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Beloved Thursdays

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The first time it happens they are arguing about a case. Potter doesn’t like the way Draco handled the capture of a dark wizard they’d been tracking for months. He thought Draco was too reckless when Draco knew he’d had everything under control, had planned for every possible scenario.

What Draco had never planned for was a raging Potter, toe to toe with him in Potter’s office, looking furious and beautiful with his dark skin flushed and green eyes snapping fire. Draco was caught in the moment and stopped yelling. Potter kept up his tirade until he realized Draco was silent and aching. Potter had closed what little space was left between them, fisted his hands in Draco’s long hair and crushed their mouths together. 

That first time had been quick and hard, with their clothes yanked down and rucked up, and Potter holding onto the desk while Draco held on to him. Draco was positive Potter would be sore and sporting bruises but from the sounds he was making Draco was also positive Potter didn’t give a fuck as long as Draco kept up the swift pace.

Draco spent the days after that meeting, waking up shaking, unable to sleep until he wrapped his fingers around his aching prick and worked himself to completion. Draco both dreaded and was impatient for their next meeting.

He went into Potter’s office the next week, in a crisp new waistcoat and pants, and the practiced aloofness that he used to hide everything. Draco swallowed his disappointment when Potter launched into a review of the cases their departments had open and focused on the work before them. Potter closed the last case file and stood. That’s when Draco saw Potter was hard and straining against his trousers.

Potter walked over to him, dropped to his knees, and proceeded to pull every coherent thought out of Draco’s prick and a few choice words from his mouth as well.

What followed was weeks of the same pattern and that hour or two in Potter’s office became the thing Draco survived for and the thing that was starting to rip his soul to shreds.


Draco dresses with care, he always does on Thursdays, because on Thursdays the Head Auror and the Head Unspeakable have their weekly meeting. Draco chooses a dove grey waistcoat with black embroidery, a crisp white shirt open just so at the neck, and fitted black trousers. The mirror in his flat tells him he looks good, but Draco’s stomach is in knots of anticipation. He brushes his hair until it shines and pulls it back in a neat queue. He knows Potter likes to pull it free. Draco adjusts himself at the thought and hisses at the contact. 

Draco puts a hand on the wall and steadies his breathing. He has hours before he sees Potter. Draco sweeps everything up into the corner of his mind and when he looks at himself again, his face is cold and passive. He’s had an entire lifetime in Malfoy Manor to perfect this particular facade and it’s always served him well.

He throws himself into the work waiting for him in his office and compiles a list of the cases he needs to go over with Potter. Draco focuses on the details of each case instead of the way his heart pounds thinking about Potter sprawled across his desk.

Draco wraps his deep grey cloak over his shoulders at half past one, picks up the parchments he needs, and makes his way to the Auror floor. 

Potter’s door is open when Draco arrives and he pauses in the doorway and looks his fill. Potter is scratching something across a parchment, his long fingers curled around the quill. He has his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he thinks. His dark curls are more of a mess than normal, like he’s been running his hands through his hair and pulling at it in frustration. Potter is wearing a deep green double breasted shirt with two rows of bronze buttons on one side. 

Draco raps his knuckles on the door frame.

Potter looks up and color further darkens his cheek. His hands scrabble across the parchment and flip it over in haste. Draco knows how Potter’s blushes look as they deepen the color of his skin across his chest and Draco has to physically push the image aside to smooth his voice.

“Good afternoon, Potter.”

Potter clears his throat. “Malfoy, please come in.”

Draco takes a step into Potter’s office. “May I close the door?”

Potter’s hand clenches into a fist. “Yes, please.”

Draco has heard those words so many other times with Potter spread and shaking underneath him that Draco feels himself harden. Potter’s eyes drop and he bites his bottom lip as he sees Draco and the state his words have put the other man in. Draco tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat and lifts his chin, walking stiffly to sink into the chair opposite of Potter’s desk.

Draco lays the stack of parchments in his arms on the desk. “Shall we begin?”

Potter nods and they go over each case, one by one, taking notes and sharing information. Potter makes connections that escape Draco, and Draco offers insight that Potter misses. They make a perfect team, something that has not escaped Draco’s attention, and it only makes what comes after even more alluring. The problem is that Draco suspects he and Potter would be compatible everywhere, even when they aren’t comparing cases or Draco is balls deep in Potter’s arse.

Draco puts the last case aside, piles up the parchments, and places them in his chair when he stands. Potter leans back in his chair, green eyes hungry and sparkling, watching Draco as he walks deliberately slow around to the back of the desk. Draco cups Potter’s face then pushes his fingers back through Potter’s curls. They sit just above his shoulders, the perfect length for Draco to be able to grab a fistful of Potter’s hair and tilt his head back.

Draco kisses Potter with meticulous care meant to unravel every wall they have between them, until there is nothing left but aching, heaving, desperate need. It takes a mere moment until they are both breathless. Draco unbuttons Potter’s shirt and slides his hands over the hard muscles of Potter’s chest, then moving lower. Potter is straining the front of his trousers and Draco’s fingers shake as they release the buttons that are between him and his goal.

Draco drops to his knees in front of Potter. “I want to taste you before I take you today.”

Potter nods and when Draco moves his head down towards Potter’s prick, Potter pulls at the tie holding Draco’s hair back. It falls in a golden curtain around Draco’s head as he swallows down Potter, who tastes like salt and desire on his tongue. Potter wraps Draco’s hair around his hands and pulls on his hair as Draco sucks Potter in and out of his mouth.

“I need you to fuck me, Malfoy.” Potter is already begging and Draco smiles as he releases Potter from his mouth.

“I’ll never say no to that.” He will never say no to Potter, ever, but there’s a new throb of misery that grows each time he does this. Each time Draco pushes into Potter’s body, Draco is starting to want more than these stolen moments and that desire is eating him one painful encounter at a time. He might never tell Potter no, but his yes is killing him.

Draco stands and moves the things on the desk over into neat piles on the slide. Potter’s hands are squeezing Draco’s hips from behind as he makes room for what they both want. Draco turns around and offers Potter his hand. Potter stands, shirt open, prick hanging out, and pupils wide. Potter steps around Draco and leans over the desk. 

They’ve done this many ways, and the way Potter likes best is when he leaves himself and Draco access to his own prick, so he braces himself on the desk with his arms. Draco uses a wandless Lubrico to cover his fingers before putting them one by one into Potter. When Draco gets to three, Potter is making a needy, moaning noise that is ripping at Draco’s self-control.

Draco repeats the lubricating spell and spreads it over his own prick while trailing the fingers of his left hand down Potter’s curved spine. He watches in fascination as goose pimples rise over Potter's skin in their wake. The head of Draco’s prick catches on the rim of Potter’s hole and Potter’s hands claw at the table. Draco takes pity on him and eases into Potter, clenching his teeth until they ache in an effort not to plunge in and take everything he needs from Potter.

Potter takes umbrage at the pace and pushes back with a hiss, spearing himself onto Draco’s prick. Draco places his left hand on the desk, fingers covering Potter’s on the desk while his right hand wraps around Potter’s prick. Draco’s hand is still wet and slides easily up and down Potter’s length, as easily as Draco slides in and out of Potter. Draco can’t look away from his hand, pale against Potter’s, and how every point of contact, even the gentle touch of fingers, is a point of pleasure.

Draco feels Potter clenching around him as they both cry out. Draco empties himself inside Potter as he feels Potter’s warmth over his hand. Draco leans over Potter’s heaving back and places tender, light kisses over Potter’s shoulder blades, tongue darting out to taste the salt. Draco slides from Potter’s body and bends all the way over to cover his lover, though he’s never been allowed to call Potter that out loud.

In minutes, they are cleaned up, breathing evenly, and back to rights. Draco is nothing but anguish held together by waistcoat buttons and a hair tie, but he nods, wishes Potter good day, and leaves with his stack of parchments.

When Draco gets back to his office, he collapses in his chair and draws air into lungs that feel burned.


Draco is precisely on time for his appointment with Potter the following week. His hands are clammy as he lays the case parchments on Potter’s desk. Draco looks his fill of Potter, wondering if he will be allowed to look at all after this. They finish up the last case and Potter’s eyes warm on him and Draco feels them like ice shards cutting his skin. 

Draco swallows and stands. He gathers the parchments in his hands and starts to leave.

“Malfoy?” Potter’s voice is a whisper confusion.

Draco puts one hand on the latch of the door and turns to face Potter. He meets Potter’s clear emerald gaze and says, “I can’t do this anymore, Harry.”

Draco does not wait for a response. He walks out of Harry’s office with the look agony that is chiseled over Harry’s features burned into his brain.

Draco throws the parchments down on his desk, grabs his cloak, and storms out of the Ministry building. His feet take his pounding heart away, down lanes and alleys. He stops in the late afternoon and has a pint in a tiny pub, at a back table in near darkness. Draco is both disgusted with himself for ruining the best thing he has in his life and relieved that he no longer has to pretend to casually fuck Harry once a week.

After two hours and one more pint, Draco decides he has moped long enough and leaves. 

When he turns the corner onto his block, there is a figure sitting on the stoop outside his flat. Draco would know that outline anywhere and his feet slow. Draco has the urge to turn around like a coward, but Harry looks up and sees his approach. Draco sighs and continues forward. There is no way, Draco knows, he will be lucky enough to escape this awkward conversation.

“What are you doing outside my flat, Potter?” Draco’s voice is cold.

Harry scowls and stands. “Oh, Potter again am I, Draco?”

Draco can’t help the ripple of pleasure at hearing Harry say his name. “Fine. If we must do this, come up. I need a whiskey.”

Draco doesn’t make sure Harry is following him. He can feel Harry like a brand at his back. Draco unlocks his flat with a wave of his wand, hangs up his cloak, and waves towards the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll pour the whiskey.”

Draco sinks onto the couch, handing Harry one of the heavy tumblers, and careful to keep space between them. “You came here, so you must start this dreadful conversation.”

Harry looks into the whiskey, then up at Draco. “I think I owe you an apology.”

Draco places his tumbler down on the table with a thud. “You owe me an apology? I was the one having you over your desk once a week for months.”

“Precisely that.” Harry’s mouth quirks up and Draco aches to touch it. “I should never have allowed it to continue without telling you the reason our weekly meetings took such a heated turn.”

Draco smiles, heart tight in his chest. “Heated is one way of describing it.” 

“I’d been thinking about you doing that to me across my desk for months, maybe years, before it finally happened.” Harry places his tumbler gently on the table. He reaches out and takes Draco’s hands in his. “Draco, look at me.”

Draco could never say no to Harry and so he does and promptly drowns in Harry’s eyes.

Harry squeezes Draco’s hands. “Draco, I should have told you ages ago how much I care for you. I should not have let you believe this entire time that you are some cheap fuck I enjoyed on the side. Those moments with you in my office mean everything to me. They are what I live for.”

“Are you telling me, Harry Potter, that I could have been having you in my bed like a proper shag more than once a week this entire time?” Draco takes his hands out of Harry’s and crosses his arms over his chest.

Harry nods. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Apology accepted if you’ll forgive me for not thinking to ask you sooner.”


Draco stands and holds out his hand to Harry. “Now that’s cleared up, I have a very nice bed with obscenely expensive sheets that I want to see you naked on. Now.” 

“Does this mean I have to give up my Thursday meetings?” Harry quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve never been able to tell you no or resist you, so I think it’s safe to say you will get as much of me as you like.”

Harry slides his hand onto Draco’s, bringing Draco’s hand to his lips, and kissing the knuckles. “Come, love. Take me to bed.”