When Draco first applied to the Auror program, he did it mainly out of spite. He had no expectations after his trial and acquittal. His name had been splashed across the cover of the Prophet for weeks after, and all of the attention had resulted in him being unable to find employment anywhere in Wizarding London. Though his family still had money, Draco refused to take any of it — at least while his father was the one offering it — and for a brief fever dream of a moment, he considered looking for (ugh) Muggle work. The flyer was stapled to a notice board and half buried under an advert for vocal lessons. Though its print was faded by rain and sun, Draco recognized the DMLE logo and, after carefully removing it from the board, he had filled out the application with a sense of vicious accomplishment.
He sent it off with his owl and figured that would be that. Even though he met the qualifications for the program, even though he was — as far as the law was concerned — a guilt-free man, Draco did his absolute best to let the application disappear from his mind as easily as it had disappeared from view. Expectations were what got him into his little post-war problem in the first place, and while he could be faulted for many things, he did learn from his mistakes.
The acceptance letter had been a bit of a shock.
When he walked into the DMLE training centre — a whitewashed building located in the Wizarding district of Basingstoke — Draco Malfoy had been asked if he was:
Or turning himself in.
Since he was doing none of those things, and the Auror trainee badge on his shirt didn't seem to be doing the trick, he kept his head down, went to Classroom 4A as per his written instructions, found a desk, and prepared to endure an absolutely horrifying experience.
Of course, Potter was there, trailed by Weasley. They were laughing, jovial, bumping shoulders and throwing fake punches at each other as they came into the room. Draco couldn't help his eyes jumping up to the pair of them — they were making a hell of a racket — but all of the joy had bled out of Potter's face as soon as he saw Draco and realized who he was looking at. That brief second where Potter's smile had stayed on his face, genuine and welcoming, was almost as painful as the stares that Draco had endured during the walk in.
"Is that Malfoy?" Weasley whispered quite audibly. "What's he doing here?"
Robards strode in through the classroom door and slammed it hard enough to make the walls shake. "He is here for the same reason all of you are. Take your seats, Mr Weasley, Mr Potter. We've got work to do."
Every inch of him aches. He's covered in sweat, and if he weren't with the other trainees, Draco would rip off his exercise shirt and get some relief from his body heat. But he's in a line of other trainees, all of them paired off for hand-to-hand combat training, and there's no bloody way Draco would let any of them see his Mark and rub his past in his face.
Not when he can rub their faces into the mat instead.
Weasley curses from his end of the exercise mat. "Merlin, Malfoy, you split my lip."
"Dodge better next time." Draco shakes out his hands, then bounces on the balls of his feet. "All done, Weasley?"
"Ha-ha," Weasley says before thumbing his nose and taking up a boxing stance. "The day I'm done trying to punch you will be a cold day in Hell, Malfoy."
Robards groans as he walks past them. "Gentlemen. Put your childhood grievances aside, or I'll be forced to partner you with someone else in the program."
"Oh no," Draco deadpans, "whatever will I do? However shall I survive if I'm not forced to spend ten hours a day in the presence of a humanoid Kneazle?"
"That's it, Malfoy, I swear if you—"
"That is enough!" Robards voice cracks through the training room like a shot. "Weasley, you're working with Brown from now on, and Malfoy — "
"No, sir, I was — "
"You're partnered with Potter."
Draco Malfoy doesn't hate Harry Potter. Hating Harry Potter would be easy. Familiar. Hating Harry Potter would be like finding a lost childhood treasure, filling Draco with warm nostalgia and a sense of belonging, of peace.
But Draco doesn't hate Harry Potter.
No, Draco wants to shag Harry Potter six ways to Sunday.
The most astonishing part of Draco's involvement in the Auror trainee program was how easily Potter had taken to the idea. Whereas Weasley held onto past grudges like a Crup with a bone, Potter had simply shrugged, wished Draco the best of luck, and then tried to invite him to the local.
It was horrifying.
Potter helped Draco with his papers, shared his lecture notes, offered advice on how Draco could improve his defensive casting. He'd even — the memory still sends chills all across Draco's body — put his hands on Draco's hips during a combat class. It was supposedly to help adjust Draco's stance, but the press of Potter's fingers into Draco's skin had been perhaps a bit too forceful, held a bit too much meaning as they held onto Draco's body, so that when Draco Apparated to his flat, he'd needed to wank twice before he could get the touch out of his mind and the want out of his bloodstream.
It made their training program difficult, but Draco managed. It wasn't the first time he lusted after someone he shouldn't have, wasn't even the first time he lusted after Potter, but it was manageable.
It was fine.
Draco avoids the locker room as much as he possibly can. He's not ashamed of his body — he has a six-pack, thank you very much, and gorgeous legs — but he can't do anything other than cover his Mark to keep it hidden. Glamors don't work on it, and when he tried to remove it, the stain just came back the next day, seeping black through the blood. So he waits until all the other trainees have finished showering and changing before he even unlaces his trainers.
The room echoes uncomfortably. The floor is concrete, and the walls are tiled, so sound bounces around the space like a child given too many sweets. The quiet drip of a shower, turned off but still leaking, is enough to sound like a soft rainstorm. Lockers slam shut with metallic bangs that ring through the room like irate bells. But once the noise dies away and it's just Draco and the persistent drip, he feels comfortable enough to undress.
He's got a towel around his waist and he's reviewing today's exercises in his head as he walks into the shower stalls when it happens. There's a soft sound of surprise, and when Draco lifts his head, Potter is stepping from a stall, bare and wet and fucking glistening, and Draco thinks time freezes.
He doesn't mean to look. Really, he doesn't. He spent his childhood and his adolescence in communal bathrooms, and he knows to keep his eyes above the waist. But he's not expecting Potter, and his eyes drop before he can stop them, and Draco's life is officially ruined.
Potter has, without a doubt, the most beautiful cock that Draco has ever seen or imagined in his life. Even soft, it's long and thick, nestled in a tidy bed of dark brown curls. It hangs, free and proud, between Potter's thick thighs, and Draco doesn't mean to — he really, really doesn't — but he lets out an audible gasp before yanking his eyes up to meet Potter's astonished ones.
"Sorry," he says. He doesn't sound sincere at all. "I'm just…"
"Yeah, yeah." Potter holds his towel in front of his waist, then steps to the side to let Draco past. "Didn't mean to… Anyway, I guess I'll see you tomorrow, Malfoy."
Draco waits for Potter's footsteps to fade before he takes his towel off and hangs it up outside of the shower stall. The water is hot and pounding against his back, but he doesn't feel it over the fire in his blood as he wanks furiously, the image of Potter's perfect cock emblazoned in Draco's mind.
They're sitting across from each other in the Auror library, a smaller off-shoot of the official Ministry library that contains case files and court transcripts specific to the Auror Corps. Draco's been doing his level best to stay focused on the exceedingly dull transcript before him — No, your honor, I was not aware of the statue of 1834 and its implications upon the handling of evidence in this case. If you look at subsection 18 of the submitted brief, you will see — but Potter keeps accidentally kicking Draco's foot under the table, and he's going to either hex the man or snog him if he doesn't stop.
"Potter," Draco hisses when Potter's boot taps against Draco's again. "Do you need something?"
"Hm?" Potter looks up through his fringe, eyebrows raised. "What's that, Malfoy?"
"Do you need something?"
"No, I don't think so." Potter looks down at his text, then back up again. "Why do you ask?"
"My foot? What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," Draco says through gritted teeth, "other than it keeps running into mine."
Potter flushes. It isn't adorable. "Oh, sorry about that. I've always had a problem with fidgeting while studying. I can move, if that'd help?"
Draco fights against relief and disappointment. "I think it would."
"Yeah, alright." Potter starts shuffling his things into an untidy pile. "Sorry again about that, Malfoy."
Then, he stands, walks to Draco's side of the table, and sits down next to him.
"Potter," Draco says slowly, drawing the syllables out as if that will somehow make this make sense, "what the bloody hell are you doing?"
"Moving," Potter says as if it's obvious. He spreads his papers out again, his quill at the ready as he opens his book back to where he'd left off. His elbow bumps into Draco's. "Sorry."
A moment later he shifts his chair a bit further to the left, then gets back to whatever it is he's working on. Draco continues staring at Potter, who flips to the next page and makes another note on his parchment.
Eventually, Draco goes back to his own work, though he's still as distracted by Potter as before. Though their feet aren't touching, Draco can feel the air move whenever Potter shifts, can smell the subtle hint of Potter's cologne or body wash — Draco isn't entirely sure which it might be or if it's just Potter's natural scent. Draco can hear him breathing, though it's only if he listens intently and leans closer.
"Malfoy," Potter says, causing Draco to jump back. "What are you doing?"
"Reading." He turns the page in his book, though he has no idea what the last one said. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't interrupt me."
Potter's chair screeches against the floor as he turns it to face Draco. "I don't know, you seem distracted to me."
"I've no idea what you're talking about," Draco says as he turns, but the words come out scratchy and hoarse because Potter's got his legs spread, his hand resting on his thigh, and the noticeable bulge of his cock visible through his trousers.
"Sure you don't have something on your mind?" Potter asks, his fingers trailing up his inseam and pausing, as if daring Draco to comment.
"No." It's like he's swallowed glass. "Not at all."
"Ah, I see." Potter's hand inches higher. "If there's something bothering you, you can tell me. We're partners after all."
"Of course." Draco rips his eyes away from Potter and back to his book.
If someone were to hold a wand to Draco's head and threaten to cast the Killing Curse unless he could summarize the last page of the book, Draco would be fucked.
"Too bad," Potter says quietly, almost to himself. "Must've misread it, then."
Draco's body clenches.
This is for the best.
Draco's learned to not set expectations. He has goals, of course, but when it comes to the things he really wants, he doesn't allow himself to hope. Working for them, striving for them, that is acceptable. But simply wishing that they would come to pass? That the future would be bright and full of happiness?
No, he's past those juvenile wonderings.
Today feels like hopes realized, though. He stares at himself in the mirror, his hands shaking as he does up the golden buttons on his uniform. It fits him perfectly across the shoulders. There are epaulets bracketing them today, though he won't wear them when out on patrol. This is his dress uniform, after all. Worn for special occasions only.
And today is very special indeed.
Somehow, against all the odds, Draco is graduating from the Auror program.
Somehow, Draco Malfoy is an Auror.
His hands shake as he straightens his collar. The top button refuses to slide into its hole, and Draco's about to pull off his white gloves to get the job done when someone taps him on the shoulder.
"Here," Potter says, his ungloved hands reaching for Draco's throat, "let me."
There's a brush of calloused fingertip against Draco's pulse, then the slide and ease of metal through fabric, and Potter takes a step back.
"That better?" Potter asks as he fishes his own gloves from his pocket.
Draco swallows and is thankful that his trousers are so well tailored that there's no way Potter can tell of his interest. "Yes."
Potter glows in his uniform. The red of his jacket highlights the rich tone of his skin, making him look bronzed. He shines as much as the gold buttons and epaulets and braids on his uniform, maybe even more. His normally riotous hair has been tamed by some arcane means, and rather than falling in untidy waves around his head, it lays in easy, careful waves. One curl dangles over his forehead, and Potter brushes it away before adjusting his glasses. The light glints on the silver frames, and for a moment, Draco thinks that Potter's eyes might be shining, too.
Salazar, he's so fucked.
"You excited?" Potter asks, and Draco shifts his weight, hoping that his half-hard cock isn't that obvious. "About graduating from the program?"
"O-of course. Yes."
Potter smiles. "You sound very convincing."
"I mean it." Draco straightens his collar again, though it doesn't need it. "I worked hard for this. I deserve this."
"I don't care what anyone out there might think about my place here. I've earned it."
Draco frowns. "You think you're helping."
"I think you're nervous." Potter's voice softens. "You belong here, Malfoy. Don't let anyone else make you think otherwise."
Draco hums thoughtfully and fights the wave of comfort and desire that whips through him. He shouldn't find consolation this enticing.
"Thank you, Potter," Draco says as he finally steps away from the mirror. "Your pity means the world."
Potter frowns. "It's not pity, you prat. If you'd just take a minute to listen to me — "
"Oi, Harry!" Weasley comes striding in, looking unfairly comfortable (and attractive, damn it) in his uniform. "Robards wants to know if you're ready for your speech."
His attention grabbed, Potter drifts away from Draco. "I already told him I was five minutes ago. What's got his knickers in a twist?"
"Probably the Minister of Magic," Weasley says with a shrug.
Draco slips out of the room before either of them can notice.
"The thing about the law," Potter says from the podium, his speech laid before him, its corners curling up as the wind blows, "is that it's so easy to see it as black and white. After all, the law is just words on a page. An agreement made between the courts and the people. That some things aren't allowed, are inhuman, and others aren't. But the incredible thing about being part of law enforcement" — he looks out into the crowd as he says this, letting the syllables echo — "is that there is always a choice to be made. Motives to be weighted, circumstances to be considered. The Aurors do their duty to uphold the law. But when you uphold something, you bring it closer to the light. You take it from the darkness. And you must ask yourself, in the clear light of day, whether or not the law is sometimes wrong.
"I can see Auror Robards turning a violent shade of red over there," Potter says with a charming smile, "and I know he'd rather I not be saying these things. But if there's anything I've learned over the course of my life, it's that there's good in all of us. There's hope in all of us. And if we lose that, then we lose everything. My hope is that we will all bring light into the world and though it may sometimes hurt, that we will look at the law — and whatever darkness may lay within it — with clear eyes, clear hearts, and clear consciences. Thank you."
The applause is scattered and weak at first, but Draco gives up any pretense of composure and claps as loudly as he can. Potter's eyes flit to him for a second, but the only sign that he'd seen Draco is the quick upturn of his mouth. Slowly, the rest of the crowd joins in, until everyone is pounding their hands together. The applause is like a living thing, roaring its way through the audience to crowd closer to Potter and his timid, comfortable half-smile.
Draco wishes he were sound, so he might be just as close.
The locker room is empty. Everyone else is out in the reception hall, spending time with their families, their friends, getting clapped on the back for a job well-done. Draco, however, doesn't have well-wishers. His mother is confined to the Manor, his father to Azkaban. Pansy is in France for the extended future, and Draco hadn't been able to tell her he'd applied to the program, much less been admitted, much less graduated.
So, he's alone in his finery, standing in front of his locker, wondering what in the hell he's managed to get himself into.
Draco sighs, shoulders slumping. "I should have known you'd come in here looking for me."
"And why's that?"
"Because you've always been a sucker for a charity case," Draco says before turning around. "And I do believe I fit the bill today."
"That's not why I'm here."
Draco ignores him. "It was a lovely speech, if a bit anarchist. I think Robards had an apoplexy."
His given name makes him pause. Exhaustion sweeps over him. "What do you want, Harry?"
Potter runs his hand through his hair, sending his carefully managed curls spinning. "I wanted to talk to you."
With a groan, he gestures between the two of them. "About… whatever this is."
"God, I really should hate you." Harry takes a step forward. "I really, really should."
"Rather difficult to build camaraderie when we hate each other."
Another step. "That's the thing, Draco." Another. Harry's hand is cupping Draco's jaw, forcing him to look up into green. "I don't hate you at all."
The kiss is a revelation. Draco gasps in a breath, his lips parting, and Potter dives in. His tongue is hot and agile, drawing a groan from Draco's throat before tracing the edge of his lip. Harry shifts his angle just enough for their mouths to slant together, a perfect caress of hot breath and firm flesh, and Draco's scrabbling for balance, for air, for Harry's arms, anything to hold himself upright and rooted in reality.
Harry must sense some of Draco's confusion and desperation because he eases his kiss, softens it until they're just brushing lips against lips, an almost-there touch that sets Draco's blood boiling as much as the first, passionate kiss had.
"I'll stop," Harry whispers against Draco's mouth, "if you want me to."
Draco slips his hands into Harry's curls and pulls him close. "Don't you bloody dare."
Lost in the kiss, Draco's startled when Harry presses Draco into the lockers behind him.
"You've no idea how long I've wanted to do this," Harry pants against Draco's throat, his hands fighting with the buttons of Draco's uniform. "You've been killing me for weeks."
Draco's hips lift without his conscious control. "Merlin, Potter."
"Ever since I saw you in the showers." Another button slips loose, and Draco's jacket falls open. Harry's hands are like brands along Draco's sides, pulling at his dress shirt and finally settling on skin. "It's all I've been able to think about."
"The library," Draco gasps as his hands catch up with reality and do their best to find a way to Harry's skin. "You meant to do that, with your foot."
"I was hoping you'd fuck me in the stacks," Harry says as he grabs Draco's arse, and not through the linen of Draco's uniform trousers. His hands are broad and warm, and Draco nearly comes from the hint of Harry's fingers at the crease of his arse. "I had to jerk off in the library bathroom to stop me from making a fool of myself."
"Oh, fuck. That should be disgusting." Draco grinds against Harry. "Why isn't that disgusting?"
"Because you're gagging for it." Harry kisses him, then ruts against Draco's hip. Draco can feel the heavy weight of Harry's cock and his shivers. "Everyone's always gagging for my cock."
"Ah, fuck." Draco gives up on any pretense of being calm and/or collected about this and palms Harry through his trousers. His hand is overflowing. "Oh, fuck, Harry."
The button fly on Harry's uniform pants is a bastard, and Draco hates it. He finesses it open, then forces himself to stop kissing Harry so he can look at what's been haunting his dreams for weeks now.
Harry's cock is uncut, thick and heavy and proud. It thrusts through the opening of Harry's trousers without shame, and Draco watches a precome gathers at the ruddied tip and then drops onto the floor. His mouth waters.
He's on his knees before he knows it, nosing at the weight of Harry's cock. Fingers thread through his hair, gentle and coaxing, but Draco doesn't want gentle, so he lays his hands overtop of Harry's and tightens them.
"Fuck my face," he says before taking the tip of Harry's cock in his mouth. A second later, Harry thrusts gently into Draco's mouth. It's a slow, steady tease, but Draco wants the back of his throat to burn, the corners of his mouth to split, his eyes to water, so he pushes forward too fast, chokes, and loves it.
"Careful," Harry pants, pulling back. Draco digs his fingers into Harry's arse, holding him in place. "Fuck, Draco, I don't want to hurt you."
Though it pains him to do so, Draco pulls back until Potter's cock falls from his mouth. "Potter, if you don't fuck my mouth like you mean it, I will get up and leave."
"Shit." He lines himself up with Draco's mouth, smears the head of his prick against Draco's lips. "If you're going to be a brat about it."
Harry's thrusts is deep, and Draco gags around it. The discomfort is exactly what he wants, though, and as Harry picks up a brutal, punishing rhythm, Draco loses himself to it. It feels good to be owned like this, to know exactly what to do, to let go of whatever expectations there might be and just drift. He was meant to be used, has always been used, but this time, it feels good.
He feels so fucking good.
It's with half a mind that Draco grabs his own cock. He works his hand over his flesh to the same tempo of Harry's cock in his mouth. In the half-daze he's in, it's almost like he's sucking himself off, and it doesn't take long before he's coming in spurts across the shiny black leather Oxfords of Harry's uniform.
"Ah, Christ, Draco, did you just…?" Harry groans, digs his fingers into Draco's scalp. "Fuck. Damn it, I'm going to — "
Draco swallows and swallows, working his throat over the head of Harry's cock. It stings and Draco's jaw aches, but he can't stop, won't stop, doesn't stop until Harry's curled over Draco's head, his fingers pulling tears from Draco's eyes as they tear at his hair. Harry's cursing, but Draco's can't hear it over the rush of blood in his ears.
When Harry finally pulls out, there's come seeping from the corners of Draco's mouth. His bottom lip is split, and as he tongues at the ache, he tastes iron and bitter salt. A second later, Harry's wand is touching Draco's lip, and there's a sharp burn as he casts a healing spell.
"I'm sorry," he says as he draws the wood away.
Draco stands, his knees aching. "Don't apologize," he says as he resettles Harry's glasses on his face. They'd been knocked uneven earlier, and Draco can't stop himself from the tender gesture, even though it hurts as much as his split lip had. "You didn't mean to hurt me."
"I didn't." Harry's eyes drift to where Draco's shirt hangs open around his neck, to the thin line of white slashed across his chest. "I never did."
"Well, then," Draco says as he fights to put himself back together. His hands are shaking. "Nothing to worry about."
"What're you doing right now?" Harry blurts, and Draco looks up at him through his lashes. His skin, so dark, is flushed along his cheeks. It's the same color as his cock. "Obviously not right-now, right-now, but after. Or on Friday, or Saturday, or…"
"Nothing," Draco says, trying his best to not think of expectations or hope. "Why?"
Harry smiles, eyes bright. "Oh," he says as he drags Draco in for another kiss, "no reason."