled as Sarah rolled her eyes and cast a quick drying charm on his coat. She hung it on the hangers in the hall and he moved to follow her. The multitude of food aromas he had come to know so well wafted into his nostrils, making his mouth water.

He loved this place.

When Pansy saw him she narrowed her eyes, not even waiting for him to sit before a reprimand formed on her lips.

“Late and wet like a duckling. Why am I not surprised?”

Draco snorted, finally sitting. His hands reached for the menu even though it was only a habit. He already knew it by heart.

“I ordered a bottle of Chianti, I hope that’s fine. And some appetisers, your favourites.”

Draco felt his heart thud against his ribcage. “The fried nuggets of salmon and balls of Cheddar? Salazar, fuck me.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, her mouth twisting into a too self-satisfied smirk. “I thought Potter had that covered already.”

Draco felt his cheeks aflame, his eyes going wide as saucers. He didn’t have the time to form a coherent reply before the waitress arrived, bringing the bottle of wine, pouring it into their glasses. Draco sighed, welcoming the momentary distraction. He took a sip, trying —unsuccessfully, judging by the light fits of laughter of both Pansy and Sarah— to bite back a moan.

The wine tasted like Draco imagined heaven to taste. He nodded shyly to the waitress who walked away, still smiling.

“Pansy!” He whispered a moment later. “First of all, shush, do you want all the restaurant and so the entire wizarding world to know? Second, I’d like to remind you that it’s me fucking him.”

Pansy snickered, cocking her head to the side. “Ah, to be young and have secrets… and being in love!”

Draco kicked her under the table. She should stop saying such rubbish, honestly. Love, ugh.

Sarah arrived at that moment, bringing the appetisers with an extra serving of garlic bread and tomatoes. “The chef sends them, for his number one fan with his compliments” She winked, then laid the dishes on the table and left.

“Mmmh,” Draco murmured, inhaling deeply. “Can you smell the scent of freshly cut tomatoes mingled with garlic and basil? This—” He gestured with a hand around the restaurant, finally pointing to the dishes on their table. Pansy rolled her eyes. “This is the only love I have, Pansy. Food. Well, bloody perfectly prepared food.”

“You’re such a drama queen. I ask myself every day why I’m still friends with you.” Pansy shook her head and took one slice of garlic bread, taking a small bite. Draco smiled, remembering the first time they’d come here and Pansy’s disgusted face.

“It’s because of my charming personality. You can’t resist it.” Draco also brought a slice to his mouth, taking a moment to inhale the scent before taking a bite, closing his eyes. Pansy snorted, whispering, “See? Drama queen.”

Draco opened his eyes, mouth stuffed with scrumptious tomatoes which exploded in his mouth, sending delicious drops of juice all over his tongue. Dear Lord, Draco wondered if it was possible to come only from taste stimulation.

“Stop it, Draco, it looks like you’re going to come at any moment. Honestly, you’re revolting.”

“You agree with me, though. The fucking best restaurant in all of London.” Draco took another bite, smirking. “Despite hating it the first time we came here.”

Pansy smiled too, trying to hide it behind her bread. “It’s my job. I run a magazine and personally write the food critique section. I need to be sceptical when I set foot in a new place. I want to give objective information to my readers. And you have to agree with me, the first time we entered here, it looked like a giant Chinese dragon just vomited an ocean of confetti around it.”

Draco almost choked on his mouthful at the image, his eyes quickly filling up with tears as they darted around the restaurant. It was the perfect metaphor. Every wall was of a different colour, flowers everywhere— hanging from the ceiling, the walls, off the tables, on the floor. Small bottles floated around the guests, holding all kinds of spices, both Muggle and Wizarding, ready to be used at any moment: oil, salt, pepper, special sauces with avocado, or something called fennel, curry.

“I’ll admit the first time can be overwhelming. But once you taste the food…” Draco trailed off, kissing his fingers in a top quality gesture. Pansy laughed, serving herself some of the salmon nuggets.

“Yes, yes. It is top quality. You’re clearly obsessed, though.”

Draco grinned, taking a sip of the wine. What did Pansy call it? “Ronald would agree with me.”

“Ronald is an animal.”

“One you’d really like to ride.” Draco raised an eyebrow from behind his large glass of wine, feeling the alcohol add to his already inebriated senses.

Draco marvelled in the magenta shade Pansy’s cheeks gained, happy to pay back some of the embarrassment she always liked to use with his Potter situation.

“Shut up,” she hissed. “Shut the fuck up. I should have never told you about my dream.”

The rest of their meal proceeded smoothly, with laughter and conversation, gossip about the latest pureblood marriages, their former classmates’ lives, all accompanied by the finest spaghetti Bolognese Draco ever had and sea bream fillets which made Draco’s toes curl in his Gucci shoes.

That was one of his favourite things about Sweet Prophecies: it easily accounted for everyone’s tastes because it provided dishes from practically every country of the world, of every culture, with all kinds of ingredients. Draco hummed, lost in pleasure, when a thought occurred to him.

“Pansy, dear, you didn’t update me on your polls!”

“Are you telling me you don’t read my magazine?” Her tone was light and amused, but Draco knew it was a way to contain her disappointment.

“Sorry, love. I always read it, but I must have missed the last one,” Draco said, trying to sound convincing. He loved Pansy, he really did, but he couldn’t care less about reading articles concerning the latest laws and arguments held at the Ministry of Magic. He only cared about one section of Pansy’s magazine, and he could easily get information about it when seeing her. If he were careful. Which this wine wasn’t helping him with. “What wine was this again?”

“Chianti. It’s Italian, pretty strong, but I love it. It ruins the sea bream’s taste slightly, but it’s worth it. You should have it with Potter; he’d enjoy seeing you this pissed.” She smirked, fishing out from her purse a piece of paper. It was a torn page from her magazine, Draco realised.

“Here are the polls. Honestly, this isn’t bringing us anywhere near a solution!”

Draco took the offered page. Chianti. He should remember it. “You know Potter and I are only fuck-buddies. We’re not dating. There’s no eating together in a restaurant, no walks hand-in-hand down Diagon Alley, no breakfasts or brunches. Rien de rien.” Before Pansy could reply, he continued, eyes glued to the article.

“Fifty percent of the people think the chef could be African, forty-six percent think they might be Asian…” Draco quickly scanned the results of the poll. Pansy was right. He tossed it onto the table, scowling.

“These are completely useless. If we want to discover their identity, we need to concentrate on different details.”

Pansy nodded, scrunching up the torn page and Vanishing it. “I agree. People keep sending me notes on who they think the chef might be, but there doesn’t seem to be a consensus or a link. And I still don’t understand why someone would hide their identity when they’re clearly well-liked and talented.”

Draco sighed. He didn’t have the answer to that question: if people liked him even half the amount they seemed to love the chef behind Sweet Prophecies, he’d never hide his identity. Plus, the wine was completely messing with his thinking abilities— that, or a giant pink elephant had just started flying around the room without anyone else noticing.

“I think my time has come.” Draco got up, amazed at his ability to stand up without falling or swaying. Pansy followed, muttering something that sounded like, “You really can’t hold your liquor, Draco.”

Draco beamed at the cashier as he went to pay. “Jerome—”

“Not happening, mate,” Jerome said. “I’m not telling you who the chef is. Besides, I don’t know either.”

Draco shook his head. Jerome didn’t understand; this was a matter of life and death. “Jerome, listen. This is serious. This chef, they don’t know it yet but we’re meant to be. We’ll marry and have kids and live happily ever after. I know it, but I can’t fulfil our destiny if you don’t help me out.”

Jerome laughed, exchanging a glance with Pansy, his eyes crinkling. “Mate, drop it. If it’s destiny, you’ll eventually meet, right?”

Draco exhaled deeply, handing Jerome his credit card.

Destiny. It never worked well for him.

It was a week before Draco saw Potter again. He knew he hadn’t behaved particularly well— after the last time, Draco never reached out to him and Potter hadn’t written anything either. Technically, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. They weren’t boyfriends; it wasn’t like they had to be there for one another.

Still, Draco couldn’t help but wonder. Did Potter spend his time with someone else this week? Was he offended? Angry? Did he not want to see Draco anymore?

Shit. Draco drew in a shaky breath, trying to calm down.

Their one rule in this whole arrangement was that they would come clean with one another if someone started having feelings. They had both burst out laughing when they settled on this rule, knowing it wasn’t a risk.

Now, after an entire week, Potter was approaching their table at the pub. Draco felt his throat dry up, his vocal cords tighten painfully and his heart plummeted to his stomach, making him nauseous. Of course, though he’d been the one who suggested they take their relationship casually, he was the one who ended up getting sick.


Potter sat down next to Draco, smiling as if it was nothing. As if they really were only mates, hanging out on a Friday night with their friends, sharing small talk about their daily lives. Every now and then, Potter would squeeze Draco’s knee under the table or brush against Draco’s hand, white-knuckled and tightly wrapped around his pint, and Draco would hate his life. So. Damn. Much.

After an hour, every nerve of Draco’s body was on fire, and he was ready to jump at the slightest contact or question. Pansy shot him a perplexed glance, which Draco tried to brush away with a shake of his head.

“So, Pansy, how’s your witch-hunt going? Did you find out who the mysterious chef of Sweet Prophecies is?” Ron was sitting right next to her, his adoring blue eyes fixed on her lips. How Pansy could be so fucking oblivious to Ron’s attentions, Draco had no idea. It was clear to everyone else but the two of them, apparently.

Pansy flushed, clearing her throat. “Still no clue. It’s fun because I swear I receive messages and guesses from all of London, every day. It’s become a bit like a national hunt, and I absolutely can’t understand how someone can hide so well.”

Potter hummed next to Draco, leaning in to whisper into Draco’s ear. “You still want to marry them if you find them?”

Potter’s tone was coloured by a deep growl, the one he had whenever Draco flirted with someone else. His hot breath fanned against the shell of Draco’s ear, sending shivers down Draco’s spine, and he had to close his eyes against the sheer want that flooded him. Fuck, one week without sex —actually, one week without sex with Potter— was too long. Definitely too long.

Draco reminded himself that Potter wasn’t jealous. That this was only a game.

“Of course. They’re my soulmate; I can tell.” Draco opened his eyes again, just in time to see Potter’s tongue darting out to lick his own lips and then the brim of his glass.

It was gross. It was horrific. Or, at least, it should be.

So why did Draco find it so fucking endearing? Potter licked everything, for fuck’s sake. Draco first noticed it at Hogwarts and it looked like Potter never lost the habit. Whenever he had something in his hands, Potter licked it, as if to taste it, to discover if he liked it. It was incredibly unsanitary and unhygienic, and Draco totally hated it, it was the grossest thing he’d ever seen. Except, he completely lost it every time he caught Potter doing it.

Potter’s hand came to rest on the small of Draco’s back, hot and steady against his shirt.

“What if the two of you meet,” he asked, voice rasping, “and you don’t like them? Or they don’t like you? Or…” Potter leaned in even more closely, personal space be damned. They were in public, for Merlin’s sake.

Draco risked a peek around the table. The others looked enthralled enough with their own conversation to ignore them.

Potter went on. “What if they’re a woman?”

Draco couldn’t hold back the inelegant snort that escaped. Potter really liked to take their games far, didn’t he? Draco cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to hide the discomfort in his voice. “Then I’ll sacrifice a life of sex for a life full of magnificent food. I’m sorry, but that’s the most important thing.”

Draco could feel Potter’s smirk against his ear. “Is it? I see.” He yanked his hand off Draco’s back, then pushed his chair backwards. He stood, smiling politely. Frankly, it was a bit frightening.

“I need to go back home. I have a horrible headache. I’ll see you soon.”

As everyone waved their goodbyes, Hermione called Potter over to tell him something private. As Potter bent down to listen to whatever Hermione was telling him, he glanced at Draco, smirking. Potter slid his tongue over his upper lip in a clear invitation to Draco.

So, Potter wasn’t angry. He was just playing, as always.

Draco didn’t know whether he was relieved or not, but his cock swelled at the sight, screaming for him to just fuck Potter, it had been too long. He put aside every thought, let his cock guide him. As Potter walked toward the door, Draco’s eyes never left his arse until he was gone.

“Err, I—” Draco got up from his chair, feeling all their friends’ eyes on him. He knew he was blushing like a first-year during the Sorting, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t have any excuse to go this quickly right after Potter.

“Well, I’ll be going. See you.” Everyone shot him knowing looks, or amused ones in the case of Pansy and Ron, and told him goodbye, their sweet voices and fake hearts flying around him. Draco shook his head and sped out of the pub, hoping to find Potter still waiting for him.

As soon as he stepped outside the pub, Draco had to brace himself against the wall in his disappointment. Potter wasn’t there. Draco must have misread the hints; Potter was likely still pissed at him. And he had a right to be, really. Draco had been so stupid.

A chilling breeze made the hairs at his nape stand up on end. Draco hated winter, he always got a cold and never felt warm enough when going out. He probably should head home.

Draco thought about Apparating, but then the possibility of Splinching himself wasn’t appealing. Even only a pint of beer was enough to tip Draco over the edge. He turned right and started walking, the frozen leaves on the streets cracking audibly under his shoes.

He considered going to Potter at Grimmauld Place, but he had no idea what to say. ‘Hi, I’ve been an idiot, please let me fuck you?’ didn’t sound like a good punch line. Or maybe he’d get a punch, right on the nose. Or the gut.

Nope. With a dejected sigh, Draco sped up his steps, dreaming of his warm bed and a hot tea.

What he hadn’t expected to see when he stepped through the door of his flat was Harry Potter perched on his sofa with a blanket draped over him and a book on his lap. Potter lifted his head and beamed— actually beamed at Draco. Fuck, it did things to Draco. Things he didn’t want to think about.

“Took you long enough,” Potter said. His voice was thick as if he was simply resting on Draco’s sofa and felt at peace with the whole world.

“I thought you’d be mad at me,” Draco said carefully, levitating his coat and shoes toward his wardrobe. He padded towards the sofa, sitting next to Potter.

“I was,” Potter admitted, raising an eyebrow. “You did leave me without a single word, or your cock for that matter, for an entire week.”

Draco looked at him, not knowing what to say. But when Potter didn’t say anything else, he swallowed and asked, “But?”

“But I decided I don’t care. You do it, sometimes. Disappear...take your time. Are you okay now?”

You do it, sometimes. As if Potter knew him. As if they shared more than just fucking.

Draco felt his heart thrum against his ribcage. It hurt.

“We only fuck, Potter. I don’t need your psychoanalysis when we see each other.”

“Hmm,” Potter mumbled, eyes glinting. “So, this is the moment where you ask me if I want something to drink, I refuse politely, and then we go to your bedroom and fuck each other senseless?”

Draco chuckled, his cock twitching at Potter’s words. He raised an eyebrow and Potter leaned in, whispering against Draco’s neck, “If so, can we skip the first part and go directly to the fucking?”

As the words slithered over Draco’s sensitive skin, Potter was already unbuttoning his shirt, his tongue dragging slowly over Draco’s ear, nibbling at the lobe and then down, right under his jaw where Potter knew he could draw Draco’s scandalous mewls, rendering Draco slack in his arms.

Draco decided to completely ignore the treacherous voice in his mind that suggested he’d missed this, he’d missed him. No, having a fuck-buddy was simply too perfect. Draco always loved a good shag, which Potter was.

Without too much preamble, Draco pushed Potter down on the sofa. He raked his hands under Potter’s t-shirt, touching his bare chest and stomach while grazing his teeth over Potter’s jutting collarbone. Right when Potter lifted his hips to rut against Draco, Draco grabbed them and turned Potter around, until his face was pressed up against the cushion.

It wasn’t gentle or slow or kind. Draco shoved Potter’s jeans and pants down, tucking them just below the knees, not even bothering to undress him fully. Potter kept squirming and writhing under Draco, begging to ‘hurry up’ and ‘just shove it in’ or he’d ‘do it alone’. Draco took one moment to admire Potter’s round arse cheeks before roughly spreading them, muttering the preparation spells. They both preferred to take their time, to stretch Potter’s hole with Draco’s fingers and mouth, but tonight Draco wasn’t one for patience.

He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down just enough to make his cock jut out, already hard and slick with pre-come. He aligned it with Potter’s hole, moaning at the sight of the pink furled skin fluttering around his cockhead, invitingly so.

Potter turned around, glancing at Draco through half-lidded eyes, the green almost gone, replaced by the deep black of his pupils. “So eager, Malfoy, and now stalling?”

Draco grabbed a fistful of Potter’s hair, pulled his head back, making him groan. “Shut up,” he all but hissed. In one smooth thrust, he was fully seated in Potter’s arse, its warmth engulfing him as his grip on Potter’s hair tightened. Draco fucked him hard with sharp snaps of his hips, mumbling, “so tight”, and “fuck, hot”, over and over, as Potter started moving his arse in time with him.

They came together, in a synced chant of “god, Malfoy,” and “oh! P-Potter, fuck!” Draco almost forgot but in a swift motion, he dropped his hand to Potter’s cock, clamping down hard around its head, collecting the spunk in his fist as Potter fucked into it.

Still high on endorphins, Draco turned Potter around to face him. Fuck, Potter looked beautiful. His hair was sticking out in all directions, his lips plump and shiny as if he’d bitten down hard on them, green eyes glossy with a hint of something unreadable that unsettled Draco.

Potter’s cheeks tinged a deep red as he looked at Draco’s hand smeared with come. His tongue darted out to lick slowly around his lips, an automatic, anticipatory gesture. The first time Potter had asked Draco if he could do it, Draco was confused and a bit disgusted. Not that he was too picky— honestly, he’d always swallowed Potter’s spunk when blowing him, but… licking it away?

And yet, after he’d seen Potter’s dedication to the task —how Potter moaned and licked Draco’s spunk until the last drop— Draco knew he could never do without it again. Snapping out of his memories, Draco extended his hand to Potter who promptly lifted his head and met Draco half-way, slipping out his tongue and licking Draco’s fingers in earnest. It should have surprised Draco how Potter’s tongue felt smooth against his fingers, so delicate compared to the rough sucking of his mouth, but it only made sense; Potter licked and sucked Draco’s fingers in the same manner as he did with his cock

It was fascinating. Draco could watch him do it forever and never get bored. By the time Potter finished licking, sucking and nibbling Draco’s hand, Draco’s cock was hard and leaking again, his breaths shallow and quick. Potter glanced at Draco’s renewed erection, his lips twitching.

“Someone’s eager,” he declared, slumping down against the sofa. “Although I’m afraid I’m too sore to go at it again.”

Draco settled back on his heels, huffing loudly. “I’d never come again anyway, at least not so quickly.” He looked down at Potter’s stretched form, the way his eyes were almost closed, his mouth swollen and relaxed in a half-smile. Draco bit down hard on his bottom lip, forcing himself not to lay down next to Potter. Definitely not to lay down and spoon him, wrapping an arm around Potter’s waist and pulling him close.

Draco didn’t want those things. Not at all.

“That was brilliant,” Potter said, voice husky. He opened his eyes, fixing Draco with a smile Draco had no idea how to deal with. Trying desperately to find something to distract himself with, Draco readjusted his trousers, fastening them again before sitting upright on the sofa, and rested his head against the back.

After a minute Potter sat up too, straightening his clothes. He sighed, yawning widely.

“Hand over your mouth, Potter. I swear you’re such a plebe sometimes.”

Potter looked over at Draco, shaking his head, his eyes glinting with… fondness?

Surely not. More likely annoyance at Draco’s words.

“Sorry to break it to you, Malfoy, but I am a plebe, so yes, you’re fucking one.” He collected his coat from the back of the armchair and put it on.

Right. It was in their rules. Never spend the night together.

Draco gasped and put a hand on his chest, trying to sound outraged. “And here I was, thinking I was fucking with the Saviour of us all!”

A pillow flew into his face as Potter’s laughter — delightful, full, warm laughter— filled the room.

Doomed. Draco was so doomed.

“I’ll go. If you don’t hear from me in the next six days it’s because I’ll be away for work. I’ve decided I need to find motivation elsewhere.” Potter sighed dramatically, his eyes closing as if already imagining the next few days.

“Work. I’m amazed at how you define ‘work’. You’ll just be on holiday.”

Potter stuck out his tongue, waving a hand and muttering “bye!” before closing the door behind him.

Draco sat on the sofa, staring at the door for a full minute before scoffing. He was not going to miss Potter. Not again.

The morning after repeated itself like every other morning in Draco’s life. He woke, didn’t think about Potter, showered, definitely didn’t wank while picturing Potter’s arse, had breakfast, absolutely didn’t picture the way Potter licked his bacon and eggs before eating them, and finally dressed without thinking about the way Potter’s arse fit perfectly into his tight, black jeans.

Fucked. Draco was completely and utterly, fucked. It was only eight in the morning and he was already tired from all the thoughts and images of Potter that kept sweeping through his mind.

With a last thought about the way Potter’s face had looked at peace and relaxed on his sofa the night before, Draco stepped into his fireplace, a pinch of Floo powder between his fingers. He hoped it would be a busy day at work.


Draco spent the entire, exhausting morning staring at the door of his office, wishing he could implant one of those televisions Potter was so fond of to distract himself.

Join the Unspeakables, they had said. They’re respected, they’re brilliant. You’ll like it, they’d said. Every day is a new adventure.

Every day sucked if you asked Draco. Well, perhaps that wasn’t completely true. Draco loved his super-secret work, loved that he could deflect boring questions like “how’s work going?” with a simple “I can’t talk about it”, and he hated to admit it to himself, but he loved working with Unspeakable HG (yes, Hermione to the non-Unspeakable world). She was clever and brilliant and baked the best coconut biscuits.

That day, though, something went pear-shaped they said. The entire Ministry was blocked as they tried to fix it. Perhaps it was a weather charm problem? The lifts? Or maybe it was a leak from the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes— they had all sorts of weird artefacts and people up there.

Surely, it wasn’t like Draco had been too distracted by Potter to understand what happened. He hadn’t been thinking about the way Potter’s back felt against his chest, hot and slick as Draco fucked him into the sofa. Draco’s cock stretched in his uniform and he narrowed his eyes at the door as if daring it to contradict him.

The door burst open and Draco jumped out of his chair, crying, “I wasn’t thinking about him!”

Ron’s eyebrows lifted as he chuckled, a hand still resting on the handle of the door. “You weren’t thinking about whom?”

“Err,” Draco said, feeling his cheeks heat up. “Nothing. I, um... what are you doing here?”

Ron blushed, his cheeks matching his fiery hair and the scarlet of his Auror uniform. “Well, I… I wanted to ask you if you’d like to have lunch with me?”

Draco’s eyes widened abnormally before a thought occurred to him. He quickly regained his composure, raising an eyebrow at Ron. “I didn’t know I was your type, Weasley.”

Ron rolled his eyes, his lips twitching. “You’re seriously damaged, Malfoy, if you think I’d ever willingly think of you as a possible partner—”

“Wow, that was a long way to go just to tell me off.”

“—However,” Ron went on, his grin now wide, amusement evident in his tone. “That’s not the reason I asked. I… needed to talk to you. About… something.”

Pansy. Draco cocked his head, taking a deep breath for dramatic effect. If there was something he loved about Gryffindors, it was how transparent their emotions were.

“Sure, let’s go. I know just the place.” Draco got up, taking his cloak from the coat stand next to his desk and walking past Ron. “You’re paying.”


Ron was laughing while murdering his steak. It was atrocious. Draco had no other words to describe it. Every time Ron was around food it looked like a blood bath was happening on his plate.

Draco, however, didn’t mind Ron’s company when they went out together. Ron was the only one who shared Draco’s love of good food and strong wine. With horror, Draco wondered what that told about him, that he found so many Gryffindors enjoyable to be around.

“I should have known you’d bring me to Sweet Prophecies. You’ve got an obsession, mate.”

Draco hummed, looking at the zero-gravity spaghetti hanging from his plate. He loved how simple Sweet Prophecies felt, even though there were some weird and delicious dishes on the menu. “You agree this is the best restaurant in London, though.”

Ron lifted his eyes. “It really is,” he sputtered, hand reaching for his glass of wine.

Draco beamed, happy they had that settled. As he took another forkful of cous-cous, Draco narrowed his eyes at Ron. He was definitely taking too long to swallow his wine and Draco didn’t really want Ron’s stuttering love words for Pansy to spoil his dessert. Draco cleared his throat, waving a hand towards him. “Spill the beans, Ron.”

Ron put down his glass. “Err, you know, Harry always talks about you and I couldn’t understand what he sees in you, but you’re actually okay,” he said before glancing somewhere past Draco’s right shoulder.

Draco’s heart stopped more or less at “Harry”, his mind running once again in various pleasurable, yet wrong, directions. He had to blink several times to remind himself how breathing worked.

“Potter talks about me?”

Ron raised an eyebrow, shrugging. “Yeah, I mean, since you’ve become friends, he’s—”

Friends, right. Yes. Of course. Friends, we’re like best friends now. Haha.”

Draco’s voice was strained, nearly hysterical, and he wondered for a second if being surrounded by so many Gryffindors all the time was starting to affect him. Then he remembered that time when he was twelve years old, and his father asked him if he had finally beaten Potter at Quidditch. Draco had choked on air, grasped the edge of the table and blurted, “Yes! No! I don’t know, don’t kill me!”

Maybe it wasn’t Gryffindors’ fault, after all.

Ron smirked, the bastard. “Huh. Maybe Harry didn’t tell me the whole story?”

Draco blinked, feeling the tip of his ears go so hot he was sure he could have boiled eggs on them. Panic seized him, and he wasn’t very good at reacting to it.

“So, you want to fuck Pansy, mmmh?”

That probably wasn’t the best way to start that conversation. Ron’s eyes bulged so much Draco was ready to scoop them up with a spoon.

“Not, not really…” Ron stammered. “Fuck. I— wait, why did you think that? Am I that obvious? Damn, I wanted to talk to Hermione before... well, and then I don’t know if Pansy, you know...”

Draco shook his head, happy his lame attempt at redirecting worked. He felt satisfied with himself before remembering he was an Unspeakable for a living. “Merlin, breathe Ron. I need more wine and at least several slices of cake before talking properly about this.”

Ron smiled and called Bob — that day’s waiter— over, ordering three slices of apple and mint cake, plus another two glasses of Pinot Noir. Draco would have never guessed that apple and mint were a good combination, but Sweet Prophecies changed that too.

Their order arrived just mere minutes later; the waiters all knew Draco by now and regaled him with special attention. Of course, it wasn’t one of the reasons why Draco loved the restaurant— Draco wasn’t in such a desperate need for human attention. He wasn’t.

He smiled beatifically at Bob when he put the cake in front of them and couldn’t stop salivating at the sight. Draco inhaled deeply, getting lost in the sweet aroma of his cake, almost forgetting he wasn’t alone. When Ron spoke, he jumped slightly but was happy to see Ron was similarly caught up in his own thoughts to pay Draco any attention.

“I just… don’t know. Pansy is hard to get? How do I impress her, how do I make her notice me? She’s a Slytherin, bloody hell!”

Draco took a second before replying, letting the remark about their Hogwarts House roll off his back, concentrating instead on the flavour of the apples that melted on his tongue. He was unable to resist closing his eyes, an undignified moan escaping his lips.

“Erm, Draco? You okay?”

Draco opened his eyes, scowling.

“Wow, Pansy was right, you do look like you’re about to come when you’re eating here.”

“Oh, shush. Listen, Ron, you don’t need to do anything. Salazar help me, for reasons completely unfathomable to me, Pansy is already impressed by you. Just ask her out. And maybe help her with her polls.”

Ron’s grin lit up his entire face. It was unsettling to witness such an intense moment of happiness. Draco only wished Pansy were here to see it, and not him.

“Brilliant. Bloody brilliant! I’ll just— well, okay! Thanks, Draco! Wow, wow!”

Draco could practically feel the exclamation points at the end of every word and chuckled into his glass of Pinot Noir.

Ron took a deep breath, still smiling. “And stop talking about those polls, Draco. They’ve been going on for at least a year now. Drop it.”

“Pansy’s the one who made such a big deal out of them, involving the entire Wizarding world in the research!”

Ron took a bite of the cake, raising an eyebrow, disbelief overtaking his face. “This is actually pretty good,” he mumbled. He looked at Draco then, something too similar to amusement in his eyes.

“Pansy only does the polls for you, you know that, right? If we’re all so interested in these polls it’s because you’re our favourite lost cause.”

Draco blinked, hesitating as he reached for his second slice of cake. The world was running upside down if Ronald Weasley had affection in his tone when talking about Draco Malfoy.


After they made their way back to the Ministry, Draco reached the Unspeakables Department to find out the problem hadn’t been fixed.

“Didn’t they tell you?” Hermione looked at him with both her eyebrows raised. It made her look like she was mocking him, but that was impossible.

Draco crossed his arms, annoyed he had to ask. “Tell me what?” He drawled, hoping to sound spiteful and unimpressed.

Hermione smirked. It probably didn’t work.

“They said it was a problem with the lifts so it wouldn’t arouse suspicions. But all the Unspeakables had been called in half an hour ago; apparently, someone broke into the Thought Chamber and stole all the Pensieves. It’s gonna be a disaster.”

The air seemed made of mud all of a sudden. Moving, breathing, it all seemed impossible. The Thought Chamber had been Draco’s project for the last two years. How was it possible that no one had thought to—

Realisation hit him like a Bludger in the head. Draco gritted his teeth, hating that Hermione had fooled him once again.

When he first became an Unspeakable, the older ones had warned him. Pranks and fake riddles were daily occurrences, especially against newbies. They were fairly common, a test of your brain, they had said. To see if you were able to think quickly, discern what was true from what wasn’t. Draco had made it his own personal goal to be the best prankster in the entire Department.

That obviously led to total chaos, with people crying in every corner of the Unspeakables’ rooms, with increasingly dangerous pranks from the more ambitious. Until eventually their Head of Department, Unspeakable Croaker, had to put a stop to the pranks when a unicorn was found flying around the Love Room offices, sending papers all over the place and knocking everything out of place in its haste to find the way out.

Draco did not laugh at that one. He was too busy being proud, seeing as he was the mastermind behind the prank.

However, it came to no one’s surprise that Hermione and Draco’s pranks were the best. They’d sworn war against one another, and even after Croaker banned everything, they kept the tradition alive with smaller pranks, little mischievous acts that kept the brain alive.

Draco levelled his shoulders, cocking his head toward Hermione.

“Oh really?” he asked, his lips quirking at the sides. “Well, you know, at least I’ve got good company. It just so happens that your ex-boyfriend fancies me.”

Hermione’s eyes widened briefly before she rolled her eyes. “No need to get ridiculous, Draco. Okay, yes, I was messing with you. Everything’s fine, they fixed it. Some idiot cast a Sticking Charm to all the doors of the lifts and—”

She trailed off, eyeing Draco — who was biting his cheek to suppress his giggles — with an annoyed glare. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, it wasn’t me. But I wish I had thought of something so funny myself.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, a smile pulling at her lips. “It wasn’t funny, you git. It blocked the entire Ministry for half a day.”

Draco mouthed an “exactly” as she shook her head and led them to the Thought Chamber to actually get some work done.

They were compiling their end-of-the-day reports when Hermione looked up from her papers, biting her bottom lip. Draco saw her out of the side of his eye and knew right away what had crossed her mind.

“So, um...” When Hermione cleared her throat, Draco raised his head to look at her. She continued. “Right. So, Ronald… he fancies Pansy, doesn’t he?”

Draco schooled his tone to be the sweetest and clearest possible when he said, “Oh, honey, didn’t I tell you Ron and I have a secret romance?”

A pen flew through the air and smacked into Draco’s forehead.


Hermione chuckled, fidgeting with another pen. “As if. You know what I mean, Draco.”

Draco smiled at her. What beautiful, intelligent women saw in that Weasel, he had no idea. “Hermione, you’re smarter than this. Besides, I’m not the one you should talk to. If Ron has something to tell you, he should be the one to do so.”

Hermione sighed before straightening her shoulders and speaking. “You’re right. Sorry if I bothered you. Look, it’s not a problem for me! We broke up over a year ago and it was my decision, I just don’t understand why he doesn’t talk to me anymore. Er, well, I mean. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I broke up with him, but— “

She stopped, taking a breath, thank Merlin. Draco thought she was gonna choke on her own words.

“Well, anyway. You’re right. I’m smarter than this. I do tend to figure things out on my own before anyone else.”

“Exactly,” Draco replied, nodding. He flicked his eyes to the papers on his desk when a quiet snicker distracted him again.

“What now?” He asked, not taking his eyes off the papers. Usually, Hermione was one who concentrated while working.

“I’m very observant, Malfoy.”

The use of his surname had Draco’s head snapping up. He and Hermione had agreed to use first names during their early days of training, wanting to put a stone on their past.

No one called him Malfoy anymore, except—

“Ah,” he said, voice croaking. “Right. Good for you, Hermione.”

“You have a crush.” Her tone was full of confidence like when she knew she had found the solution to a case.

Damn. Draco shook his head, not trusting his mouth not to betray him.

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. “And I know who he is. Well, it makes sense, you know, you and Ha—”

“No!” Draco almost shouted, then felt his cheeks aflame with embarrassment. He added, more quietly, “No, don’t say it. There’s no me and. Just. Leave it, please.”

Hermione raised a sceptical brow but nodded. “You’re smarter than this, Draco,” she added before going back to her papers.

At the end of the day they parted, and Draco found himself walking home instead of taking the Floo. He still hated the winter and cold and snow that remained glued to his lashes forever, but he also needed the fresh air and time to himself.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what Hermione had said to him. You have a crush. As if. Malfoys didn’t get crushes. They either loathed people or loved them. He could see how that might appear contradictory, but this thing with Potter, well… they’d agreed. It was a mutually satisfying arrangement. It was a Slytherin move, right?

Draco exhaled slowly, relaxing in the view of the light trail of moisture that formed from his breath. Things with Potter were changing lately, and there was no point denying it.

On the way to his flat, Draco passed a magical newsstand and eyed Pansy’s magazine. The cover read ‘Is Your Neighbour Really Trying to Grow Muggle Weed?’. Really, Pansy should have known better than to hire Luna Lovegood as the editor of the Botanical and Magical Creatures section.

Snickering, Draco bought the magazine, spending the time it took him to get to his flat convincing himself he wasn’t gonna check the poll.

By the time he reached his home, snow had started falling again, covering the ground in a thick layer of sparkling white. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, casting dark orange streaks to colour the snow, making it look like a field of poppies. Draco shook his head, flicking the door open.

Poppies had always been his mother’s favourite flowers.

As soon as he stepped foot into his flat, a voice dangerously similar to Potter’s rang in his head, ‘Honestly, Malfoy, why do you always forget to cast Weather Charms?’ It was something Potter liked to tease him about. Potter was right — Draco was a pureblood, someone who grew up with magic as the most natural thing in the world; it should have been second nature.

Something about Weather Charms, though, didn’t convince Draco and he always avoided using them. It looked unnatural to cast a Heating Charm or a Rain-repelling Charm; what if you got it wrong and accidentally set your clothes on fire or attracted rain instead of repelling it.

No, thanks. Draco preferred not to take such risks. He stood at the entrance to his flat, sending his coat, scarf, hat and gloves to dry next to the fireplace. He took off his shoes and soaked socks and deliberately looked at the sofa.

He was flooded with images of Potter lying on his face, drinking down Draco’s cock as one would drink a glass of water… Potter lying on his back, eyes half-shut in post-orgasmic bliss. Draco sighed, resigned to his already half-hard cock.

It was only one week without Potter. Draco could do it; he had already done it. If he couldn’t have sex, then endless wanks would do.

Draco slumped on the sofa and Accio’d Pansy’s magazine. He was halfway through it, still dutifully avoiding the poll —someone should really compliment him for his self-control— when he came upon a paparazzo’s picture of Potter entering a library. The caption read: “Will Harry Potter’s book ever see the light of day?”

Draco chuckled, remembering Potter’s words: I’ve decided I need to find motivation elsewhere. Who knew what, or where, he meant. At this rate, Potter’s book would never be ready.

Draco turned the page and found himself in front of the poll responses. He started reading them, rolling his eyes at the notes the readers had sent Pansy. They were all so useless.

‘No one could refuse such fame. What if the chef doesn’t exist at all and it’s all a conspiracy and they are actually serving us fake, magical food?’

‘It’s more than one chef, that’s obvious. No one could cook so many great dishes alone, c’mon’.

But one, in particular, caught Draco’s attention.

‘What if it’s simply someone who doesn’t like the fuss of a life filled with fame? I say, respect them and their choice. Peace & love, Pansy, I love your magazine!’

Mmmh. That had never crossed Draco’s mind. He tore out the page, cutting the note and keeping it in the drawer of his living room bureau.

He was about to go to his room when the fireplace roared and Pansy’s head appeared in the flames.


Draco returned, waving at Pansy. “Hey. What’s up?”

“Oh, you’re here! Listen, we’re going to the pub. You need to have more fun in your life. We’re meeting in ten minutes. Bye!”

Draco didn’t even have time to respond. But Pansy was right. A night out at the pub would be a welcome distraction.


Boring. Boring and annoying. And boring. Good lord, was it even normal that Draco couldn’t have any fun at the pub if he couldn’t encourage Potter’s jealousy by flirting with random blokes?

He glanced at the dance floor where Pansy and Ron were throwing their arms around daring to call it dancing. Blaise was flirting with several girls at the same time — how he managed to do so was beyond Draco — and after a moment of his eyes wandering around, he spotted Hermione. Sitting next to him.

“Draco, glad to see you here,” she purred, sarcasm oozing out of every pore. “No flirting tonight? There’s a bloke at nine o’clock who’s been staring at you rather intently.”

Draco turned his head, his sight wavering slightly. Perhaps he had too much to drink. “Oh, him. That’s just Julienne, a friend of my mother’s. He’s forty years old and I’ve got nothing against the age gap, but… no, thanks.”

Hermione blinked at him, snickering quietly. “Ah, I see. Yeah, I guess you could do better. But Harry’s not here tonight, is he?”

Draco shot her a glare that he hoped looked murderous but more likely only looked watered-down and wobbly. She laughed and went to go dance, dragging Luna Lovegood out of Merlin knows where. Had she always been there with them?

Shaking his head, Draco glanced again at Julienne. He was fit, Draco supposed. And he always had a weakness for Draco. But whenever Draco thought of someone else, his mind drifted immediately to Potter, with his soft, soft hair and bright, bright smile, and his glittering, sparkling eyes and…

Wow. Draco really, really, needed to get a grip on himself.

He took another sip of his Metropolitan and sighed. That’s exactly how it happened the first time with Potter. It was nearly a year ago; they were at this very pub with their friends, Potter had ordered a Margarita, and he and Draco were the only ones left at the booth.

Draco had tried to look unbothered by Potter but it had been impossible. As soon as Potter’s drink arrived he scooped it up and licked the entire edge of the glass until not a single fucking grain of salt was left. It was indecent. Not only because of how extremely unhygienic it all looked but because of the look on Potter’s face.

Potter looked as if he’d drank the sweetest nectar, as if licking the glass had been the most natural thing in the world. He would occasionally stop to lick his own lips, little moans escaping him. Draco stared the entire time, transfixed.

How could someone possibly like licking salt like that? But Potter looked entirely unfazed. Once he finished, he picked up the slice of lime and... Draco’s insides jolted, his face suddenly on fire. He could feel droplets of perspiration at his nape. Had someone just turned up the thermostat?

But when Draco decided to stand up and demand they lower the temperature —honestly, it was torture how hot it had gotten— he felt glued to the spot as Potter did the very thing Draco imagined: he brought the slice of lime to his lips, his tongue dragging across the flesh, excruciatingly slow, small shivers running down his back, visible goosebumps rising on his arms.

Draco had sucked in a breath, asking himself if there was anything filthier or hotter than this. When Potter eventually bit into the slice, droplets of lime juice ran down his fingers. His tongue darted down to lick the droplets clean, before returning to voraciously attack the slice of lime.

By that point, Draco’s brain was mush, his ability to think reduced to nada. He must have mumbled something because Potter stopped, turning his head to Draco with a perplexed, then surprised, expression.

To this day, Draco had no idea what force possessed him to say what came out of his mouth next.

“Potter, if I’d known what you can do with your tongue, believe me, we would have done something better than fight each other for seven years.” His voice had been all rasps and growls; Draco struggled to recognise it himself.

Potter’s jaw dropped open, and his eyes popped as he flushed brightly in the semi-darkness of the pub. He looked between the slice of lime in his hand and his glass, blinking several times as if he hadn’t realised what he was doing until that very moment. Draco hated himself for possibly breaking whatever spell had possessed Potter to do all that in front of him.

But after a couple of stunned blinks, Potter’s mouth widened into a crooked grin.

“Is that so?” he had asked, voice so low the vibrations went straight to Draco’s aching cock.

Draco blinked, possibly frozen, under some sort of spell himself that changed his personality from composed to blunt and horny. Potter had bent his head slightly, then sucked — sucked! — the slice of lime, a filthy slurping noise filling Draco’s ears, making him gulp for air.

Potter smirked and asked, “Why don’t you let me show you exactly what I can do with my tongue?”

Some lime juice was stuck on the corner of Potter’s lips, and whatever spell had hit Draco that night was still in effect because the next thing he remembered he was leaning in and licking it off with his own tongue. Off Potter’s lips. It was unhygienic, dirty, filthy and damn, so fucking hot.

What happened later had enshrined the pillars of their friendship with benefits. The trip from the door of Draco’s flat to his bedroom had been a mess of tangled limbs, and their feet bumping against one another in the darkness.

“No kisses,” Draco had breathed through groans.

Potter had nodded, his hands already unbuttoning Draco’s shirt, fingers ripping the buttons apart. “I agree, no feelings. Just sex.”

“Right, and since we’re here, never touch my shirt like that. Ever. Again.” Draco had gritted out, hoping to sound threatening, but knowing he was completely out of breath by this point.

“Is this a friends-with-benefits situation then?” Potter had asked, removing his own t-shirt.

Draco smirked, taking off his shirt completely, sending it onto his couch in a neat rectangle. “Sex without stupid chit-chat or sentimentality? Sounds like a deal to me.”

They had collided with the bed, then fell onto it, Draco on his back, Potter straddling him.

“Fine. No kisses; yes to licking and biting, please. Please let me, your skin looks so damn biteable,” Potter had gasped, grazing his teeth over Draco’s collarbone. Who knew that could feel so damn good?

Draco had nodded, frantic, lifting his hips to slide his trousers and pants off. Potter took the hint and stood to finish undressing, then returned to straddle Draco in a blink of an eye.

“I want us to be very clear about what we want. You know when… ” Draco moaned, feeling Potter’s tongue drag along his neck, circling his Adam’s apple.

“When…?” Potter said, hot breath ghosting over the wet trail. It really shouldn’t have been so hot and arousing; saliva was gross, but Draco must have lost his mind somewhere around the time when Potter was licking the damn salt off the glass.

“W-when you’re in a relationship and you don’t say straightaway what you want, and especially what you don’t like, because you don’t want to disappoint the other person?”

Potter stopped briefly, raising his head and giving a firm nod. Draco took the opportunity to inhale deeply, his hands cupping Potter’s arse cheeks. Dear lord, they were so round and squishy and perfect.

“Right, I don’t want that,” Draco continued. “This is sex, so let’s work to make it perfect, shall we?”

Potter had grinned wickedly, the sight sending sparks throughout Draco’s body. “Damn right, Malfoy. Who would have known you’d be so wise, after all?”

Draco didn’t have time to reply. Potter ducked his head and licked his way down Draco’s chest, digging his tongue into Draco’s navel, taking Draco’s cock in his mouth with a deep growl.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Draco gasped. “W-what—” He inhaled, trying to force his brain to remember how breathing worked. “What do you prefer? Top or bottom?”

Potter temporarily ignored Draco’s cock, to Draco’s utter regret. Potter reached around his back, his fingers disappearing in the space between the crease of his arse cheeks.

“Bottom,” Potter said without hesitation. “Fuck, Malfoy, I want you to fuck me so hard I won’t even remember my own name when you’re finished.”

Draco had gripped the blankets for dear life. At this rate, he had no idea how long he would last, but he had to make this perfect.

They had fucked, that night— Potter on all fours, Draco behind him, pounding into Potter, whispering filthy words to him.

“What was my name, again?” Potter slurred once they finished. Draco smiled, snorting.

“Potter. It was phenomenal. Tell me you want to do this again,” Draco sighed, his breathing still laboured, eyes closed.

“Gods, fuck, of course I want to,” Potter had replied, short of breath himself. He shifted on the bed. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”

Draco had opened his eyes, lifting a questioning brow.

“I mean… no sleeping together. I don’t want any complications,” Potter had declared.

“Whatever. I’m not an animal; take your time, you berk. At least catch your breath before you go.”

Draco had watched Potter smile shyly, before getting up from the bed to get dressed. He’d turned towards Draco, blew a kiss in Draco’s direction, his playful, green eyes watching him intently.

And then he’d left, returning to his own home.

Draco sighed, his face heating. Thinking about the memory had sent his body into a spiral of arousal, and—

“Draco.” A deep voice startled him. “I saw the way you were looking at me.”

Draco felt cold sweat gathering at the nape of his neck. He should have never looked at Julienne before going into a detailed reminiscence of his first fuck with Potter.

“Julienne,” Draco greeted in his coldest voice possible.

Julienne moved in front of him, a predatory smile on his face. “I’ve always nursed an affection for you. We could give it a go.”

Draco scrunched up his nose at the way Julienne’s voice emphasised the word ‘affection’. There was no way he’d go home with such a slimy man.

“I wasn’t looking at you. And if you’d excuse me, I have other things to do.” Draco got up from his seat, reaching the others in the middle of the dance floor, turning only to throw a vicious glare at Julienne, who didn’t look too fussed by it.

Hermione took his hand and launched herself in a wild series of movements. Draco pulled her towards himself, trying to redirect her feet, to give her a sense of rhythm. After about five times, he gave up, screaming in horror instead.

“Don’t step on my Guccis, Granger!”

On the way back home Draco was a bit terrified at the knowledge that Hermione Granger was quickly qualifying herself as a ‘friend’ in Draco’s realm.

So… no random blokes, no exciting new projects at work, no striking discoveries in the potions field, no gossip, and no trips to Sweet Prophecies in the long week of Potter’s absence.

Draco started wondering if his life had meaning and a bit of spark only when Potter was present, and then refused categorically to acknowledge he even thought something like that. He didn’t need Potter to have fun, thankyouverymuch.

He was crouched on his sofa, mulling over his favourite book, The Notebook, for the thousandth time. Even Potter knew it by now and used to tease Draco about his silly passion for Muggle romances.

“I see,” an amused voice said softly, making Draco’s head snap up. His cheeks tingled with warmth once he recognised the timbre.

The Notebook again, huh? That’s what you’ve replaced me with?”

Draco snorted, closing the book in his lap. “I want you to know that I fully regret giving you free access to my flat.”

Potter’s arms encircled Draco’s shoulders from behind, his voice now low and purring into Draco’s ears.

“That’s not true,” he whispered. His hands fell lower, massaging Draco’s chest and Draco allowed himself to lean back against Potter’s body, revelling in his warmth, his musky scent.

He hadn’t missed this. He just…

Hell, who was Draco kidding? He missed the git.

“How was your trip? Motivating?” Draco asked.

Potter’s hands roamed lower still, tracing over the waistband of Draco’s joggers as Draco’s muscles quivered under Potter’s touch.

“Quite,” Potter breathed. “Look, I have to go back home, but I wanted to say ‘hi’ before I did.” He moved around the sofa and sat next to Draco.

Draco raised an inquiring eyebrow, smirking when Potter’s cheeks tinged a light red.

Potter cleared his throat, shifting his feet. “Er, it’s just. I mean, I forgot my jumper here last time and…”

“And you needed it right now, on your way back from your trip?”

Potter chuckled, dropping his gaze to the floor. “Well, yes. I missed it a lot this week, you know?” He finally raised his eyes, bright and greener than ever. Draco wondered if it was possible to love a colour, and, if so, he was certain he loved green. Not all greens, but the exact shades of green he was looking at right at that moment.

Draco bumped his shoulder against Potter’s, feeling his heartbeat race at impossible speed against his ribcage.

“I know,” he whispered, so low he wasn’t sure Potter had heard him. They’d stayed like that for a few minutes, bodies glued from shoulder to hip on the sofa, warm and comfortable.

Draco felt his eyelids slowly droop against his will, when Potter spoke soft as a feather.

“I need to go now,” he said.

“Please, stay,” Draco grumbled, as he closed his eyes, Morpheus calling him.


The strong smell of coffee flooded Draco’s nostrils, waking him up. If he had to choose a last desire before death, it would be to wake up to the scent of a strong cup of coffee wafting through his house.

His mouth was already salivating as he sat up in bed, stretching leisurely. A dreadful thought suddenly crept into Draco’s mind: if he was the only one in the house, who was cooking? In the blink of an eye, Draco put on a robe, grabbed his wand and catapulted himself out of the bedroom. The possibility that attackers were in his house, making coffee, suddenly seemed more than plausible. As the door of his bedroom shut behind him, another thought struck him.

He didn’t remember going to sleep in his bedroom last night. He was on the couch with Potter.

No. No, no, no, no. Draco stopped, wand fisted tight in his left hand, right hand clutching his robe at the chest. A feeling too similar to joy overcame him, but he had to will the illusion away before it took possession of every single fibre in Draco’s body.

There was no way Potter took Draco in his arms, brought him to his bedroom, stayed the night without having sex, and cooked breakfast the morning after. It broke at least three of their rules.

And yet…

Draco’s heart started pounding so loud that he could feel it thumping in his ears. He lowered his wand, taking a few steps towards the kitchen. The door was ajar, and before entering Draco popped his head in the slot.

Potter’s messy hair was the first thing Draco saw, fanning out over one of Draco’s pyjama t-shirts. Draco’s eyes travelled lower, stopping at Potter’s round arse cheeks, hugged in too-tight-to-be-comfortable pants, not able to resist ogling Potter’s lean thighs, the hairs on his legs looking unfairly soft.

When Draco’s eyes reached Potter’s bare ankles, knobby but elegant, his cock was already hard and he felt more confused than ever.

“When you’re finished running x-Rays on me, I’d be delighted to finally have breakfast. Someone sleeps late into the morning, mmmh?”

Potter had turned, a pan in his hand, with what looked like pancakes still frying in it. Draco felt his cheeks growing hot under Potter’s steady gaze and his brilliant smile.

He was so confused, Merlin.

He sat at the dining table, mouth salivating at the number of treats displayed. Strawberries with melted chocolate and cream; what looked like fresh bread with marmalades and butter; slices of apple, pear, banana with sugar; a carafe of orange juice and a kettle of hot tea; plus the deliciously aromatic steaming coffee pot.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “Potter, what…” He cleared his throat, a grin stretching his lips before he knew it. “How much do you think I eat?”

Potter placed the pancakes on a dish in front of Draco, biting his bottom lip. He looked so cute that Draco wanted to get up and eat him for breakfast. Then he pinched his arm in the strongest way possible to stop himself thinking such rubbish.

“It’s just that I know you have a ridiculous sweet tooth,” Potter replied, shrugging. He poured himself a cup of hot tea, adding a teaspoon of milk, and buttered a slice of bread.

Draco pursed his lips, feigning indifference. “Well, don’t do this again. I have to keep my body healthy, you know, and all I want to do now is eat everything on the table. This isn’t fair.”

He launched into the pancakes, spreading what was probably too much marmalade on them, side-eyeing Potter.

Potter chuckled, shaking his head. “Then do it. I’m not gonna stop you.” He bit again his bottom lip. For a moment, Draco thought Potter was gonna say something, but then he sipped his tea and the frown that had formed between his eyebrows cleared.

Munching on the most perfect, delicious, heavenly pancakes he had ever eaten, Draco’s mind reeled. What were they doing? Why did Potter cook breakfast for him? Why weren’t they fucking?

All he did was moan. “These pancakes are glorious. What are you, the Pancake King?”

This time, Potter burst out laughing, nearly choking on his tea. “Pancake King, is that even a thing? Berk.” He ran a hand through his hair, only messing it up further. “I like it when you do that.”

Draco blinked. “When I do what?”

Potter’s smile was so warm and affectionate that Draco’s chest hurt, it felt like thousands of butterflies had started flapping their wings against his ribcage.

“When you eat so passionately. You really like food; you practically moan when you eat. And you never stop smiling.”

Draco was at a loss on how to reply. Was Potter complimenting him? But what he said sounded like something intimate, not something that just anyone would notice, or could possibly like, about Draco. “I only do so when the food is good. And, you know—” Draco needed to say something, anything, that would bring them on more neutral ground. “I like it when you do that, too.” He smirked, hoping to sound mysterious and naughty.

Potter raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. “When I do what?”

“When you lick things before eating them. Mind you, it’s disgusting and unhygienic, and I don’t dare imagine what happens in your stomach but—” Potter rolled his eyes, huffing. “— but, er, I kinda like it.”

Potter got up from his seat, the buttered slice of bread still in his hand. He approached Draco, stopping mere inches away, an amused smile lighting up his entire face.

He brought the slice of bread to his mouth, dragging the flat of his tongue along it slowly, eyes still fixed on Draco. Then he put it down on the table and picked a strawberry, dipped it in the melted chocolate and lifted it to his lips, smearing them with the chocolate before flicking his tongue out to lick his lips clean.

Draco watched his movements, drawn to the wet sounds of Potter’s tongue against his own lips. Merlin, he was completely fucked. The erection he had painstakingly subsided came back with full strength, tenting his pyjama bottoms.

“Disgusting,” Draco whispered, his breathing difficult all of a sudden.

Potter smirked, putting away the abused strawberry to dig his fingers in the chocolate. Draco watched, helpless.

In a quick move, Potter’s chocolate-covered fingers were on Draco’s cheeks, tracing chocolate lines on his cheekbones, jaw, nose, and lips. Draco held his breath. His mind screaming ‘Filthy! Disgusting! Wrong!’ while his cock cried ‘More! Lick me!’

When he finished dirtying Draco’s face, Potter smiled, looking satisfied. He stared into Draco’s eyes and then his tongue peeked out between his flushed lips, the tip of it touching Draco’s cheeks to lick away any trace of chocolate from his face. Potter’s breathing looked laboured too, quick puffs reverberating on Draco’s skin, making him shiver.

“You know,” Potter said as his lips rested on the corner of Draco’s mouth. Draco was gripping the arms of his chair, trying desperately to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Potter to rut shamelessly against him. “I really like licking,” Potter said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I think taste is an important sense that we too often associate only with food.” Potter’s hands snuck under Draco’s pyjamas, roaming over his chest. “I love the taste of your come.”

Draco couldn’t do anything to prevent the violent shudder that ran through his body upon hearing Potter’s words, or the blood that rushed to his cock, thickening it even more.

“But above all, I love the taste of your skin.” Potter’s tongue finally found Draco’s lips, still stained with chocolate. Draco closed his eyes, groans escaping him as Potter traced their outline with a long, slow lick, his breaths mingling with Potter’s own.

It was the first time their mouths had touched like this. It was the closest thing they’d done to kissing and Draco was losing his mind as well as his patience.

Just when he had decided to grasp Potter’s face and snog the fuck out of him, Potter retreated, face flushed, eyes heavy-lidded.

Draco brought a hand to his mouth, tracing his upper lip with his finger. It sent sparks down his spine it was so sensitive.

“That was appalling. And…” Draco’s voice was so rough he had to clear his throat to continue. “And you have an obsession.”

Potter grinned and took a deep breath. “I clearly do. Sane or not, you’re my addiction.”

Draco’s mouth dropped open, but he had no idea what to say in return. This entire conversation was bordering on something too intimate for a friends-with-benefits situation and the air around Draco started to feel too thick.

Potter saved him from saying anything else by running through the door of the kitchen, and disappearing in Draco’s bedroom. “See you tonight?” Potter asked. “Dinner?”

Draco’s eyes widened, his voice coming back to him. “Don’t you dare leave now!”

Potter chuckled and re-emerged from the bedroom. He reached the fireplace, stopping at the door of the kitchen to quickly blow a kiss to Draco. “I need to go now, really. Tonight, then?”

Draco found himself nodding, his heart racing madly in his chest.


A furious wank, a call to Pansy and an impromptu lunch at Sweet Prophecies later, Draco was bouncing nervously in his seat.

“Something’s wrong!” Draco hissed loudly, the people from the adjoining tables to his turning in surprise. Draco didn’t care. He was still in shock from his morning.

Pansy, a strained smile on her face, trying to downplay the curious faces of the people around them as she cleared her throat. “Draco, calm down, we’re in public.”

“No, you don’t understand! He slept at my place, cooked breakfast for me, nearly kissed me, asked me out for dinner — dinner, Pansy! — and then left without a shag, or a blowjob… nothing!”

Pansy muttered, “Oh Merlin,” then asked the waiter to bring them another bottle of Chianti. “Lower your damn voice, Draco, I love this restaurant! I’d like to come back, thank you very much.”

The waiter arrived a few seconds later, letting out a soft snort as he poured them two glasses of their favourite wine. “Upset today, Draco?”

Draco glared, before remembering Pansy’s warning. “Um, it’s nothing, really. Nothing that your great food and wine can’t solve, I mean.” Draco flashed him a smile, and the waiter smiled back, retreating from their table afterward.

Draco shot a glance at Pansy. “Sorry,” he muttered, picking up his glass and gulping down the wine.

Pansy shook her head. “It’s okay… Draco, I need to ask you something, but you have to promise me you won’t freak out.”

Draco raised his eyebrows as if to say that he never freaked out. Pansy rolled her eyes and went on.

“Are you in love with Potter?”

Everything seemed to stop. The ticking of the big wooden clock hanging from the ceiling, the whispering of the diners, the frenetic waiters, everything. Draco’s own breathing stopped, stuck painfully between his ribs. He saw Pansy’s lips move but couldn’t hear anything coming out of them.


Draco shook his head; without even realising it, he had put down his glass and was now grasping the edge of the table so tightly his hands started to feel numb. Pansy sighed, gesturing towards Draco’s glass of wine.

“Drink, please. I knew you’d freak out.”

Somehow, Draco managed to remove one of his hands from the table to pick up his glass and empty it in one gulp.

Pansy muttered “Oh, Merlin” again as Draco’s head began to swim. Ah, yes, coveted tipsiness, come to rescue him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco managed to say, looking anywhere but into Pansy’s eyes.

“Now, as for desserts, I was thinking—”

Pansy’s hand suddenly covered Draco’s, a determined expression on her face. “Draco.”

Draco took a deep breath. “I don’t fall in love, you know that.”

Pansy stroked Draco’s hand, trying to soothe him. When she finally spoke, her voice was so sweet Draco felt tears forming in his eyes.

“Look, Draco, I know that—” Pansy huffed before continuing. “I’m just gonna say it. I know you’re afraid because you think that Potter’s going to wake up one day and realise you’re Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, and—”

Draco shook his head. “Don’t, Pans.”

“But I have to,” she replied, calmly. She put a finger under Draco’s chin and raised his head, making them lock eyes. She smiled, soft and sweet. “It’s been more than a year, Draco. Potter already knows everything about you. He knows you. Give yourself some credit, Draco.”

Draco sucked his lip into his mouth. What she was saying made sense. Dangerously scary sense.

“Let’s suppose that I’m in, er, love with Potter.” Draco poured some more wine into his glass. If he was seeing Potter tonight, it really wasn’t advisable to keep drinking like this, but he didn’t dare broach the Potter topic while sober.

Pansy gasped, startling Draco who realised that the wine was about to spill over the edge of his glass. “Err,” he said intelligently, and proceeded to take a big gulp. Pansy shook her head, her eyes crinkling amused.

“What were we talking about?” Draco rasped once he wiped his lips with his napkin. He stared at it, studying its purple stain.

Pansy warned him lightly. “Draco.”

Draco sighed, lifting his eyes to look at her. Pansy was his oldest friend— she never, not once, judged him, not even when they were fourteen, the Yule Ball had just finished and Pansy had dragged Draco to his room, kissed him, and then looked at him with watery eyes as he apologised, crushed, telling her he didn’t like girls until they ended up on the floor and he cried like a baby in her arms. If Draco could talk to someone about this, it was Pansy.

“I do,” Draco whispered. “I love him. And we had this rule when we first started, you know… fucking, that if either of us had feelings for the other we would stop.”

Pansy looked expectantly at him, but when he didn’t go on, she asked, “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so’? I don’t want this to end, obviously!”

“I swear, you can be so daft sometimes, Draco. It wouldn’t end, because obviously, Potter loves you too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, scepticism creasing his forehead. “Obviously. And you know this because…?” Something clicked in Draco’s mind, his heart skipping a beat. What if…?

“You went on a date with the Weasel.”

“Don’t call him that!” She blurted out, her cheeks quickly competing with the tomatoes on Draco’s dish in redness. “Well, yes, Ron invited me to his place to have dinner last night. I don’t see how that—”

“Did he tell you something about Harry?” As soon as he registered the way Harry’s name rolled off his tongue so spontaneously, he felt his cheeks growing warm along with his stomach.


If Potter had sounded unattainable, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the One Who Conquered and Killed the Dark Lord, the One Who Would Never Fall for the Former Death Eater— then Harry was an entirely different story.

Harry was his friend, the boy next door, the one who cooked breakfast for Draco and smiled at Draco’s moans whenever he ate delicious food.

Harry was his lover.

Harry was the man Draco loved.

The realisation left him gasping for breath. Pansy smiled, crooking her head, as if to say ‘I’m here, it’s okay’. Draco blinked, then blinked some more, before finally breathing again.

Pansy eventually saved him from his embarrassment and spoke.

“Ron didn’t, Draco. I felt it when you spoke to me about him. And I know you felt it too.”

Draco nodded, his fingers curling on the stem of his glass.

He loved Harry. Harry loved him.

“If you want to arrive sane at your dinner date with Potter, I’d put down your wine. Let’s order some dessert. Apple pie?”

Draco didn’t answer, he just kept staring at his glass, mind full of one word. Harry.

Somewhere during Draco’s panic, Pansy must have ordered because the waiter arrived with a slice of apple pie for him and profiteroles for Pansy.

“Look, I do know a juicy tidbit that could ease your anxiety.” Pansy’s tone was conspiratorial, it tickled that juvenile part of Draco that loved gossiping, especially if it involved embarrassing Potter or his friends. How blind he had been.

Pansy smirked, leaning in toward Draco. “Ron may not have talked about Harry, but he did tell me something rather interesting.”

When she didn’t go on, Draco lost his patience. “What? What did he tell you?!”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, putting down her fork to get a pen and a paper out of her large leather bag. “He knows the chef of this restaurant.”

She scribbled something on the piece of paper while Draco’s lips widened in an involuntary grin and he clapped his hands.

“The wanker, and he didn’t tell us, all this time! Do we know him? Her? Please tell me they’re a ‘he’.”

Pansy folded the piece of paper, still smirking. “Why do you care? You already have your knight in shining armour, don’t you?”

“Okay, first of all, that’s only our conjecture. I could declare my love tonight and Harry could laugh his arse off and tell me goodbye. Second, this is beyond that, Pansy! We’re talking about a chef who’s so talented they make a salad look like the most exciting thing in life. I hate lettuce, Pansy, I hate it, yet I always eat it here.”

Pansy just laughed as she listened to Draco’s ramblings. “You’re nuts, completely bonkers. Potter’s not gonna laugh at you. Anyway, I’ve written a clue on this piece of paper. You have to promise me something, though. You won’t open it until tonight when you’re with Potter.”

Draco looked at the piece of paper with trepidation. He nodded, taking the proffered clue to his happiness, tucking it away in the inside pocket of his blazer.

“The reveal will be the biggest scoop of my life. The chef has already agreed to an interview with me, you know? But I’m not going to tease you anymore. I can see the alcohol’s already fogging your brain.”

It was true. Now that he was relaxed, Draco could feel his legs wiggling uncontrollably under the table, his feet tapping out some sort of a weird rhythm, and his vision starting to blur more often than not.

Wavering on his wobbly legs, Draco somehow managed to pay their bill, before telling Jerome something along the line of “I’ve discovered your secret, you’re not safe anymore.” Pansy apologised profusely a couple of steps behind him, and before he knew it, he arrived home in one piece.

Draco opened the door of his flat, slumped on the couch and took a deep breath. His head was throbbing, he really needed to take a Sobering Potion or he’d never survive the night with Harry. Plus, he wanted to remember his big declaration of love.

And then there was the matter of the identity of the chef of Sweet Prophecies Remembering the clue Pansy handed him, Draco searched for a solid quarter-hour, in the pockets of his trousers, of his cloak, under the couch, inside his shoe; finally remembering and fishing it out of his blazer.

With trembling hands — equally because of the wine and the solemness of the situation, of course — Draco put it in the drawer of his writing desk, watching it blend with all his other clues about the possible identity of the chef. He couldn’t believe he’d finally know soon.

Now that he was this close to the real possibility, though, Draco didn’t know what to think. Why did Pansy tell him to read it with Harry? Were they someone Harry knew as well? Ultimately, did Draco really want to know the chef’s name? It might have been Draco’s obsession for a year, but it seemed less important now.

He loved Harry. Desperately. Why would he care about someone else’s idealised identity?

A loud thump startled Draco followed by a burst of pain in the toes of his left foot. Right… he was still tipsy and the door frame definitely wasn’t there the last time he checked. Limping slightly, Draco reached his bathroom and took out the Sobering Potion from the drawer of the sink.

He downed it in one go, breathing deeply as the world around him started to look clearer and brighter. Much, much better. He splashed some water on his face too, then turned to glance at his wall clock. It had been a present from Hermione, to ‘make you appreciate more Muggle culture’. It was useful, indeed.

It was already three o’clock. In just four hours Harry would arrive and Draco had to rehearse his speech. He stood in front of the ceiling to floor mirror of his bedroom, staring determinedly into it.

“Harry, I—”

No, ugh no. He couldn’t just start with Harry, after years of calling him Potter.

“Potter, I—”

Damn, but now the word Potter almost felt like an insult. Worrying his bottom lip, Draco decided he needed to know when to say his speech before deciding exactly which words he’d used.

Before dinner was a bad idea; he wanted to enjoy his food. The same went for during the meal; it would be inappropriate. As for after… it seemed like the best option, though at that moment his cock perked up and he wondered whether it would be better to have sex before.

Ugh, Draco shook his head, trying to clear it of everything.

He only needed to be himself, and everything would be all right. Giving himself a firm nod in the mirror, he decided he wouldn’t rehearse a speech, either. At times, Draco wasn’t sure he still had one, but Pansy always went on and on about listening to one’s heart, and this would be the perfect moment to listen to his.

By the time he changed into more comfortable clothes — a pair of khaki-coloured joggers and a white t-shirt— it was already half-past six, and Draco’s heart started beating furiously in his chest, his ears ringing.

He glanced one last time in the mirror: he didn’t really love wearing clothes that were quite so casual, but Harry always looked hungry and possessive when he wore these joggers and he couldn’t resist putting them on.

At exactly seven o’clock Harry Apparated into Draco’s living room, black curls loose on his forehead, green eyes sparkling from behind his glasses, more handsome than ever. He wasn’t elegant, per se— he was wearing a simple pair of low-waisted jeans with a fitted black shirt, but Draco could already feel his cock filling out in his pants.

“Nice joggers,” Harry said, voice husky, lips stretching into a playful smile. He approached Draco, raising a hand to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

Rolling his eyes, Draco drawled, “Hello to you too, Harry.”

There. Without even thinking about it, Draco had just called him Harry. For a moment, he hoped Harry hadn’t heard him, but judging by the way Harry’s eyes nearly bulged out of his skull, he had.

“Er,” Harry spluttered, flushing slightly. Draco decided he liked the reaction.

“Articulate as always, are we? So, what’s your surprise? You Owled saying you’d bring the food…” Draco tried to be casual as he padded towards the kitchen.

After a second, Harry followed him, taking shrunken pans and trays out of his pockets, his cheeks flaming and absolutely adorable.

“Yeah, right, um…” He enlarged everything on the kitchen table and Draco’s heart did somersaults in his chest. Everything smelled delicious, and his mouth watered in anticipation. The dishes looked absolutely perfect and varied and—

“Wait a minute, did you cook these?” Draco gasped.

Harry opened his mouth, but Draco continued, interrupting him. “No! You bought them from Sweet Prophecies! I recognise the dishes! Did you do this for me?”

Harry blinked. For a moment he looked lost for words. “No, I… I didn’t buy them at Sweet Prophecies, I made them.”

Draco wrinkled his brow, confusion fluttering through his brain. The first thing Draco thought was that Harry could cook Sweet Prophecies’ dishes because he was the actual chef, but that was ridiculous. And yet, the more he thought about it, the more…

Pansy’s words echoed in his mind. You won’t open it until tonight when you’re with Potter. Fuck. A mix of dread and happiness settled in the pit of Draco’s stomach. He looked into Harry’s face and found him gnawing his lower lips, torturing his nails.

“Draco, I have to tell you something—”

“Wait!” Draco exclaimed. He ran to his writing desk, barely registering that Harry had just called him Draco. He opened the drawer holding all the clues, picking up the slip of paper Pansy gave him at lunch.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked. He was so close that his breath ghosted over Draco’s cheek— and when had Harry reached him? Draco turned to look at Harry, his vision locked on his bright eyes. It looked like he forgot how to speak for a moment, lost in the way the light danced in those green irises, his gaze shifting lower to Harry’s plump lips.

He could feel the warmth of Harry’s breath. With a whisper, Draco said, “You called me ‘Draco’.”

“You called me ‘Harry’.” Harry’s voice was equally low, his mouth so, so close, Draco was having difficulties thinking but he needed to know, right now.

“Well, I… I have to read something.” He retreated a couple of steps, putting some safe distance between them. Harry’s face showed confusion— Draco couldn’t really blame him, he must have looked nuts.

He opened the piece of paper, reading the note out loud.

‘What you were looking for has always been under your very cock nose.’

Trust Pansy to insert at least one dirty word. Without even realising it, Draco held his breath. This clue was really too close to his own thoughts after he heard Harry cooked all those dishes from Sweet Prophecies. But it couldn’t be, could it?

Draco’s heart was running wild in his chest, drawing mad zig-zags around his ribcage, Draco raised his gaze to look at Harry, whose eyebrows were so knitted they looked like one long line, mouth tight.

Harry walked over to Draco’s desk, reached into the open drawer, and took out all the clues.

“What the fuck…” he murmured as he displayed them on top of the desk. “These are… Draco! Are these clues you’ve collected on the possible identity of the chef of Sweet Prophecies?”

Draco feebly shook his head, then let out a resigned sigh. “Er, maybe?”

“You’re mad. I knew it, but this is crazy— You’ve actually linked some of the clues with a red thread. Draco, you’re not a fucking Auror or private investigator. You took this way too seriously!”

Draco couldn’t tell if Harry’s tone was more amused or worried. But nothing mattered beyond the quiet knowledge that Pansy’s clue had given him.

Harry was the chef. Draco was sure of it.

When Harry turned, his face was more relaxed, lips tugging to a lopsided smile. “Why is it so important to you?”

Draco held Harry’s gaze, his voice coming out like a broken tremble. “Maybe… I needed a distraction. A, er, distraction from my feelings. Maybe I needed to believe I was destined for a kind of, of… a romantic tale. You know, the kind your kids ask you about how’d you met your partner. I’d launch myself into this fantastic, er, fantastic story about me chasing down the most renowned but mysterious chef of London and…”

Draco’s voice trailed off, before taking a deep breath that burnt his lungs. “I’m not good with my feelings. I needed a way out.”

Harry was openly beaming now. He chuckled, leaning his hip against the writing desk. “A way out from what, Draco?”

Draco swallowed around his parched throat. The words barely made it past his lips.

“From… I… I’m in love,” he rasped, his palms suddenly sweaty as he clamped tightly the piece of paper. “With you. I’m in love with you.”

Harry’s eyes widened and his lips stretched into the most beautiful smile Draco had ever seen before he shot forward, grabbing Draco and tugging him into his chest. He slid his arms around Draco’s waist, resting a hand on the small of his back. The heat of it burnt through the thin layer of Draco’s t-shirt, and Draco felt more alive than ever.

“I’m in love with you too,” he whispered against Draco’s lips. His hands dragged up, caressing Draco’s spine to reach his face and cup his cheeks. “Have been for a long time, now.”

Harry leaned forward, slotting his mouth over Draco’s.

Draco had spent the last year dreaming of their first kiss. He'd usually imagined it as rushed, rough, all teeth and tongue, desperate and greedy, as their sexual encounters mostly were. Nothing prepared him for what kissing Harry Potter was actually like.

The kiss was tender and soft, only lips brushing against lips at first. Then Harry moaned and licked along the seam of Draco’s mouth, begging for entry. Draco complied, parting his lips, finally letting Harry take possession of every fibre of his being.

Their mouths slid together for what felt like hours, a soft commingling of love, hope, happiness. When they parted, Harry’s glasses had slid down his nose as he looked up at Draco through half-closed lids.

He leaned in once more, peppering Draco’s face with kisses, kissing his eyebrows, nose, chin, jaw, until he finally ended up back at his mouth. Bucking his hips against Draco’s, Harry chuckled. “You can also have your romantic tale, you know.”

It was all so sickeningly sweet, Draco wasn’t even sure he’d be able to tell anybody what happened without getting diabetes. Draco clicked his tongue and stepped back, trying to get a good look at Harry’s face. Harry wore a mischievous look, one that Draco was sure was plastered on his own face as well.

“Are you telling me—?”

“Yes,” Harry said amused. “Your tale, the one about how you captured the heart of the most renowned chef of all London? That’s true.”

Draco finally disentangled himself from Harry’s embrace, fistpumping the air above his head, screaming in triumph.

“I can’t believe this! I can have it all! Delicious food, extraordinary sex, and love? That’s the dream!”

Harry laughed at that— a deep hearty laugh, with his head thrown back and watery eyes. “You’re such a git. Honestly, I’m surprised it took you that long to figure it out.”

Draco crossed his arms at his chest. “You told me that you were writing a book,” he said in mock offense. “It was believable; all the papers talked about your imminent book!”

“Well, that’s because it’s true. I have been writing a book… about mixing Muggle and Wizarding cuisine. Next week there will be the Best Chef Award of 2007. I’ve been invited and I’ve decided to come out as Sweet Prophecies’ chef. And…” He trailed off, cocking his head, fidgeting with his hands.

“I was hoping you’d come with me. As my date.”

Of the thousands of scenarios Draco had imagined for tonight, not one was even remotely as good as the reality. He snorted, incredulous.

“You’re asking me if I wanna come! Oh for Salazar’s sake, of course, I’ll come with you to an event with plenty of stellar food and renowned chefs.” He paused for a bit, thinking. “Wow, do you think Greta Catchlove will attend, too? I love her cheese casserole.”

Harry laughed again, and Draco felt proud to be the one making him laugh like that. He reached out to Draco again, taking his hand.

“Yes, I think she’ll be there. Draco, this means we would, you know, come out to the Wizarding world as a couple. Is that okay?”

“Yes, you stupid git, I’m okay with that.” Draco rolled his eyes, but added, “Thank you, though, for asking.”

Harry winked, the cocky bastard, squeezing Draco’s hand. Draco smiled when a thought occurred to him.

“Wait a moment, you horrid beast. You have a problem, you lick everything! Since I’ve known you, even at Hogwarts, before eating— and strangely enough, you did it with weird random things like books or quills too. It’s your thing. How the fuck can you be a chef?”

Harry’s cheeks again turned a deeper colour, and he exhaled loudly before speaking. “Look, you’re right. It was becoming a problem. I’ve spent more time than normal at the infirmary, but it wasn’t just for Quidditch-related injuries or, you know, Voldemort-related things. I would lick everything, even— well, once, at Potions, I licked moonstone powder and apparently it’s poisonous if it’s not brewed in a potion, and so—”

Draco snorted, opening his mouth to say something scathing, but Harry quickly went on.

“But that’s beside the point. When my stomach started reclaiming a normal bacterial flora, I went to see a Healer, Mrs Richmond. She told me cooking could help to focus my energies onto the activity so much I’d forget about licking things. And, well, it worked. The more I cooked, the more I was happy and I stopped being sick all the time. So—”

“So you started licking cocks and eating come instead.”

Harry’s eyes widened before his entire face flushed redder than Weasley’s hair. He cleared his throat. “Draco!! I was being serious! I discovered my passion for cooking and decided to open my own restaurant. Man, your mind, I swear. Anyway… I never expected to become so famous from it. Again.”

Draco chuckled, hooking his arms around Harry’s waist and landing a light kiss on his lips. “Poor Potter… can’t even get into a hobby without making the front page.”

They laughed, Harry finally relaxing into Draco’s embrace. He brought his face to Draco’s, his lips brushing the shell of Draco’s ear. With a purr that made goosebumps pop over Draco’s skin, he said, “Now, what if I really could give it all to you? Food, sex and love?”

Draco licked his lips, cock already straining against his pants. “What— what do you mean?”

“Well, we have all the food I’ve cooked and you have a bedroom…”

Draco gasped, more amused than scandalised. It had been clear for a while that Harry’s passion for tasting and licking didn’t actually disgust Draco. “That would be so—”

“Unhygienic?” Harry chuckled, mouth dragging lazily along Draco’s neck.

“Yes, Harry, yes! Unhygienic! And gross, and not to mention dirty, and—”

With a snap of Harry’s fingers, a stasis was put over the food in the kitchen as a couple of bowls levitated from the kitchen to the bedroom. He clucked his tongue, staring into Draco’s eyes.

“If you’re grossed out, we’ll stop, I promise.”

Without waiting for a reply, Harry sprinted towards the bedroom, clothes falling into messy heaps behind him. Draco giggled, shaking his head. If this was going to be half as arousing as their breakfast together had been, he was more than willing to try it out.

By the time he reached the bedroom, Draco was naked too. Harry was sitting in the middle of the bed, a bowl of whipped cream in his hands.

“I know you have a weakness for this,” he murmured, dipping two fingers into the bowl and trailing a sweet line from his neck to the base of his cock. Draco climbed over Harry and straddled his hips, immediately attacking Harry’s neck, devouring every bit of the cream.

Harry groaned, and as Draco licked lower and lower, following the trail Harry had left, he felt Harry’s fingers starting to cover Draco’s cock with cream, too. Draco moaned, burying his face against Harry’s groin.

In one swift move, Harry grabbed Draco’s arm, urging him up to face one another. Harry had something in his hand, but Draco couldn’t quite see it.

“Close your eyes,” Harry whispered, a finger trailing feather-light down Draco’s chest. Draco couldn’t do anything else other than comply. He closed his eyes, holding his breath.

Something sticky touched his lips and Draco opened his mouth, sticking out the tip of his tongue to lick at the object pushing against it. It was sweet— almost too sweet.

“Bite it,” Harry said, voice so rough it sent shivers down Draco’s body. Draco bit down and a sour taste filled his senses, quickly followed by the sweet flavour he had tasted a few seconds earlier. It tasted just like a toffee apple.

Draco curled his hands on his thighs, trying to resist the sudden urge to grasp his cock and wank furiously. It made no sense; it was just food, right? Moaning, Draco took another bite, letting the perfect flavours of melted sugar and apple mix in his mouth.

At some point, Harry must have put away the toffee apple because all Draco could taste now was Harry’s mouth, sliding hot and wet against Draco’s; Draco could still feel his lips tingle, sticky with sugar. He was utterly lost in the sensations that were assaulting him, his cock throbbing against Harry’s thigh, smearing it with the residue of the cream.

“Harry,” Draco rasped, his hands digging further into his thighs. “Fuck, I want you. I need you.”

Yes,” Harry moaned, pushing Draco onto the mattress. “First let me just…” He sat between Draco’s thighs, lowering his head to Draco’s cock, taking it all the way down his throat in one, long suck. Draco cried out, his hand flying to grasp Harry’s hair, tugging on it desperately.

Harry sucked harder, his tongue darting around Draco’s shaft to lick away the cream. He licked the tip, eventually letting go to murmur, “This is good, but I have to say, I rather prefer your taste.”

Draco’s eyes rolled back into his skull as soon as Harry’s mouth was back on his cock.

“I—” Draco took a deep breath, trying to control himself. “Harry, slow down, I’m c-close.”

Harry’s chuckle sent sparks of pleasure throughout Draco’s body as his balls tightened. “Come for me. I want to taste you, Draco.”

It was too much. Harry’s scratchy voice, the way he said Draco’s name, how filthy it all sounded. It tipped Draco over the edge. With a low groan, Draco came for so long he thought it’d never end.

Harry stayed there, Draco’s cock shoved down his throat, swallowing every single drop of Draco’s spunk. When he drained Draco dry, Harry released his cock with a wet pop, licking his lips. “Much better. Fuck, you taste so good.”

Draco felt himself blushing and smiled shyly. “I wanted to fuck you,” he said, disappointed.

“You will.” A crazy glint lit Harry’s eyes, and for a moment, Draco’s spent cock gave a minuscule jolt.

“There’s such a thing as a refractory period, you know.”

Harry smirked, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under Draco’s back. “We’ll see,” he breathed before ducking down and with the flat of his tongue licking a long stripe from Draco’s balls to his arsehole.

“Fuck!” Draco cried out, fisting the blankets. He could already feel his hole fluttering under Harry’s tongue as Harry’s fingers spread Draco’s arse cheeks.

“Damn, Draco, so good for me.” Harry smacked a kiss on the hole, lightly dragging his teeth over the puffy rim, then soothing it immediately with his tongue. To Draco, it felt like he was burning up from the inside out, and to his surprise, his cock was already half-hard.

More,” Draco found himself demanding as Harry continued to lick around his rim, his tongue maddeningly teasing Draco’s arousal. After a while Draco’s cock was fully hard, bobbing on his stomach with every lick.

“Come here,” Draco growled, tugging on Harry’s hair to pull him up, their chests bumping together.

Draco reached a hand between the cleft of Harry’s arse cheeks, but Harry batted it away.

Harry’s cheeks grew pink as he murmured, “I might have prepped myself before coming over. Just fuck me.”

He lined the tip of Draco’s cock against his hole, slowly pushing down onto it, taking it all as his mouth dropped open, his eyes fluttering shut briefly.

Draco’s hands flew to Harry’s hips, grabbing them hard enough to bruise.

Harry leaned down and bracketed his elbows next to Draco’s face, whispering, “Next time, we’ll use wine. Chianti.”

“Hey, how did you… Did Pansy say something?!”

Harry snorted, arse clamping tight around Draco’s cock, causing Draco to moan.

“Really, though, how was it?” Harry asked, leaving open kisses along Draco’s neck.

Draco cackled, tightening his hold on Harry’s hips.

“Dirty,” he said, guiding Harry to slide up his cock.

“Unhygienic.” He dragged him down again.

“And fucking hot.” Draco ground his cock into Harry’s arse, brushing his prostate.

Harry groaned. His green eyes sparkled as he smiled softly.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”