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Dirty Duelling

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“Are you serious?! Private tutoring? Did my dad ask for this?” Al grumbled, slamming his locker door shut. Like the insolent child of Harry Potter, that the entire DMLE probably thought he was. Little Albus Potter, slowest trainee ever.

“Very much, yes, and no.” Auror Lisa Turpin smirked. Usually, her penchant for mocking everyone equally endeared her to Al, but now he felt like casting a Bat-Bogey Hex right at her smug face.

“I know I keep losing to Bristlecone, but I’m getting better at duelling,” he said, not budging a Knut. Lisa would take a Galleon and sing a song about it later.

“Not fast enough, my freckled chocolate frog. You need professional help, and I don’t have time to hold your hand, Al.” Lisa popped her ever-present gum and jabbed her wand at his stomach until he smacked it away. “I’ve got a friend though.”


“Okay, so Millie has a friend. But you know, her cauldron is my cauldron. We share friends and stir sticks.” Lisa popped her gum again.

“You’re the most unprofessional instructor I’ve ever met in my entire life,” Al said, voice flat.

“Yet, I’m also your favourite. I think that says more about you than it does about me.” She laughed and shoved a deflated rugby ball into his chest before walking away. “Your Portkey leaves in thirty minutes. Pack a bag for a week. Ribbet Ribbet!”

Al licked his teeth and clenched his fist, furious that the decision had been made for him. Lisa was supposed to be on his side, not treat him like everyone else had in this damn training program. “That’s not as encouraging as you think it is,” he shouted.





Al felt like his brain had fallen out of his head. He dropped his shrunken duffle bag to the ground and stared up at imposing gates that he had only seen in Scorpius’ photos. He felt a sore pang in his gut, remembering their initial promise to call weekly that had dwindled down to a couple of texts every three to six months.

Of course, maintaining a friendship was easier when one half didn’t fuck off to the Amazonian rain forest to study Magical Creatures. Al couldn’t begrudge him though. He’d flee England for several years too if he had a pregnancy scare followed by a breakup. His aunt and uncle were terrifying when they wanted to be.

With a lazy Accio, Al shouldered his bag and stepped through the open space in the monogrammed gates. The immediate closure behind him felt ominous, but that was exactly the sort of vibe that stuffy pure-blood families lived for.





Stuffy pure-bloods could go to hell and take their white, flying demon birds with them.

Al skidded across the marble entryway, tripped on a rug, then landed on his arse and felt the breath knocked out of him. He panted heavily while his blurred vision sorted itself out until he blinked enough times to register the house-elf staring at him from above. “Bloody hell,” he yelled, startled into throwing his arms up to cover his face while rolling away to safety.

Until he could assess the situation — like an Auror.

“Sir is being late. Master does not like tardiness. Sir is wasting time playing with the peacocks,” the house-elf huffed. She had the most judgmental face he’d seen apart from Kreacher. It clashed terribly with the sunshine yellow of her dress. There were ruffles.

“I wasn’t playing, they were hunting me down like I was their prey!”

The rude house-elf didn’t seem to hear or care. She only turned the corner at the end of a long hall and clearly expected Al to run and catch up. He couldn’t get respect from a fucking house-elf.

With a grumble, he righted himself and followed suit.





Al tried to keep up with the house-elf, but by the time he reached the third corridor, his steps had slowed to a crawl as he took in the extravagant sight. His mum had never let him visit Scorpius during term breaks, insisting he Floo over to Grimmauld Place instead. With excuses about the war, evil bloodlines, racist dark lords, blah blah blah.

It seemed utterly ridiculous now. If this manor used to be an antique house of horrors, there was no trace of it in its current form. Some serious redecorating had taken place. Heavy reconstruction. A dismantle and recast of a majority of the property’s warding. Al paused in front of a wall mural of the Paris skyline and cast a few Detection Charms to confirm his suspicions.

Aside from a sophisticated Monitoring Spell painted into one of the framed portraits on the opposite wall, the place seemed as clean as a whistle, and as lavish as a King’s Palace. Al knew his vault was stacked, but he felt poorer just walking across the gleaming marble floors amid the beautifully lit halls. A sentient magical home that had been Spell-Proofed for Muggle electricity? Merlin’s beard that cost a neat knut.

In fact, Al had been so engrossed with taking in every detail that he had lost track of time when he finally hiked up the second flight of stairs. The lighted corridor led him to what was obviously a training room for duelling. From the lavender glow of Spell Absorbent walls, floors, and ceiling, to the impact mats spread out and sized accordingly for a professional duelling ring. The only difference he could see between this place and the room in the Ministry was, again, the obvious fortune spent on it.

Well, that and the glorious upgrade in his instructor.

Fuck, if that’s Mr Malfoy, Al sorely regretted never paying attention those two years when Scorpius was dropped off at King’s Cross instead of taking a Portkey from France. Granted, that was during first and second year, long before Al realised he was balls deep in homosexuality.

Still was. Merlin, that man was fit.

“Fuck,” Al hissed and clutched at his ribs. “What?” He was too lost in admiration for the tightly tailored trousers and button-down ensemble to even realise he’d been hit.

“That’s a Stinging Hex, Trainee Potter. Child’s play and you can’t dodge it, much less cast the simplest Shield Charm to stop it. It is no small wonder you’re failing Lisa Turpin’s class,” Mr Malfoy drawled in a bored tone while his long legs carried him across the room to Al. “Did you graduate Hogwarts with all Trolls by any chance?”

Heat rose in Al’s cheeks and he licked his lips, trying to think of a quip in return while studying the supple leather of the braces Mr Malfoy was wearing. They looked to be the perfect size for spanking Al right across the

Arse, fuck!” He went down on his knees out of heinous pain instead of pleasure. Al gasped and cupped himself with gentle hands, his eyes tearing up from being hit in the bollocks full force by the second Stinging Hex cast his way. His own wand had fallen to the side, forgotten. “What the fuck? Sir,” he added on, his desperate mind scrambling for a fix. James never managed to Hex him that hard.

“Dottie informed me of your arrival nearly thirty minutes ago. You chose to take a leisurely stroll and waste my time. Either turn around and leave the way you came or pick up your wand and duel properly so I can assess how low the Ministry standards have shaped you.” His voice was stone and ice, just like his eyes. Al found him utterly captivating. Slim shoulders were strong and set back with confidence in every pace he took towards his starting position. And his arse — what an arse it was — encased in navy pinstripes, high, and round was then tragically stolen from Al’s view.

Al wheezed from the anxiety of picking up his wand and casting a sufficient Shield Charm in time to absorb the Jelly-Brain Jinx. Mr Malfoy merely arched a brow and cast a Softening Charm on the mat under Al’s knees. He sighed in relief until he realised it was forcing him to slowly split his legs and made it nearly impossible to clamber back to his feet. As soon as Al was steady, his wand was snatched away by an effortless Expelliarmus. Embarrassment rushed up through his spine like lava.

The disappointment was heavy on Mr Malfoy’s brow when he marched forward to return Al’s wand. “Unimpressive. Dottie will show you to your room so you may unpack. Do keep up this time. We’ll resume your lessons after tea.”

“Why can’t you show me where my bed’s at if you’re so worried about me?” Al asked while wishing he wasn’t so masochistic.

Mr Malfoy paused by the door and studied him with open curiosity instead of the cold calculation he’d exhibited thus far. It didn’t last, a nondescript mask smoothed over pale skin without a word. His boots clicked quietly down the hall. Dottie popped into place and frowned.

“Master will not be eating tea late.”





From what he remembered of family photos pinned in their dormitory, Al had assumed Scorpius was an equal mix of both of his parents’ good looks. Seated across the table from Mr Malfoy now, he realised he was wrong. They held the same fair eyes and colouring but little else. Scorpius had his mother’s round face, button nose, and cleft chin. Her warm, yet distracted smile. Mr Malfoy was razor-sharp aristocracy and high cheekbones. Circumspection and shrewdness.

Dangerously handsome when he smirked at Al’s refusal to be called his dreaded full name. Downright rakish when he concluded that given names should be used in equal measure since their duelling capabilities would never be so.

Draco manoeuvered around every question he chose not to answer while unravelling every layer he cared to shift through of Al. Like an onion under a paring knife. It left him feeling increasingly restless and turned on. Losing any grace he ever possessed and barely remembering to swallow his salmon before he asked the question he’d been dying to learn the answer to. It has been years since Astoria passed on. “So, we’re eating alone, just the two of us. By ourselves. Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Draco wiped the corners of his already clean mouth with a level of class no Potter could ever manage. “I don’t entertain my nights with men who fail entry-level classes. We duel in an hour. Do not be late again, Al, or I will send you home.”

The dismissal was cruel, but Al drooled over his exit anyway.





Resolved to try harder and prove himself, Al spent an hour duelling in rounds until he was capable of lasting a minimum of five minutes. It was only at that point that Draco deemed him worthy of receiving constructive criticism in place of an eye roll. Al had sweat through his hoodie as well his faded Harpies t-shirt, and had decided to strip down to only jeans by the time they took a proper break.

Draco’s temples showed the first signs of moisture and thinning of hair, but he was not out of sorts in any other measurable way. The competence made Al want to bend over and grab his own ankles. It was distracting.

“You’re not as hopeless as I assumed you to be.”

Al coughed around his water and grimaced when it ran down his neck and chest. “Thanks.”

“Lisa said you were unable to cast your way out from beneath a small blanket.”

“She fucking said that?!”

Draco chuckled and seemed to watch the droplets travel south before Charming Al’s skin dry. “I had no reason to believe otherwise. Twenty-three and still in basic training? Millie was promoted to junior level by twenty-one and her cousin had one of these,” Draco said, flipping his wrist over. His button-down shirt sleeves had been folded up to his elbows, the faded Dark Mark on casual display.

Al figured a Disillusionment Spell on his crotch was useless as he felt himself go from a constant half chub to fully roaring. “I’m not great at magic,” he stammered.

Draco arched a brow and graciously held eye contact. “So you decided to pursue employment where your life was dependent on it at all times?”

“I had to do something to work out of the public’s eyes, and Lily was already talking about becoming a Healer in fifth year.”

“Yes, I suppose the Quidditch world doesn’t need a fourth Potter. And it is considerate not to risk patients’ lives with your subpar magical abilities. Your words, of course.”

Al knew he was fucked when he started leaking into his pants.

Draco stared him down until Al felt a shiver escaping and his freckled skin broke out in gooseflesh. “You may lose to me again in the morning. Goodnight, Al.”

He left without a second glance, and Al felt like his dick had been stepped on with pleasure.





Which led to Al waddling down six corridors and a flight of stairs to his room, with a hand pressed to his bulge in delicious shame. His fly was opened as soon as he spotted his door, the lack of a painful zipper causing his knees to buckle on the spot. Fuck it. The house was enormous, what were the odds he’d be caught?

Al shoved his jeans down his thighs and tucked the hem of his pants below his bollocks, his groan loud when he finally took himself in hand and squeezed. This was going to be over embarrassingly quick.

He braced his forearm against the wall to hold himself up and spit into his hand. It was drier than Conjured lube but without the smell that gave him a headache. It would have to do. He was too close to bother rummaging through his duffle bag for proper lube.

Too close to doing anything more than fuck into his fist, in the middle of the hall while panting and baring his throat to the ceiling. To the Draco in his imagination. He was almost a head taller than Al, and it left him desperate. To be put into his place in a way that was cruel and intentional, not a careless brush off or thoughtless comment about not measuring up to the rest of his family. To be seen and not passed over. To be purposefully held down by a Marked arm and made to take it—

Al gasped aloud and shot his load on the floor in front of him, milky-white, stark, and sinful over black marble. He laughed at himself in surprise and lost his balance, slid down with his back to the wall, now facing another one of those Charmed Portraits, empty, save for the background of rolling hills and sheep.

Al licked his teeth and shook his dick free of any remaining strings of semen, then rolled his ballsack in his palm while he came down from the high.





Draco swallowed around the dryness of his throat. Then stood up from his desk and manually pulled a curtain over the singular Charmed frame, hung up in his study.

This was going to be a long week for both of them.





The tension was thick the next morning when they duelled. Same after lunch, and again before bed.

In an attempt to prove his suspicions, Al wanked off in the hall again, in front of that particular Charmed frame.

On purpose. Twice.

(If only because he ejaculated prematurely the first time.)





Draco cast a Silencing Charm at the frame. Then swore to himself; he wasn’t guilty. He didn’t wait for Al to finish his third round.

(He did imagine full lips and dark brown curls tucked beneath his mahogany desk when he brought himself off after.

And freckles — that he swore made up the Draco constellation on a shoulder — so low, he would have to bend down if he wanted to kiss the patch of sun-kissed skin.)





Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday were much the same.

They duelled. Al lost spectacularly, and Draco explained why in great detail.

They broke bread. Al asked intrusive questions with a flirty smile, and Draco danced around a majority of the answers while feigning indifference to the advances.

They spent breaks apart. Al wandered the manor and found a series of different Charmed picture frames to wank off in front of. Draco’s eyes grew darker with lust while his shoulders tightened with stress and compunction.

Then Saturday threw a Bludger into their routine.





Al used the proper silverware to slice his quiche into appropriate bite-sized amounts during lunch. Complying with social niceties always put Draco into a better mood, softened him up for the more daring questions.

This is exactly why he shouldn’t have acted so surprisedly when Al finally asked about the reason for the Hippogriff in the room. “So is my dad the only thing stopping you from shagging me? Because I look too much like him?”

Draco sputtered into his water goblet in an uncharacteristically undignified manner before righting himself to sorts. “Al, we’re not having this discussion, but if it helps you sleep at night — no. You are quite fortunate to not resemble him as closely as you seem to believe. Eat your food.”

“We have the same eyes, minus the glasses. Black hair. And—”

“Dark brown. Your hair is dark brown when the light hits it.”

“That’s really fucking gay,” Al pointed out, gesturing with his fork for emphasis.

“So is propositioning an older man, Albus, but that doesn’t seem to bother you. Would you like me to flatter your ego with all the other differences? His hair always looked like an owl flew into it and died while you have silken waves. Your skin tone is warmer, your mouth looks softer, and you have your mother’s nose,” Draco listed out like he would a shopping list for dried potion ingredients, all while spreading butter on toast. And avoiding eye contact. “And those Weasley freckles, of course,” he said, unable to fully hide his sigh.

“So you didn’t carry the torch for my dad, just my mum?”

“Ginevra? Circe’s tits, no.”

“Uncle Ron?”

Draco gave up the pretense of ignoring the uncomfortable problem until it slunk away like a guilty Kneazle and set his butter knife down to stare at Al. “Here I was, always worried about catching the Black family illness. Apparently, they’ve nothing on the Potters and your desire to entangle yourself in an Oedipus Complex. Albus Severus Potter, I swear on my mother’s magic that I have never been interested in either of your parents in the manner you’re implying. Or Ronald for that matter. While I did suffer from a lack of sound judgment in school, I assure you my pash on a Gryffindor was in better taste.”

Draco relaxed his posture and lounged in his high back chair, then twirled a small, unpeeled mandarin in one hand. Always the picture of gentlemanly leisure when off the duelling mat. “If you’re dying to find similarities, I can promise that you have your father’s complete lack of diplomacy. Congratulations.”

Al breathed out heavily through his nostrils and ignored the erection in his trackies. Few people could dismantle him as Draco did. With disdain and lechery in his eyes. Al shifted in his seat and adjusted himself without subtly. “Was it Professor Longbottom, then?”

Draco rolled his eyes, tossed his fruit onto the table, then stood up with a sneer. “We duel at half two. And I told you, I don’t date losers.”

“I ran out of names. I never paid attention during those Ministry events and speeches.”

“Half two, Albus.”





They duelled. Al improved by an insignificant increment. Draco seemed almost proud.

They had tea. Al slowly stroked his cock under the table cloth throughout the entire meal and ate left-handed. Draco studiously ignored the telling movement of his arm, yet stayed to verbally coach him through the necessary spells he must execute to pass his exam on Monday.

They had afters. Al licked his fingers clean and Draco pretended it was the vanilla custard they were served.

They were to duel again at half nine. Al brazenly stood up before tucking himself away. Draco left with houndstooth print trousers so incredibly tented, that Merlin himself couldn’t cast a charm strong enough to hide it.





“Stand up, Al. We’re going another round before bed.”

Al snorted, then tossed back the rest of his water. Unable to waste the opportunity, he grinned up at Draco for all he was worth, anxiety roiling in his veins. “The custard left you wanting more?”

Draco remained steadfast in expression but flicked his wand and cast a wordless Stinging Hex.

Al was clearly getting to him. He was so close to finally getting what he so desperately wanted. With a flinch, he cupped a hand over his chest and rubbed the smarting nipple. “That’s an interesting spot to aim for.”

With a stunning reflex, Draco stung the other one, too. “On your feet. Your Confringo is lacking in power.”

“You wanna Hex my arse while you’re at it?” Al asked. “I’d enjoy that more.”

Draco twirled his wrist like he might consider it, then turned and began the customary thirty pace march.

Al was prepared and on his feet, Shield Charm raised in time for the Jelly-Leg Jinx that was shot at him first. He fumed, cheeks warm and fists clenched. Their last duel of the night had become the most intense match of each day, Draco’s way of pushing Al to his limits and testing his knowledge of everything new he had learned. Beginning with such an easy move felt humiliating after the previous standards set. Al fired off a Confringo that was quickly countered and immediately went on the offence.

Confringo. Incarcerous. Confringo. Bombarda. Confringo. Stupefy.

Confringo. Locomotor Mortis. Confringo. Petrificus Totalus. Confringo. Titillando.

Al gasped and squirmed, his Shield Charm weak and Confringo poorly aimed.


Draco laughed at him and circled closer. “Really, Al? This is what decides your fate, tonight? I’m disappointed.”

A useless Confringo.

Stinging Hex. To the arse.

Confringo Maximus. That went wide.

“If I were grading you, I’d deduct points for such sloppy work.”

Confringo. Confringo. Confringo.

“While rapid-fire casting is certainly a valuable skill for fieldwork, it is not proper showmanship for your exam. Cast out of turn again and you will regret it.”


Al sneezed then rubbed his nose harshly, eyes squinting through the discomfort of taking such an awful spell to the face. He could barely focus and decided to cast in the direction he had last seen Draco.

Confringo. He was too far off the mark.

Tiltillando. To the back of one knee, that buckled.

Confringo. Al’s sloppy aim shook the ceiling momentarily.

Stinging Hex. To the other kneecap. Al toppled over like a house of chocolate frog cards.

Ribbet Ribbet, his mind taunted him while he blinked to clear his head. Light reflected off the scales of Dragonhide boots when they came into focus in front of him. Al was stomach down on the mat, his head turned to the side to protect his face from the collapse, and out of breath.

“Stand up, Al.”

“Finish me off.”

“Stand up.”

“You’ve already won.”

“Stand up and show me what you’ve learned.”

Al tilted his face up, caught Draco’s gaze, and held it. Then leaned closer, to lick over the toe of Draco’s boot.

Draco’s wand clattered to the ground, and he took a step back, then another. It returned to his grasp with a wordless Accio and he made to exit the room.

“You never told me his name.”

Draco paused in the doorway, panting as heavily as Al. “It was a long time ago.”

“What’s his name?”

“You’re not a replacement, Al.”

“So, who was it?” He asked, slow to stand, weary that he might spook Draco into leaving.

“You never met him.”

Al frowned and opened his mouth to argue, then closed it when the meaning dawned on him. Oh. “So… What about Uncle Geor—”

“—They’re different people.”

“But they’re twins.”

Draco snorted and shook his head. Then idly rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “They were still different men, Al. I would think you of all people could understand that.”

The condescension prickled under his skin, and Al crossed his arms to stop himself. A Confringo to the back would fix nothing.

“Goodnight. And stay away from my portraits, you buggering pervert.”





If Draco wanted to reduce Al to nothing more than an annoying pervert he had to babysit for a week, then that is exactly what he would get.

This was a mantra Al repeated in his mind when he stood at the top of the main hall’s staircase and stripped down to his worn-out pants, on their third day Scourgify.

Then, he proceeded to wank until he was red, sweaty and his knees shook. Until his voice was hoarse from all the groaning that echoed through the grand hall. Until his pants were damp from sweat, rank with musk, and his balls were sticking to his skin.

Al was a late bloomer to sexual stamina, but he put his best effort into edging out his orgasm until he heard his heartbeat roaring in his ears at a deafening pace. Until he felt his blood pumping through his veins at a dangerous speed. Until he felt certain that no matter where in the manor Draco was and regardless of what he might be doing, that he was well aware of Al sliding his fist over his cock. Aware of how desperate Al was to be touched by him.

To simply be kissed

With eyes closed tightly and his mouth open in silence, Al lost control and released through the gaps in the decorative metal railing. White droplets fell a lofty distance to splatter across black marble flooring. It was a cathartic moment until it was over. Then, Al felt nothing but wrung dry.

In a final show of insolence, Al stepped out of his dirty, red pants and tossed them over the balcony railing too, before returning to his room, to lick his wounds.





Al was nearly asleep by the time a door opened on the main floor. Candlelight spilled out into the foyer and boots clicked softly against stone.





On Sunday morning, Al beat Draco to the practice room, for the very first time.

He waited. And waited some more, until it was clear that no partner would be joining him today.





Brunch was served in the solarium. The house-elves pulled out all the stops for a full English spread. For one.

It tasted like sand in Al’s mouth.





Draco had his back to the door when Al stormed into the training room. His face was closed off, reflected in the mirrored wall. The casualness of it only served to piss Al off. “What the fuck?”

Ignoring all protocols for duelling, Al shot off a Stunner without caring if Draco could raise up a Shield Charm in time.

He did.

“Were you just going to ignore me until I left? Was that your plan? To be a coward?” Al asked, his speech rising in pitch with every question.

Turned around, Draco’s facade wavered when his jaw clenched. “We’re not proceeding with your usual practice duels today. You need to be well-rested for your exam tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you bloody well know it,” Al pressed, even when his voice cracked.

“Instead, I’ve decided on a single mock exam.” “Draco, stop!” “Then you’ll take your Portkey home.”

“Like hell, I will,” Al swore, arms crossing his chest.

“Okay, Al, then please enlighten me on what you think should happen? Shall I send the Aurors an owl, asking to extend your stay so we can play house for a few days? A week? A month?” Draco arched a brow and gestured at the room. “Would you like to give me a show in here, too? You’ve certainly been busy in every other wing of the Manor.”

“You’re being such an arsehole.” With a snort, Al stepped closer. “Before you even think of accusing me of being too young, or immature, or innocent—”

“—We both know you’re far from innocent.” Draco rolled his eyes.

“I’m at least willing to talk about my feelings. I’m not afraid, Draco.”

“What feelings?” Draco threw his hands up in the air, retreating as Al advanced. “You’re twenty-three and horny, that’s all it is. You’re so desperate for a shag that you keep tossing off in the halls!”

“How do you know that, Draco?” Al licked his lips once he had Draco cornered. “Peeping on me?”

“No. No, you’re defiling my security system. It’s disgraceful and—”

“—You like it.” He poked Draco in the sternum, hard. “But you’re afraid to touch me, so you watch and get off on it, don’t you?”

“That’s not true.”

“You haven’t complained.”

“I asked you to stop before and you refused to listen.”

Al laughed and shook his head, then rubbed his knuckles across the bridge of his nose. “First off, that was a weak request, and we both fucking know it. And if it really bothered you, you could’ve Spelled the portraits off.”

Draco’s gaze dropped down to Al’s mouth. “I didn’t watch you. I covered the Portrait Frame in my office.”

Al curled his fingers around the braces Draco wore. “Did you use a Silencing Charm, Draco? Or did you listen to me? Did you hear me say your name?”

“This isn’t fair,” he complained, breathless.

“I pretended it was you touching me. I teased myself like I thought you would.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you hear me when I gagged on my own fingers?”

Merlin, fuck me.” Draco curled an arm around Al’s waist to pull him closer. “You’re a terrible menace. I ought to send you home without anything.”

Al gasped and tugged harder on the braces, lifting up onto the balls of his feet to be closer. “Let me stay, please. Please, Draco, I’ll be so good, promise.”

“You couldn’t be good if I paid you,” Draco muttered, dipping his head to kiss the corner of Al’s mouth. “You spoilt deviant.” A kiss on his cheek, his jaw, his neck. “Bloody tease.” Straight teeth nipping at his throat.

“Only for you,” Al swore, one hand slithering up to grab at Draco’s hair. “You’re really fit for a dad, you know.”

With a growl, Draco swot Al across his arse then drew him closer for a proper kiss. His whispered, “No diplomacy,” was lost in the space between their lips.

A whirlwind of kisses, shedded clothing and restraint, they found their roles reversed. The cool glass of the mirror contrasting against the heat of Al’s back, one tan leg hiked up over Draco’s hip while wand-calloused fingers opened him up. His desperate perseverance paid off as Draco spun him around to face their reflections when he thrust inside.

It sent a shiver down Al’s spine to see them like this. His mouth wet and plush from kissing, his neck blotchy from the rasp of stubble. Draco’s eyes were murky with lust and shamelessly roaming across his body in the mirror, instead of the careful avoidance he’d suffered through this past week. The caution had been stripped away. Manners deserted and unbridled strength manoeuvred Al into his hands and knees on the duelling mat. His panting breath fogged up the glass, his skin felt heated, vision blurry.

This was everything Al had wanted, and he clung to that zeal, unable to handle the possibility of the tryst ending.

And ending soon. Draco’s touch was electric, sparks on every patch of sweaty skin. Al could feel it building up deep within him and knew he would be tumbling over the threshold soon.

“Look,” Draco ordered, his hand sliding from Al’s chest to clutch his jaw. “I want you to see what I did. You’re going to wank until you come on the glass like you came on my floor.” He nipped at Al’s ear and sped up his thrusts. “Is that understood?”

Al wrapped a hand around himself and whined, squeezing the base to keep from going off immediately. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will.”

Draco was demanding, but Al yearned to please, finding solace in the fact that they were equally out of breath. Two, three strokes of his cock and he was finished. Naughty ropes like decorative glaze on a canvas. Al couldn’t contain his moan when Draco’s hand clutched at his hair and shoved his face into the mess. “Lick it clean. Just like you did at the table.”

Al knew Draco had been watching. Pleased with himself, he followed orders, his clumsy tongue scraping every bit of release from the mirror. It seemed to be Draco’s undoing. The deciding factor for him to pull out and finish on Al’s back and arse with warm stripes.

That quickly cooled.

Then it was over. Al was a sweaty, naked mess on the mat, and Draco was finished using his body for release. Al had to go home, empty-handed and broken-hearted. Tears stung at his eyes as he hobbled back into position, presenting himself to be taken once more. Despite his best efforts, his voice shook when he begged, “Again. Fuck me again.”

Draco chuckled and gave his bum a gentle squeeze. “Did you find the flaw in shagging someone older, Al? I need an hour, and you haven’t the time to spare. I’m not taking a libido potion until my body starts failing me, that shit is addictive.”

“Fuck you. I bet Professor Longbottom wouldn’t be tired already.”

“Shut your rude mouth.”

There. That was the edge Al wanted. All he had to do was push a little farther and Draco would be exactly where he wanted him.

“Make me. Or are you too old and limp?”

There was a beat of silence. Then a fist grabbed his ankle and Al was physically dragged to lie over Draco’s lap, arse up. Before he had a chance to mouth off again, a heavy palm swung down on one cheek. Heat bloomed and Al’s back arched, breath hissing through his teeth.

“You will count out loud, Albus. One lash for every time you lost a duel this week.”

“That’s not—” Al gasped and squirmed after the second strike. Draco’s force left no room for argument. “Two.”

“Say ‘thank you’.”

“I’m not— Three. Thank you, okay. Fine. I’ll, four, thank you.” It stung.

The spanking continued, alternating cheeks and patches of skin, until it felt like Al’s entire backside was aflame.

Until he lost count. Until it was quiet and still and numb.

Then there was a faint smell of lemons and aloe. His skin no longer felt clammy, but clean. No sweat on his brow, his spine, under his arms. Al felt soft and suspended in time. His vision slowly blinked back into focus. He registered a hand smoothing down his side and two fingers brushing over his tongue, his mouth full of saliva. The taste of a potion he couldn’t remember swallowing down.

He felt sluggish but safe. He wanted to stay here.

The comforting fingers withdrew from his mouth. “I had a house-elf pack your bag and bring it down.”

“No,” Al whined, his eyelashes heavy as he tried to move closer.

“Your Portkey leaves in ten minutes.”


“You need to get dressed.”

“Draco, please.”

The hand on his side slowed, traced the edge of his hip, then pulled away for good.

“Good luck on your exam, Albus.”

He was alone.





On Monday morning, Al walked towards the Ministry duelling mat with his usual ball of anxiety, crawling under his skin like a sea of Flobberworms set loose. He glanced over to his right where his peers were seated in four ascending rows. They were poised and ready to watch him fail out of his last opportunity to stay in the trainee program. To finally see a Potter fall from glory — not that Al ever had any to start with, besides the names given to him at birth.

He licked his teeth and twirled his wand with nervous fingers until his gaze landed on a figure standing in the back shadows. Slim shoulders, long legs, back straight with confidence. Loose blond hair kissing sharp cheekbones.

“Albus Potter, please enter the ring.”

A pair of clean, red pants folded up like a pocket square and tucked into his front jacket pocket, the cheeky designer waistband peeking out across the top.

“Shake hands with your opponent.”

Thin lips crooked into a devil-may-care smirk with a silver scar cutting across his pale skin.

“Thirty paces back, then you may begin.”

Draco Malfoy doesn’t date losers.

So, Al passed his exam.