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Heart Like Neon

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“Look what I found.”

Blaise holds out a business card, twiddling it between his fingers so that Draco can’t get a good look at it and must snatch it out of his teasing hand.

Draco drops his gaze to it for half a second, then spears Blaise with a look. “It’s blank.” Draco flicks it back across the table at him. Merlin, dinner out with Blaise had been a mistake. It nearly always is. Ten to one Draco will end up paying.

“Look again.” Patiently (which is a weird look on Blaise), he slides the card back across.

Draco considers not taking whatever bait this is. Blaise loves to dangle things. For a moment Draco lets himself gaze, instead, out the window. The night is blustering, the wind kicking up dry leaves into the vaporous lamplight along the pavement. People take swift steps through the chill. It’s Muggle London, but it looks, just a little, like Hogsmeade.

Not that Draco misses those days, not in the least. Give him a dirty martini, three olives, and the best table in the hippest restaurant and he’ll be reasonably content. Add in enough tapas to feed Gryffindor table, ambient black-cherry lighting, and some kind of soothing dance mix coming out of the speakers, and Draco is as close to happy as he’s going to get. Suffering Blaise’s company is a small price. Blaise can, after all, be painfully funny, and he knows all the gossip about everyone, which makes him valuable.

Draco looks, again, at the card. He checks both sides. He’s about to rip it in two when a warmth under his thumb makes him frown. The paper changes colour where he’s touching it, going from a soft eggshell white to pink, to scarlet. Draco checks the other side and sees that the same thing is happening under his other fingers.

Quickly, Draco hides it under cover of the table when their waiter comes over and asks if they need anything else.

“Just the bill,” Draco says, and then scoffs when Blaise points to him as the recipient.

When Draco looks at the card again, letters have appeared, numbers, and the writing is no longer red but a deep black. The ink seems fathomless, as though one could fall into it and drown.

“Is there a phone number yet?” Blaise asks.

Draco frowns. “It’s an address.”

“No phone number?”

“No,” Draco says, almost unable to look up from the way the ink shimmers and moves, alive and enticing. But look up he does, to find Blaise looking bemused.



“Oh, it gave me a phone number, that's all.”

“Did you ring it?” Draco asks. He’s begun to run his thumb over the cardstock slowly.

“Of course I did.”

Draco swallows, his neck hot, and he looks back down at the card. “‘HP.’ It’s probably not…”

“It is,” Blaise replies.

“How do you know?” Draco’s chest is on fire. Too much tapas, way too much alcohol.

“I told you, I rang.”

“And he answered?”

Blaise shakes his head and, damnably, takes a careful sip of his tequila. He licks his lips. “No, it was a someone else, like a receptionist. I was told where I could meet him.”


“It was a coffee shop in Shoreditch off Old Street.”

“He turned up?”


“Did you…?”

“Draco,” Blaise begins, giving such weight to his name that it sounds ridiculous, like a crime he’s being charged with. “I’m perfectly aware that you would have my balls. So no.” He drinks again. “I hid behind a very smelly bin, watched him get a coffee, wait precisely three minutes at a table, and then leave.”

Draco ignores the feeling of relief. “But clearly he’s not… I mean, it doesn’t say anything about…”

“It doesn’t have to, does it?” Blaise leans forward onto the table. “The magic in that card, Draco… It’s fucking intricate. And powerful.”

“‘Intricate’ is not how I would ever describe him.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not sixteen anymore.”

The bill arrives, and Draco receives it in a sort of trance. “I bet he looks awful. I mean, if this is what he’s doing…” And there’s nothing explicit in the card, it’s just… There. In the magic itself. Made plain without a word. “I’m guessing he’s bloody hard up.”

Blaise waits until Draco looks at him, and then he gives Draco an oddly sad sort of smile. All he says is, “No.”

“It can’t be,” Draco says, his eyes drawn back down to the seductive swirl of ink. Hesitantly, he starts to hold the card out towards Blaise once more.

“Keep it,” Blaise says when he sees Draco bite his lip.

For a second, Draco thinks about denying that he wants to. But the card has warmed so drastically to his fingers. They don’t want to let go. As flippantly as he can, he pockets the card and pulls out his wallet instead, brusquely paying the bill.

They sit there a while more, talk about Blaise’s latest girlfriend: gorgeous, ambidextrous, trans, a sculptor of people’s dead pets if you can believe that. “She’s an artist,” Blaise insists.

“A Shih Tzu frozen for all time and doubling as a dog-shaped flower pot is not art.”

“Art is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Art is in the eye of the boyfriend.”

“I have excellent taste,” Blaise informs him. And being that perhaps he’s including being Draco’s friend in that, Draco decides to let it stand, though he declares, “I’ve had enough of you for one night,” to which his friend affectionately answers, “Same.”

It’s not until he’s back at his flat that Draco pulls the card out again. He elbows out of his braces, letting them flop against his legs, unbuttons his cuffs, his collar. He pours himself a tall glass of water and gulps it down. And then he feels for the card in his pocket and extracts it. Like before, it heats at his touch. Letters form and rearrange themselves. Draco stands in his living room, all deathly quiet except for the thud of his own pulse, and he reads the address and then the words at the bottom, moving, always moving, beckoning him:

at your service…

It’s been two weeks and Draco hasn’t done anything with the card. Why would he? He can get laid. When he wants to, that is. He just… hasn’t in a while. By choice. And Potter would not be his first choice, by far. Potter wouldn’t normally even make the list.

But Draco’s the third wheel tonight on a date with Pansy and her latest conquest, this one a magical welder. She welds things. And she’s not a scintillating conversationalist, though she does speak in tongues, as evidenced by hers in Pansy’s mouth at least half the bloody time.

Bored, Draco takes the card out of his pocket again. It’s been in every pair of trousers he’s worn for a fortnight, carried like a talisman. It’s been with him to work, to dinners… with him when he’s sitting and reading the evening paper. He’s not sure why, except that the idea intrigues him. Not so much fucking Potter as the fact that Potter is there to be fucked, if Draco so chooses. And that is rather heady, if he lets himself think about it. It’s been a while since he’s had those sorts of thoughts about Potter. They’re much less frequent these days, though not entirely nonexistent. (So, yes, he probably would have made that list after all.)

When Pansy and… he’s forgotten her name… Dahlia? Constance? When they go to the loo together, Draco rolls his eyes, checks his watch after five minutes at the table alone, then pays the tab and leaves.

He doesn’t Apparate home, though. He’s not immune to people uninhibitedly making out in front of him… not averse to finding someone to take care of… things. Maybe it’s time. Simply to take the edge off.

He slips the card from his pocket for the umpteenth time and, on a lark, Apparates.



“Seriously?” Potter says after the door swings open.

And it is him. It’s really Potter standing there in a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. He’s barefoot. The unseemly idiot answered the door with no shoes on. For a split second, a vision crystalises in Draco’s mind: him slowly taking a step onto Potter’s bare toes with his own well-shined shoes and increasing the pressure with every moment until Potter yelps in pain.

“Malfoy,” says Potter in the here and now, his gaze sliding to the card in Draco’s hand.

Belatedly, guiltily, Draco pockets it, as though he can erase Potter having seen it. Though why else would he be here without the bloody card? His cheeks have heated up, and he firms his jaw, meeting Potter’s eyes when once again they rise to his own.

“I mean, I was notified,” Potter says, now leaning on a hand in the doorway, not offering to let him in, barring his way in fact. “I’m always notified when a person with intent is holding the card, but…”

“I don’t have intent,” Draco bites out the first words he’s managed in this exchange.

“Then what are you doing here?” Potter looks at him steadily, his eyebrows raised just a hint.

“Curiosity, Potter. You may have heard of it.”

“Yeah, it killed the cat.” Potter waits a beat, gives Draco a blinking look. “Satisfied?”

Draco breathes in deeply. Potter’s cologne is subtle even as its scent surrounds him. Draco hadn’t lied about the curiosity, and he finds himself leaning a little to the side, looking past Potter into what appears to be just an ordinary cottage-like house, though it goes farther back than the outside permits. Wizarding space, and nicely done, Draco has to admit.

Potter’s barely-there breath of a laugh brings Draco’s attention back. But Potter just steps back out of the doorway. “Come in then,” he says.

“I have another appointment,” Draco lies, knowing that it sounds like the lie it is and there’s really no point to it, except to delay the inevitable.

“Do you?”

Anger rises up inside him, and Draco spits, “I don’t need this.”

Potter shrugs. “Okay.” He leaves the door open as he wanders back inside.

“Do you always interrogate your clients about their other appointments?” Draco says from his side of the open doorway.

Potter turns. “Are you a client? I thought you were just curious.” He pushes his hands into his pockets, head tilted. “But it looks like your cowardice might just win out instead.”

Three furious seconds later, Draco steps over the threshold and slams the door behind himself.

Potter holds up a hand as Draco opens his mouth to unleash some choice words, and Draco’s voice dies as Potter observes him, something in his face calculating, discerning. Draco feels stripped, feels Potter’s focus pressing in, probing against his magic, touching things as one would idly pick up interesting pieces in a shop. Draco is that shop.

Just when Draco feels like he can’t take another moment, Potter stops. “Huh,” he says as though mildly surprised. He frowns a little, thinking. Then his hand drops and he says, “Fifty Galleons up front, no matter if we do or we don’t.”


“I know you probably have five times that on you.”


Potter holds out his hand and flicks his fingers in the universal sign for ‘give it to me’.

Draco’s breath strangles him, which is not a thing he thought possible, his own body becoming the enemy. But he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fifty Galleon piece. He flicks it with all the insolence he can feel throbbing through him, and Potter plucks the shining gold out of the air like a Snitch, pocketing it.

“Would you like something to drink?” Potter asks.

“Do you live here?” ‘Here’ is a decent enough place, modestly furnished in both neutrals and jewel-tones. Art hangs on the walls, vases sit on the mantelpiece. There’s a comfortable-looking sofa, a plush armchair. There are no personal effects that Draco can see. Nothing properly Potterish. Though Potter seems at ease in the space.

Potter’s rummaging in the open kitchen area now, ducking half inside a huge refrigerator. He takes out two bottles of water but doesn’t hand one to Draco as he passes. “Follow me.”

Draco huffs out an exasperated sigh. Potter, it appears, seems disinclined to answer Draco’s question and quite confident that Draco will follow him down a hallway. Firming his jaw, Draco does, and Potter leads him past shut doors that Draco wants to push open. Are they bedrooms? Studies? … Dungeons? What the fuck is actually happening? What has he just paid for?

They enter a large room at the end of the hall, and Potter places the water bottles on a small table against one of the walls. The room is empty for the most part, a deep and wide space, like a ballroom but without the glitz.

Potter walks to the middle of the room, turns, and draws his wand. Draco’s hand goes immediately to his hip.

“Pull it,” Potter says. When Draco hesitates, “I know you want to, you arrogant piece of shit.”

Draco’s eyes go wide, his skin prickling. He whips his wand from its holster. “I didn’t pay for this.”

“Yes,” Potter answers easily, “you did,” though his eyes flicker with the rising heat of potential violence. And then he flings a hex at Draco’s middle.

Draco jumps back from it. “What the hell?”

“Come on, Malfoy.”

“Oh, this is the service you provide?” Draco says in disbelief.

“For you? Yes.” Potter twirls his wand idly, his stance conceited, body riding the line between relaxed and ready.

Draco’s stomach flares hot, his palms sweating. He’s in danger of losing the upper hand here. Maybe he never had it, but he needs to wrest it from Potter now or he’ll never recover.

“Are you a cock tease, Potter?” he sneers. “Is that what you—?”

Potter doesn’t let him finish, casting a wordless Stinging Hex that catches Draco in the shoulder and makes him inhale a hiss of pain, clutching at it. Potter opens his arms in invitation, wand held lazily between two fingers while he waits.

Draco slices a spell at him, but Potter’s grip on his wand changes so fast Draco doesn’t even see it happen, and Potter deflects. Draco casts another, and Potter sends his own back. Draco manages to duck it but barely. “What the fuck is this?” he pants.

Potter’s voice remains measured even as his body prepares for the fight. “It’s what you want,” he says.

Rage builds under Draco’s skin, something he thought he’d dealt with or outgrown. But it’s there… been living there, deep within him. And all it takes is a well-aimed cast from Potter to bring it to the surface. Draco fires off three spells quickly, the last one landing and doubling Potter over in pain. But Potter flicks his wand, still wincing, and the blow catches Draco’s jaw, just like a punch. It takes his breath for a moment, and he brings his free hand up to rub at the burst of pain.

“Fuck you, where did you learn that?”

Potter has the audacity to smile at him, standing at full height once more. “I could teach it to you.”

Draco growls and casts six spells in a row, lands two; Potter dodges or blocks the others. The next spell Potter casts hits Draco full-body, and Draco braces by instinct, even though it doesn’t hurt. It feels more like a Protego than anything.

“Did you just… put a protection spell on me?”

“Yeah,” Potter says. “But it wasn’t for the duelling.” He casts the same thing on himself then, and before Draco can process any of it, Potter strips off his t-shirt, flinging it to the side.

He’s got so many black-inked tattoos it would take Draco long minutes to count them all. They’re down his arms, over his shoulders, across his chest, just a smattering, so that his flesh is visible between every line. Down his stomach they crawl, over his hips. They disappear into his low-riding jeans, and Draco feels his mouth flood wet.

Potter’s words sink in so belatedly it’s almost comical, even to Draco.

Not a duelling protection spell, but a protection spell all the same. Potter’s looking at him with a patient intensity. A glance even further down his body and Draco sees the outline of his cock, half hard and bulging along the crevice of his hip inside his trousers.

A protection spell.


“Well?” Potter says. “Come on then. We haven’t even broken a sweat yet.”

The rage doesn’t mute, but it transforms. It meets its equal and burns inside. Draco sends a Stinging hex that tags Potter’s shoulder before he can raise his wand. Potter rubs the spot, a breathy laugh leaving him. And then they duel for real. Nothing meant to do irreparable harm, but to hurt. To really hurt. It’s quick and dirty, and their magic sizzles through the room unchecked, loud when it connects with a wall rather than flesh, electric when their spells glance off one another. They wind up panting. Sweat gleams on Potter’s chest, collecting in the hollow of his throat, shining on his forearms, his biceps. Distracted, Draco takes a cut to the leg.

He reaches down, feels the liquid warmth, raising fingers smeared with his own blood. Motherfucker cut him. Again.

Draco stalks quickly toward him, and Potter retreats gracefully, unfazed. Potter’s back connects with the wall, and he doesn’t duck, doesn’t move as Draco advances. Potter holds his wand out to the side and lets it drop to the floor.

Draco frowns, but before he knows what he’s doing, he throws his own wand aside so hard he’d be afraid of it breaking if he was thinking about anything other than taking Harry Potter’s wrists, wrenching them up over his head, and pinning them to the wall.

Potter lets him, staring into Draco’s eyes as he does it.

“Did I pay for this?” Draco hisses out, his breath not even close to coming under his control.

“Yes,” says Potter. And Draco’s cock is so hard from it. He wants to press it against Potter’s body. It would feel so good. Fuck, why does he want this? What is he doing here? Is he here to prove he can fuck Harry Potter? To see what it’s like? To use him and make him feel used. His anger, like a spell, flashes through him, and Potter sees it, blinks once, and doesn’t return it.

Draco releases his wrists but only to take Potter’s body and flip him so that his chest presses against the wall instead. New body art meets Draco’s gaze, tantalising as it moves down Potter’s back.

“Did I pay for this?” Draco breathes near Potter’s nape, even as his yanks Potter’s jeans open and hauls them and his pants down his thighs.

“Yes,” says Potter, and then he casts a wandless lubrication charm on himself. He braces his hands on the wall, his bare arse under Draco’s gaze. Ink travels Potter’s flanks, his hips, down his thighs, but his arse remains unmarked. It flexes once as Potter shuffles his stance wider. Draco feels that flex in his hard cock before they’re even touching.

Draco digs in his own trousers and pulls out. It’s happening too fast, too bloody fast, but he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want to. “And this?” His lips brush Potter’s skin even as he aims the head of his cock and strokes it over Potter’s slick arsehole.

Potter’s forehead drops to the wall. “Yes,” comes out of him in a low rumble, echoing in Draco’s ears like a surrender. He holds Potter’s hip and steadies himself on his feet, feeling for the right angle and then pushing. Potter gasps a little as Draco’s cock starts to go in, and Draco groans quietly, though nothing about this is quiet. Their bodies practically vibrate, their breath hot and fast, and Draco sheaths his cock slowly and too carefully up Potter’s arse, because it feels too good not to let himself relish every inch of it.

When he’s inside, he grasps Potter’s hips in his hands and lays his head on Potter’s bare back. He almost can’t believe it’s happening, that this isn’t some teenaged, late night fantasy he’s having yet again. He’s lightheaded.

Potter, too, is breathing raggedly now, adjusting. Then he says, “Do what you want. Do it however you want, Malfoy.”

He doesn’t mean to whine, like an animal, like someone being handed the chalice, the key to everlasting life. But he does. He draws back and slams inside. It forces a grunt from Potter’s lungs, and Draco likes the sound, bathes himself in it. So he does it again. He fucks Potter hard, the tight, slick squeeze on his cock just right… just right.

They’re breathing, soft moans filtering into the air, like this is something they’re doing together, not something Draco is doing to him. The anger winds its way up his spine, but it’s overtaken by something else. Something that feels too good, that could flay him alive if he lets it. Draco sinks his teeth into the flesh under his lips, where Potter’s neck slopes into shoulder. To his utter shock, Potter groans… and bares more of his flesh to Draco’s mouth. He arches his lower back, just the slightest bit, just enough for Draco to fuck him deeper. Draco’s balls draw up. It’s going to be over so fast. Too fast.

Draco lifts his lips to breathe behind Potter’s ear. The words come out easily, having been trapped in his subconscious for over ten years now. They come without effort, like they do when he’s alone and a little drunk and the usual fantasies aren’t working and so he lets himself turn to this, just wanting to get off quickly and go to sleep. They come out in a fevered whisper: “Going to come inside you… You’re going to feel it for days. You’re never going to forget me, doing this to you. Potter.”

“Do it then,” Potter says lowly, though the heat in his words lacks hatred. Instead it drips with encouragement.

Draco thrusts faster, his hands making bruises on Potter’s hips. It rips through him, filling Potter up, and he has to watch, has to drop his gaze and see. He sees Potter’s body taking him while he comes. His thighs tense, and a wretched groan twists inside his mouth. Potter takes him, every inch, every drop, all of him.

Before he’s ready, Draco pulls out. He rubs the wet head of his cock against Potter’s hole and watches a dribble of his come leak out. It’s everything he can do not to moan again.

He’ll never tell Potter this, but he could have doubled his price and made Draco pay it. Draco would have given his vaults for this.

Still panting, Draco rights his trousers. He Summons his wand to cast a cleaning charm over himself, even as he devours the sight of him… Potter’s naked arse, his bare back, before he too pulls up his pants and trousers. Potter Summons his shirt, but instead of putting it back on he wipes the sweat from his chest, under his arms, and then discards it again.

He turns and leans his back against the wall, looking at Draco. When their gazes meet, Draco’s stomach tightens almost painfully. Potter watches him with interest, crossing his arms over his chest. “Satisfied now?” he asks.

Draco realises he’s unsure if Potter came or not. There’s still a bulge in his jeans, though he could just be slow to go completely soft. Draco hates that he wants to know. He wants to see Potter’s cock… touch it. He regrets that he had this one time, and he didn't even try.

He firms his lips, muscle jumping in his cheek. With deliberate calm, he withdraws the business card out of his pocket. He holds it up, making sure Potter sees. And then he sets it on the table by the door, picks up one of the water bottles instead, and takes his leave.




“You what?

It’s pretty much the response Harry expects from Hermione, so he sits there with his coffee between his hands and rides it out on the park bench they’ve chosen.

“Not head first!” she yells next, and for a moment, Harry can only sit in his own perplexity at what kind of metaphor she might be using on him, before he realises she’s shouted this at Rose, who is right now coming down the largest playground slide, indeed, head first. Hermione shakes her head on a frustrated little growl and keeps pushing Hugo’s pram with her foot, back and forth. “Merlin.”

Harry feels like the third child she now has to scold. She proceeds to do just that.

“I thought you had a rule.”

“I did.”

“No one you actually know.”

“That’s right.”

She sighs and gives him a constipated look. “Malfoy?” she says.

Harry opens his mouth but then falters. He really has nothing to say for himself at the moment.

“The boy I punched in the face,” she continues, now somewhat deadpan. “The boy who called me M— that word.”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Harry admits, watching Rose scamper over to the swings and take those on head first too. He neglects to alert Hermione. She’s stressed enough as it is.

She runs her hand through her hair and spares a brief sigh up toward the clouds. “Well, it’s your business, both figuratively and literally, and you really don’t owe me any kind of answer, but… Harry, why?”

He passes a hand over his cup, casting a surreptitious warm-up spell on his coffee and then taking a sip before he replies. “Hermione, I’ve never felt magical intent like that. When the card sent the message to me…”

“So, does the fact that he really, really wanted to—”


“Okay, needed to, mean that you had to oblige?” Then when Hugo becomes fussy, “Shh, shh, shh,” leaning over and patting his little chest until he settles.

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do,” he reminds her.

Her look is deceptively calm when she turns it on him. “So you wanted to.”

“I...” Harry sighs. How does he explain that as curious as Malfoy was about him, he was ten times as curious in return? “The magic was strong,” he says. “I had to see if it was malfunctioning.”

“So that was your diagnostic?” She mouths the next words rather than saying them, “To fuck him?”

“Well, to let him f—”

“Mummy!” yells Rose, running over on fast little feet, her face split in an enormous smile.

Harry clears his throat and takes another sip.

“Can Uncle Harry push me?”

“Uncle Harry and I are talking right now,” Hermione tells her.

Rose pouts. “But I can’t go high enough!”

“Five minutes,” Harry tells her with a little grin. “I’ll come and push you on the swings in five minutes.”

“You’ll set a Tempus?” Rose checks. She’s four years old and knows what a Tempus charm is.

Harry chuckles. “Yes, of course.” But she waits until he actually does it before she hurries off again for the slide.

“You were saying?” Hermione says, slanting him a look, though now it’s partly mischievous, her lip quirking.

“Never mind,” he says, hiding his own amusement behind his cup and taking a long last drink.

“What are you going to do now?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs. “He left the card with me.”

She nods absently, squinting against the nearly noon-day sun and looking off across the park, and asks, “Was it good?”

He looks away from her too. “Shut up.”

She turns toward him in a rush and kicks his shin. “It was good!”

“Ow! It’s my job, Hermione.” He leans down to rub his leg, whispering, “Jesus.” Then, “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’ve been a sex worker for five years. I know how to make it good.”

“Mm-hm,” she deadpans again.

Bloody Hermione. He should have told Ron first. Bigger initial blow-up but faster turn-around.

The truth was, it shouldn’t have been good. It was really fast, just anal, no prep, no mouths or hands or fingers or kissing. Nothing slow, no build-up, no tease, no eye contact or foreplay, except for the duelling. It had been angry; all out of control, pulse-pounding sex against the nearest wall. It had been fucking. Which wasn’t the surprising thing really, not more so than the fact that Malfoy really had very much wanted to in the first place. The fact that, when Harry had Reached out and felt him, he’d come away with the absolute need for it to be quick and angry… well, it suited them.

It shouldn’t have been good.

And yet…

He didn’t even have to touch my cock and I almost came.

He’s not about to tell Hermione this. He doesn’t really want to have to acknowledge it himself.

“UNCLE HARRY!!!!” comes an equally demanding and plaintive cry from a sadly swinging child. She’s face down on the swing, her long hair dragging slowly in the dirt.

“Merlin,” Hermione sighs. “She is ninety per cent her father.”

“Right, you were never dramatic,” Harry replies, standing and stretching, feeling his body ripple with heady pleasure as the sunlight strikes his face.

“Shut up,” Hermione laughs, and he dances out of the way of her kicking him again.

Harry checks the time. Only a minute left of the five. “I’ve been summoned.”

“Not too long,” Hermione warns him. “You’ll spoil her.”

“And?” he says, casting his friend a smile.



It’s late one night, after he’s seen the two clients he had scheduled for the day and he’s supposed to be done, when the magic flows in.

Someone has the card, and they’re in need.

Need is the overarching energy, and it comes at Harry like a rogue wave, hitting him in the chest and making it difficult to breathe. He gets up off his sofa and reflexively casts a Disillusionment over his personal belongings. All his photos of friends fade into the wall. His dirty laundry orders itself into a basket that then melts into the background of his bedroom.

Harry waves his wand, answering the call of their magic and saying yes to it.

The magic lets him know that he has enough time to wash his face and clean his teeth, which he does. There’s a nervousness to his movements he’s not used to feeling. He’s received emergency calls for sex before. This is not an unheard of occurence. He looks into the mirror at his own face and sees the heightened emotion there, the slight dilation of his pupils, recognises that his breath is short.

When the knock comes at the door, Harry walks swiftly to it but then stalls with his hand on the knob. He subdues his own magic by gentle force, telling himself no matter who is on the other side of his door, he will offer the best service he can. Even to blond-headed arseholes. He swallows and yanks the door open.

He frowns. “Travis?”

Travis is one of Harry’s favourite clients, sort of a weekly highlight. Half the time they don’t even have sex, but when they do it is always fun and energetic. Travis is seven years Harry’s junior, a young Muggle trans man who Harry has come to genuinely like. But this is something he’s never seen: Travis with tears brimming in his huge blue eyes, his jaw strong, but… too strong, fighting to stay that way

“Come in, come in,” Harry ushers, the odd feeling of disappointment flooding out of him as quickly as the worry floods in. His mobile never rang to let him know which of his Muggle clients to expect, and Harry realises he must have turned the thing off, thinking his day was over. Which means the magic in the card let Travis through regardless. Because of the depth of his need.

Travis hesitates about crossing the threshold. His hands are shoved deep into his jeans pockets. “I just…” he says. Then his stubborn chin wobbles, and he’s in Harry’s arms even before Harry has time to shut the door. “Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Harry says, though obviously it is not.

“They fucking said I could stay as long as I continued with university,” Travis grits out into Harry’s chest so that only some of the words are audible. “But I think they want to kick me out. I think they might kick me out soon.”

“Slow down. Come on now, come inside. Breathe, alright?” Harry sits him down on the sofa.

“How much?” Travis sniffs, pulling out a leather wallet and rifling for pounds.

Harry sighs. He wants to simply not charge him. It feels vile to accept money from someone who clearly fears for their future livelihood, not to mention the very love of the people who are supposed to care for him. Harry keeps his rage to himself, though he can feel the muscle ticcing away in his jaw.

“Tea,” he says in lieu of naming a price. “Would you like some? I’m going to have some, okay?”

Travis sniffs again, and Harry brings him a box of tissues. Then before he takes his leave to the kitchen to make tea and get his bearings, he leans down, cups the back of Travis’s shaved head, and kisses him on the forehead. “It’s going to be alright,” he says.

A sick little laugh comes out into the tissue, and it breaks Harry’s heart.

Harry makes tea the Muggle way. Everything must be done the Muggle way with his non-wizarding clients, which is most of them. It’s meditative, making tea slowly, one patient step at a time, or would be were he not so concerned about the young man on his sofa.

“Have they said they’re going to kick you out?” Harry asks as he hands Travis his tea.

“Thank you,” Travis whispers. He’s always been polite as hell. He’s thanked Harry for orgasms before. “Erm, no. Not exactly. But they’re on me again about going into a lucrative area of study. They always make it about other things. But I know what they really mean. I know it’s about me. About how I am.”

So many questions flash through Harry’s mind: ‘Do you have a place to stay?’ being chief among them, but he takes a sip of his tea and a deep breath, and he asks instead, “What do you need, Travis?”

Travis blinks at him. “Could I just… sit here? For a little while? A couple of hours, I mean.”

Harry nods. “Of course.”

“Would you sit with me?”

Harry smiles and moves to the sofa, letting Travis fit himself to his side, under his arm. Harry picks up the remote and turns on the telly. “I bought it. Did I tell you?”

Travis pulls back a touch to look at him. “You did? Seriously? I don’t believe you.”

Harry smiles. “No, I did. You said it was important, so…” Harry hits the button that switches the telly to where it needs to be. The disc is still in his DVD player, and the menu screen comes up for Travis’s favourite show, the one he’s dogged Harry about watching for weeks now.

“You’ve arrived, Harry,” says Travis, and Harry pinches him. “How far in are you?”

“I’ve only watched the first one.”

“Okay, here.” Travis takes the remote away, flipping to the second episode. “This one’s so good.”

Before he settles in, Harry takes a moment, goes completely calm inside, and Reaches.

Hold me, Travis’s body croons. Little lapping waves of closeness, safety, warmth, care inundate Harry’s senses. It’s not sex that he wants or needs, so Harry won’t initiate. I want them to treat me like I’m normal. The last breaks Harry’s heart open even more than it already was. He wants to tell Travis how normal he is and also that he could never be anything other than extraordinary at the very same time. And that his parents are shits. But he shuts off his feelers and just pulls him closer, and he listens when Travis explains which character is his favourite and who he hates and then laughs at a line and has to explain to Harry why it’s funny. Harry kisses the top of his head and lingers, leaving his lips there for Travis to feel the heat of his breath. He feels this intensely brave young man melt against him, sighing, pulling his legs into his body. Gryffindor. If he’d been a wizard, Travis would be in Gryffindor.

One episode plays, then another. Travis falls asleep, so Harry turns the volume down, letting it play out. He lays Travis along the sofa gently, pulling a light blanket over him and making sure the pillow fits under his head. Harry leaves the light on over the hob but dims the room otherwise. The empty tea cups can wait till morning.

Lying in his own bed, Harry tosses and turns. He can’t shut off his mind, the worry he feels for Travis, the incessant hum of racing thoughts. He picks up the bottle of Dreamless that he keeps on his nightstand and frowns. He shouldn’t, with a client here. But it’s Travis. Everything in Harry tells him he can trust him. Sighing, he takes a swig and then turns out his light, dropping back onto his pillow with frustrated resolve.

Harry closes his eyes. The potion begins to take effect. He can feel his consciousness draining from his limbs, leaving his toes and fingers, the roots of his hair, until it all settles in the last little speck of his mind before the Dreamless takes even that under the ocean current of sleep. And in the last vestige of mind, he flits over an image, a brightness, and wants to cling to it even as it slips away… even as Draco Malfoy leaving his duelling room plays out before the steadily shuttering camera lens through which he sees. Harry watches him put the card on the table, and leave, before sleep takes him.





Draco gets his four shots of espresso with whipped cream from the tea trolley and takes the lift to his office. It’s slower than usual, the lift, and Dracoe sips his coffee and leans against the back wall, watching the numbers change.

Billings gets on, says good morning, and Draco nods. Billings gets off at Creatures and Kwan boards instead. Another greeting, another nod.

He didn’t sleep last night. A combination of factors including Draco’s inability not to take his work home with him and also Pansy drunk-Flooing him at midnight, wanting to crow about her latest sexual exploits.

If only she knew.

His floor dings, and Draco clears his throat. He sends Kwan a polite smile as he exits, and suddenly he’s in the din of Level 2.

“Morning, Auror Malfoy!” Jenkins says too brightly.

Draco grimaces. “Good morning.” Bloody Junior Aurors.

“Oi, Malfoy.”

“Dodson,” Draco says, lifting his coffee and then taking another sip.

He makes his way between rows of cubicles and then down a hallway to his own meagre office, unwinding his scarf from his throat and hanging it on his coat tree. Kendall is fast on his heels and inserts herself through the crack in his door before he’s able to shut her out. She doesn’t seem put off by it. She never does.

“So, Robards expects your report on the Willowsby case by the morning meeting, have you done that yet? If not, I’ve got one half written, so that really ought to suffice as my penmanship is better than yours anyway, but then there’s the meeting with Kingsley this afternoon, and Games and Sports has requested you on a case as well and—”

“Sports?” Draco baulks. “What on earth do they need with an undercover Auror?”

“I don’t know. Do you want me to see if Phillips is available instead?”

Draco sits heavily in his office chair and waves his hand. “No, God, not Phillips. See if Okafor can do it. If not…” He growls. “Damn it. Yeah, fine, I’ll see to it. What else?”

What follows is Kendall’s usual Monday morning ten minute briefing which Draco listens to with one ear. Kendall, for what it’s worth, is very good at her job. She’s the Junior Auror assigned to intern with him, and to be quite truthful, her persistence and attention to detail have correlated to his even higher solve rate, in a round about sort of way. She’s earned the two raises she’s got in the last year, and Draco intends to recommend her for Chief Junior Auror for her last year of training. She could be Head Auror one day; Draco knows investigative talent when he sees it.

So he records everything she says in part of his brain and keeps alert for various important keywords in order to stop her and ask more pertinent questions.

His day goes as most do when he’s not on an active case that demands he be in the field. He finishes the parchment work so that Kendall is free to vet his cases, interview persons of interest, and let him know if anything demands his immediate attention. It doesn’t. Which is a nice change from a few months ago when he was so deep in a case he was afraid he’d never come out again. The small mercies of the boring part of this job.

But sitting through the interdepartmental meeting is an exercise in zen meditation. Kingsley’s not the I-want-to-stab-someone-in-the-eye part, and Draco takes diligent notes on new reporting measures for the DMLE, even the stuff not pertaining to undercover work. When Accidents and Catastrophes takes their typical fifteen minutes to debrief (because they’re championship catastrophisers, every one), Draco zones out, pruning his quill and trying not to actually fall asleep.

Which is how it happens… the veering of his wayward thoughts. It’s been two weeks, but he’s probably conjured up the memory—on purpose and purely by accident—more times than he wishes to count. This time it’s certainly not by choice. Draco blames Mr Catastrophe up there, reciting all of the week’s mishaps and tragedies. It only so happens to remind Draco of his own. Call it a mishap, a tragedy, a catastrophic event: he fucked Potter. He pulled Potter’s trousers down and shoved his cock inside his arse, and he fucked him until he came. It was not a fantasy. Not some well-worn pathway in his mind, some destiny he’ll never reach and never truly wanted to.

It happened. It’s done. And there’s no undoing it. His cock will always have buried itself, so hot and tight and sweet up Potter’s arse Draco could cry only from the memory.

He shakes his head now and takes a long drink of cool water, refilling his glass from the constantly cold pitcher in the middle of the conference table they all sit around. He’d pour it over his own head if wouldn’t get him a trip to a Mind Healer.

This is the true evil of interdepartmental meetings: they stop his momentum through his day long enough that his thoughts cannot possibly avoid this cul de sac where Potter waits, breathing heavy against that wall, saying, “Satisfied now?”

Saying, “Do what you want. Do it however you want, Malfoy.”

Merlin, Draco needs to get laid by an ordinary person. That would sort him out, surely. If he weren’t stuck here listening to Creatures lament the cut to their budget, he very well might.

He meets with Sports after lunch, and the man’s bloody name is Cocklebur, which, yes, is a plant, but that doesn’t stop Draco from choking on a juvenile little snicker. The poor sod. Then again, at least he’s not stuck with ‘Malfoy’.

Halfway through the man’s first sentence, Draco knows he’s going to shuttle the job off on someone else. He checks his watch, engages in social niceties, and then fakes being late for another meeting before locking himself away in his office.

He just feels… off. Like he could use an extended holiday. Maybe it’s that his last case had him under for three months. It still weighs on him, even though they managed to shut down three of the five major illegal dragon traders in the UK. It was hard work. It was dangerous work. And he was cut off from his friends the whole time, only sending encrypted Owls to his mother through a third party at the DMLE.

Draco doesn’t always love his job. Hell, lately he might dislike it as often as not.

The end of the day comes and with it the last of Draco’s patience to stick around. He takes the stairs rather than the lift, which puts him on the far side of the foyer when he emerges, near the bulletin board Spell-o-taped with various for-sales, community classes on multiple magical topics, etc. Draco’s about to bypass it and head for the Floos when something pinned there catches his eye.

It shouldn’t. It’s just the plain white corner of a business card, mostly hiding behind a memo about the newest funding drive for the war orphan project Draco gives to semi-annually. But it’s that flash of plain white that stops him and has him tilting his head at it.

Draco looks around to find everyone else busy getting coffee at the trolley or negotiating for the shortest Floo queue. He’s alone at the board when he turns back and lightly touches the corner of the card, gently moving it under its pin and revealing another blank inch, and then another.

Something like anxiety rolls through him. He ought to just leave it pinned up there and walk away. Maybe it’s just stuck on there backward. Maybe it’s nothing.

Walk the fuck away, he tells himself—before he unpins the card and takes it down, turning it over in his hand and confirming for himself what he already suspected, what he could feel the first moment he laid eyes on it.

“Bloody hell,” he sighs. And then the ink starts to form words.

He takes a look around himself again. Looks back down at the card. The address is different this time. It sports the name of a pub, not nearby enough that it would be frequented by his coworkers. In fact, it might be Muggle. Draco knows the name though and thinks it’s just a short Apparition if he…

“Christ,” he curses through his teeth, pinning the card back where it was, shoving it mostly back underneath the orphan memo, and stalking away.

He steps in line for the Floo and wills people to move their arses faster. Four more people. God, the witch in the front has dropped her bag, and the contents have spilled all over the place. Go around her! Draco wants to shout. But no, his overly polite queue waits for her. Merlin.

She gets her detritus gathered with the help of the younger witch behind her and then swirls away. Down to three people. Two. The wizard in front of him turns back to Draco inexplicably and smiles before he steps into the green flames. “Have a good night,” the man says and then names his location and is gone.

Draco stands there in front of the whoosh of flames until they calm. Then he stands there some more. It’s his turn, a fact which the young person behind him reminds him of with a little poke to his shoulder. Like Draco is the doddering wizard who’s forgotten how to use a fucking Floo.

“Use it or lose it,” he hears muttered under someone’s breath from farther back.

Apparently all the polite people were in front of him then.

The wizard behind him clears his throat. Sweat collects under Draco’s collar. The flames are right there. His flat is a few moments away.

Draco swallows, blinks, and steps out of line. His feet are in command of the rest of him and he finds himself walking briskly back to the bulletin board. It’s still there, innocent and unremarkable. Draco snatches it off the board. He tells himself he’s just preventing someone else from noticing and taking it and having “intent”. Which is itself still an embarrassing reason.

It’s also clearly a lie. Because Draco takes it back to the Floo, elbows the next wizard out of the front of the line none-too-gently, shrugging off the offended, “Oi!” that comes from the body he’s shoved aside.

Draco steps into the flames and recites the address for his flat. But he’s only going home to change.




He’s nervous again. It makes no sense. The magic gave him the message, suggested a meeting place he’s used to meet clients before (particularly the twitchy ones for whom a stiff drink would lubricate their inhibitions into disinhibition just enough). Harry rather likes The Black Swan, even though he rarely drinks so as to not impede his job performance in any way. And he’s not drinking now, only sipping a very tall iced water and checking the door every thirty seconds or so. For the first time in recent memory, he really wishes he could have a drink on the job.

There’s no good reason. There was nothing upsetting about the magical surge he received. It was powerful, almost frustrated, but there was nothing abnormal about it; there were no red flags.

Yet when at three minutes past their meeting time, the door opens and Draco Malfoy walks through, it gives Harry the shock of clarity he needs. The nervousness drains away at seeing him. Or rather, he redefines it as what it really is: excitement. Which is really bloody annoying. He doesn’t like that he’s excited by Malfoy, not in this specific way at least, though it does make it easier to, well… get there. He’s always been prone to… exuberant observance, is maybe a kind way to put it, where Malfoy is concerned. Ron would choke on his own tongue were he privy to Harry’s thoughts at the moment. Which proves unhelpful.

Jesus Christ, Malfoy looks good. Harry always carries a phial of ‘helper’ potion to these sorts of meets. He needs it as often as not. It is going to be laughably unnecessary tonight. Merlin.

Malfoy’s in a lavender dress shirt, impeccable black trousers. Harry can see the shine of his stupidly posh shoes from here. They’re probably Italian. He’s wearing braces. Dear fucking lord, why does he have to be wearing braces? He looks about the room, almost casually but not quite. His gaze darts into the corners like somebody in a spy film. After a moment of this, he spots Harry at the bar and nearly looks away, but Harry sees the moment of recognition that spears him in place before he can. Harry lifts his water glass with a slight smile, an ironic one, and then he signals for the bartender as Malfoy makes his way through the heavy-for-a-Monday-evening crowd.

Harry isn’t underdressed exactly—he’s in his smart crimson jumper and best black jeans—but he can’t hold a candle to Malfoy. In the fancy-pants department, he never has really. But he feels himself picking a piece of lint off his sleeve impulsively as Malfoy slides in on his left, taking the seat Harry’s held for him.

The bartender looks at Malfoy expectantly, so before they exchange anything resembling an awkward hey-we-had-sex-not-too-long-ago greeting, Malfoy hums in contemplation and then orders, “Dirty vodka martini, please. Three olives,” and then turns to Harry, who is stuck on the ‘please’ part of his order before moving on to Malfoy’s sculpted lips saying ‘dirty’.

“Highball?” Malfoy asks him.

“Hm? Oh. No. Mineral water.”

Malfoy lifts a brow at him.

Drink set in front of him, Malfoy sips then removes his tiny plastic sword of olives and taps them against the edge of his glass. “Want one?”

Bemused, Harry shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” asks Malfoy. “You’re eyeing my olives, Potter.”

“I don’t want your olives.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Then, “So, why here? Are you too lazy to duel me this time?”

Because something in you needs it. Just like you needed the last time to be a fight, Harry thinks but refrains from saying. He shrugs. “It’s a place I meet clients sometimes. People get thirsty.”

Malfoy indulges in a low chuckle, almost just a breath, and then eats an olive. Harry takes in everything about it: how his tongue swipes out over his lips, how his jaw works as he chews.

“They serve dinner here. I hadn’t planned on paying for dinner,” Malfoy says once he’s swallowed.

“What had you planned on?”

At this, Malfoy’s eyes flare. He takes a deep, audible breath and then reins himself in. “I didn’t choose this place.”

“No, you just picked up the card. Again,” Harry can’t help adding, because it’s bloody Malfoy, and needling him, about anything, is just second nature.

“It was on the bloody bulletin board at my work,” Malfoy clips out. “You’re not a Crup groomer, Potter. What are you doing advertising on bulletin boards?”

“I don’t go around putting them up. They just… end up places,” Harry explains. Then, “Where do you work?”

At this, Malfoy goes stony. His eyes lose their sparkle. He takes a generous drink, draining half his martini and signalling for another.

Harry’s wondered, off and on over the years, where Malfoy might have landed, career-wise. It was never announced in the Prophet and the Prophet just loves to announce such things, so Harry had settled on the assumption that Malfoy was living off his own vaults, the life of an elite Pureblood whose tainted post-war image hadn’t driven his value down all that much.

But this seems to have been inaccurate. And now Harry practically itches to do some mildly unethical Legilimency to get it out of him; Malfoy is clearly not going to elaborate.

“How did you get into this, Potter?” Turning the tables, like a dick.

“Fifty Galleons again,” Harry tells him. “Fifty and I’ll cover your bar tab as well. But that doesn’t buy you insight into my life.” When Malfoy starts to comply, digging a hand into his trouser pocket, Harry leans forward and touches his wrist. “Not now. After.”

Harry leaves his hand there. Their gazes lock. Thumb over the back of Malfoy’s wrist, a soft caress, he watches Malfoy’s reaction; Harry Reaches.

And it almost knocks him to the ground. The want. But whereas before it was more nebulous, chaotic—where all Harry got was the need to fight, to make it a fight—now Malfoy’s desire has zeroed in, become a laser of sorts.

Merlin, he wants Harry’s cock.

Harry breathes out measuredly. He removes his hand, fingertips dizzy with the muscle memory, the feel of Malfoy’s wrist bones, the warm skin, the magic responding to him so much more easily than Malfoy himself.

“You look parched,” Harry says, and when Malfoy stares at him, still lost in the moment before, Harry lifts his chin at his one and a half drinks.

Malfoy blinks and then downs the last of his first martini, olives now ignored. He sips the second one, licking his lips and then clearing his throat. “Where would you like to do this?”

And since Harry hasn’t stopped Reaching yet, the answer comes at him, almost ridiculously clear, as though Malfoy voiced his preference: they’re going to do it in the loo.

Harry laughs. Because his first thought is that if he’d known it was going to be Draco Malfoy, and if he’d known it was going to be in the bloody loo of the bloody pub, he wouldn’t have worn his best jeans.

Malfoy’s just looking at him like Harry’s lost a bit more of his mind now.

“Sorry,” Harry says, stifling a new little laugh. “Sorry, I just… had a moment.”

In an impromptu move, Harry grabs Malfoy’s drink and slings back a large sip. Malfoy raises his eyebrows at him. Harry withdraws his wallet, pays for their drinks with a nod at the bartender, and then stands.

“Let’s go.”


‘Wants his cock’ was vague. What Malfoy really wants to do is suck it. But once Harry gets him in the bathroom and wards the door, once they’re in the stall with the door slammed close, Harry feels the magnitude of his reticence, the evil twin of his desire, almost as strong. Maybe stronger.

Harry pushes Malfoy up against the wall of the stall, sliding his hands beneath the cursed braces, running the backs of his fingers over Malfoy’s nipples as if by accident, as though he’s unaware he’s even doing it. And what he feels is close to pity, an empathetic sadness he never imagined would bloom inside him toward someone like Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy wants so badly to get on his knees and suck Harry’s cock, while at the same time he’d rather die than sink to his knees in front of Harry. He’d go his whole life not having the very thing he wants like he wants to breathe, just to satisfy his ego.

No… As Harry leans in and nuzzles Malfoy’s throat, inhaling the nirvana of his cologne, he realises it’s not ego at all. It’s… protection. It has more to do with something like shame. The fact that he’s let Harry see him wanting at all is a minor miracle.

Harry no longer wants to Reach inside him. Not tonight at least. He doesn’t like what he’s found, as much in himself as in Malfoy.

Malfoy is a client. And Harry is quite good at giving his clients what they need, or as close to it as they’ll let him. Harry nudges one brace off Malfoy’s shoulder, slow and teasing. He breathes his words against Malfoy’s neck: “I want to suck your cock.”

He feels the sharp inhale at his words. He works the other brace off, letting each dangle against Malfoy’s thighs. The protection spell he uses this time is so subtle Malfoy may not even sense it as Harry runs his hands up Malfoy’s chest, over his shoulders, back down to settle at his waist, kissing along his neck and throat, up to his jaw, beneath his ear. “I’ve thought about giving you head before.” Not a lie. Harry meets Malfoy’s stoicism with his own vulnerability. He’s not entirely altruistic about it; there’s a bit of one upmanship involved. Harry’s only human. And Malfoy’s a git.

Harry unbuttons Malfoy’s trousers, unzips them so slowly it makes Malfoy gasp in a quiet breath and then hold it.

“Tell me to get on my knees.”

Harry meets Malfoy’s gaze. It’s like storm clouds, a deluge approaching so fast it eclipses the light on the horizon.

Malfoy’s lips part. “Get on your knees, Potter.”

It shouldn’t feel like a good thing, Malfoy saying that, commanding him, not even when it was Harry telling him to do it. But Harry drinks in the words. They fill his veins, pump through his heart, and rush his body. He wonders what Malfoy sees in him right now, because it flashes silver, like lightning, over his eyes, before Harry obeys, sinking down and kneeling at his feet, never once breaking eye contact.

Malfoy takes a handful of Harry’s hair and then lets it loose to wrap his hand around the back of Harry’s head, pulling him in.

Harry lets himself be drawn close, opening his mouth on the bulge in Malfoy’s underwear. His eyes flutter shut. Malfoy’s cock pushes at the cotton fly, and Harry tilts his head, breathing hot along the shaft, leaving a kiss, wet and slow, against the flared tip.

What Malfoy breathes might be a word; it might just be a groan. He reaches up over his head to grasp the upper edge of the stall, his other hand staying at the back of Harry’s head, his fingers and palm warm, almost comforting.

Harry takes down his underwear, careful to clear his sensitive prick, nestling the cotton beneath his balls. He strokes the length in his hand, the skin of it hot and soft. It jumps in his fist, a drop of precome emerging from the slit. It shouldn’t be surprising, not with how the desire still rolls off Malfoy’s body in thick, electric waves. But it is. It is surprising. Harry looks up at him, at the tension in Malfoy’s face, the way he looks at Harry, but not into his eyes. He’s looking but not, like how you try to watch the setting sun.

Harry lets himself moan as he takes Malfoy’s cock into his mouth, as it slides onto his tongue. It’s not performative, the sound he makes. Harry rather likes giving blow jobs, for one. But also, there’s something about doing this to a man who has, for sixteen years straight, hated him, and who Harry has made so very hard, has made leak, and who now is gripping a bathroom stall for dear life while Harry takes him deeper, and a little deeper… there’s something quietly triumphant about it.

And then there’s the third thing. It’s not news to Harry now—he’d gleaned as much from being fucked by him before—but Malfoy has a spectacular cock.

Malfoy’s hand tightens on the back of his head. It feels good, like a massage, and Harry groans again. He moves on Malfoy’s dick, keeping the shaft warm and wet, suckling at the head and then diving slowly down once more. He reaches between his own legs and squeezes his hard cock, at first rhythmically, but then, when Malfoy’s fingers soften and his nails rack over the shortest hairs at Harry’s nape, Harry grasps himself tight, staving off what would have been a bit of a professional disaster.

“Do you like that?” Malfoy’s words drip down on him, and Harry doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even want to lie about it. He lifts his mouth and whispers, “Yes,” then laps under the crown in a way that has Malfoy inhaling sharply, before Harry takes it down again.

It’s not long, not long at all, before Malfoy says, “Potter…”—a breath, a sigh, fingers sliding tight into Harry’s hair again.

It’s an undeniable thrill. Harry takes Malfoy by the hips and bobs his head. Nice of him to warn Harry, of course. Exceedingly considerate. But there’s no way in hell Harry’s going to lift off now, not unless it’s what Malfoy wants. And it’s not. No, he wants to see Harry swallow it. He wants to see it drip down his face. At merely the thought, Harry moans again. And this is what sets Malfoy off.

Harry peers up as Malfoy comes. Malfoy’s watching his mouth intensely, his gaze dipping once to Harry’s throat, and then zeroing in again. Harry lets some of it dribble out. Malfoy likes that. He likes it very much. The changes flash over Malfoy’s face as his body tenses with another shudder, as it becomes too much for a moment, but when Harry tries to draw back, Malfoy’s hand increases its pressure so that he’ll stay there. Harry blinks, giving Malfoy what he wants, moving on the shaft so slowly now, just an inch, just coaxing gently with his tongue, until all Malfoy’s breath leaves him, and he pulls out, pushing Harry’s face away, panting, closing his eyes.

Harry wipes his mouth and stands. He doesn’t overthink his own actions when he decides to tuck Malfoy’s spent cock back into his pants, righting them.

But Malfoy grasps his wrist in a firm hand. “Turn around.”

Harry does, and Malfoy jerks him back against his body. Malfoy rips into Harry’s jeans, yanking everything down to mid-thigh, Harry’s bare bum against the cotton swell of Malfoy’s still-hard cock. Malfoy takes Harry’s dick in his hand, peering over Harry’s shoulder as he starts wanking it.

Harry knows how his exhale sounds… like he’s as aroused as he is. He reaches back and grips Malfoy’s silky trousers, the hard length of his thighs. Malfoy pulls him off like he does this every day, like the cock in his fist isn’t new to him. He massages the shaft, pulling the foreskin back from the head each time and watching it emerge. Harry bites his lip, simultaneously choking back a whine of pleasure. He leans his head back against Malfoy’s shoulder, his face turned toward the warmth of Malfoy’s neck.

“Fuck my fist,” Malfoy says, his voice so close Harry feels the words rumble against his lips. He mimics Malfoy from before, lifting an arm to hold tight to the top of the stall wall. Malfoy must like that, because he tosses Harry’s other arm up. Harry grips the cool metal and begins thrusting his hips, meeting Malfoy’s hand as it continues to work him.

“Oh fuck,” Harry gasps. Malfoy handles him with confidence, and Harry lets go into it. Malfoy will either take him all the way through and be at his back while he comes, or he won’t. And Harry decides it doesn’t matter. Malfoy’s the client. Malfoy will get what he wants, either way. So Harry lets Malfoy have him. He feels it build, a wildfire through his legs, deep inside him. He’s making small noises now, uncontrollable but quiet. A tremble racks him. He comes, and Malfoy’s hand tightens just a fraction, just enough to turn Harry's soft noises into something forced from his body, louder and wild.

Malfoy’s other arm snakes around him, holding Harry up against his body as he comes, as it arcs out of him, splashing the loo, the floor, leaving him with a post-orgasmic lethargy which Malfoy withstands, letting him breathe there against his jaw, legs shaking.

Harry licks dry lips and steadies his breath. He peels his fingers from the wall, gets his feet under him, his cock put away. He hears Malfoy zipping his trousers too, righting himself. Harry waves a hand and cleans up, a flick of his fingers for the loo and floor, another for Malfoy and then himself.

He turns, glancing down Malfoy’s body and back up. “We can go again if you want.” Malfoy’s cock against his arse had never gone fully soft after all.

But the lassitude feels good. Harry could very happily go back out to the pub, order a real drink and a large meal and enjoy his sated body, his sex-drenched limbs. Unless Malfoy requires more. And that, too, is okay with him.

But Malfoy digs out the fifty Galleon piece and puts it in Harry’s hand. “You do wandless like that often?”

Confused by this turn in conversation, Harry frowns a little around a small smile. “Er… yeah? I mean… define ‘often’.”

Malfoy observes him shrewdly. “When we duelled, would you have even needed to use a wand at all?”

Harry doesn’t know what he’s getting at, and his own words jumble up in his chest for a moment. He shrugs and shakes his head. “Probably not, no?”

Malfoy blinks at him a moment, and Harry has the uncomfortable feeling of being an exhibit in a zoo. Then Malfoy says, “What a disgusting waste of talent.”

It hits him like a Bludger he didn’t see coming, and Harry actually takes a small step back, his breath gone. The look on Malfoy’s face caps it off. It goes so perfectly with that word, which he’d practically spat. Disgusting.

Harry’s fury builds under his skin. It would be all too easy to unleash it. It’s only Malfoy, after all. Harry shakes his head. Merlin, he hasn’t changed a bit.

Harry takes the fifty Galleon piece, still warm in his hand, and chucks it directly into the loo. Then without another word, he storms out, pushing out of the stall, out of the bathroom, through the crowd to get to the front door, all thoughts of a leisurely meal forgotten, all pleasurable lassitude gone so fast its departure leaves him feeling sick.