Harry squints into the bright summer sunlight, shielding his eyes with his hand. It’s too bloody hot to be standing in the middle of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch without cover, and Harry plucks at his shirt where it clings to the skin on his lower back.
Harry hovers closer to Hermione, who has herself cloaked in enough cooling charms to draw goosebumps on her bare arms. Luna strolls alongside them, seemingly unconcerned with the heat as she licks the ice cream from her knuckles, dripping in sticky streams from the two scoops teetering atop the cone.
Hermione huffs and produces a handkerchief from her purse. She reaches across Harry and hands it to Luna.
“Oh, thank you,” Luna says. She tucks the cloth into the pocket of her denim shorts and continues lapping the ice cream off her fingers. “Mm, strawberry! My favourite,” she hums as the colour of the dessert slides from chocolate brown to pale pink.
Hermione sighs, resigned, but Harry grins at her. He finished his ice cream in about three bites, which is apparently not how you eat ice cream, particularly the type that changes flavours as you go.
They continue their path across the Quidditch pitch, dodging vendors peddling fried food, popcorn, and candy floss. Luna attempts to linger at a carnival game where players aim water guns at colourful balloons circling on a nonexistent breeze, but Hermione moves her along with a gentle tug on her elbow. A roller coaster shaped like a dragon and breathing puffs of red fire clatters overhead on invisible tracks. Harry shoots it a nervous glance, ducking when it dives too close.
Harry normally enjoys the annual Hogwarts Reconstruction Fundraiser. The event was originally organised to encourage magical cooperation while expediting repairs on the school post-war. But as time passed, its goals expanded. Its funds now support better systems for Muggle-born students and their families, Muggle-world immersion programs for purebloods, and summer housing options.
The theme of the event changes every year, depending on the primary sponsor. The year before, the Guild of Good Intent hosted a classy garden soiree, with tiny food on toothpicks and sticky-sweet cocktails that had Harry’s vision swimming within an hour. The British Quidditch League held theirs in a raucous beer hall, which was good fun, and Harry got to share a lager with Benjy Wiliams, the Seeker for Puddlemere United. Purebloods for Peace fancied a black-tie gala in a grand ballroom, while The Magical and Muggle Coalition threw a beach party.
This year’s event is funded by the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, of which Harry is a top investor. They’d opened their fifth and largest shop that summer, and Harry was more than happy to offer some of the financial backing for the event. Harry has never been to a funfair before, though he can recall the times Dudley returned home with an armful of stuffed toys and vomit on his shirt from too many hot dogs before riding the roller coaster. He’s pretty sure George has never been to one either, because he doesn’t think that the horses on the carousel are supposed to be live winged Abraxans, and doubts that there is a bar cart serving frosty cocktails every fifteen feet in Muggle funparks. But all in all, it’s brilliant.
Alas, there is no such thing as unfettered fun, not for Harry.
“Do I really have to do this?” Harry asks.
“It’s for charity, Harry,” Hermione reminds him.
“Can’t I just give them money? Why does public humiliation have to factor into it?”
“I think it sounds quite refreshing,” Luna says, shaking sticky droplets from her fingertips. “But no one asked me to take part.”
“That’s because hurling projectiles and plunging you underwater for sport would be about as enjoyable as drowning a kitten,” Hermione says with a huff. “But Harry, on the other hand…”
Harry shoots a glare at Hermione, even though he knows she’s probably right.
Luna smiles and gives Harry a reassuring pat on the shoulder, leaving strawberry fingerprints on the white of his t-shirt. “I think people like Harry. They’ll be gentle, I’m sure.”
Hermione’s mouth slants into a grimace. Harry is equally unconvinced.
“Oh, there it is!” Luna points at a small group gathered around a tall, narrow tank of water encased in glass. An insubstantial bench hovers midair inside the tank, and upon it sits a wet and bedraggled Head Auror Ron Weasley, grey vest sticking to his freckled chest and brightly patterned board shorts dripping into the murky water below.
“Last shot, Finnegan!” he shouts to Seamus, who is enacting a dramatic wind up like a baseball pitcher, scuffing his feet in the grass with one eye squinted shut. “Target’s right here.” Ron points to the bullseye that dances in lazy circles to the right of the tank.
“Fuck you, Weasley. I know where the target is,” Seamus calls back.
“You sure about that, mate? Because after that last throw went about six feet wide, I wasn’t sure.”
Seamus grits his teeth, but just as he’s winding up to release the ball, George swoops in and snatches it from his hand.
“Hey! I was gonna get him this time,” Seamus protests.
“Sure you were,” George says, elbowing him aside.
Ron is suddenly shifting on the bench, mouth working, likely ready to complain that it isn’t bloody fair, but the ball is already sailing from George’s hand to slam against the target hard enough to send the thing spinning. Ron barely has time to let out a yelp before the seat disappears and he lands, flailing, and with a large splash into the water.
He sputters to the surface, grabbing hold of a flimsy ladder to heave himself out, while George high-fives everyone in range.
Ron sloshes over to them, shaking his long hair and splattering them with droplets.
“What are you grinning about, Harry?” Ron asks. “You’re next.”
Harry rolls his neck with a groan because George is already rubbing his hands together in anticipation. It isn’t the first time Harry’s been asked to participate in an event he’s helped fund. Normally it’s a bland speech and an awkward photo-op. But in true George Weasley fashion, the fund-raising techniques are anything but traditional. It’s better than the lewd calendar George tricked Harry into when raising money for the Fred Weasley Advanced Pyrotechnics Scholarship Fund. Harry had to look at that picture of himself in nothing more than a Santa hat and an uncomfortable expression, with a Christmas present over his prick, on the walls of all his business associates for the entire month of December. So, in comparison, a dunk tank seems relatively tame. They’d convinced Gwenog Jones, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies, to take the first shift, followed by Myron Wagtail from the Weird Sisters. And Harry and Ron, of course.
The premise isn’t all that different from a Muggle dunk tank, Harry reckons. The required donation is significant, but it gets you three balls — three chances to hit an enchanted target. Get the bulls-eye, and in Harry will go.
“Cheer up, mate,” Ron says, slapping Harry on the back. “It’s not so bad. If you don’t mind being dunked in water so cold your cock shrinks up like a shrivelfig.”
“Ugh,” Hermione grunts, wrinkling her nose. “Must you be so crass?”
Ron rewards her by throwing a wet arm around her shoulders. “You could warm me up.”
Hermione shoves Ron off and shoots an aggressive drying charm in his direction, causing his hair to puff like a poodle. Harry snorts a laugh while Hermione giggles and Luna coos at Ron, patting the fuzzy ginger halo with her hand.
“Well, go on, Harry,” Ron says, pushing Harry towards the tank. “You won’t be smirking like that when you hit the water. And anyway, everyone is dying for a chance to get Harry Potter wet.”
“What the hell did I ever do to any of you?” Harry asks, feigning hurt with one hand pressed against his chest.
Ron looks ready to retort, but then something over Harry’s shoulder catches his eye, and he groans. Harry turns to see Draco Malfoy sauntering towards them, clad in a blindingly white button down and slim grey suit trousers with a matching jacket thrown over his arm. He’s flanked by Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson, all of whom are seriously overdressed for an outdoor funfair in mid August.
“Well, well, well,” Malfoy says as he runs a hand through pale hair, pushing it from where it flops artfully over his forehead. He adjusts the dark sunglasses on his nose. “If it isn’t a bloody school reunion. Alright there, Potter?”
“Malfoy,” Harry says through gritted teeth.
Malfoy glances down at the large, gleaming watch on his wrist and taps it with one perfectly manicured fingertip. “It appears I’m right on time. Let’s get a move on, I don’t have all day.”
“Like he hasn’t been counting down the minutes to this all afternoon,” Zabini grumbles with a dramatic roll of his eyes. He pulls a silver flask from his jacket pocket and takes a nip while Malfoy shoots him a dangerous glare.
“Quite right, Blaise,” Malfoy says, sneering. But when he turns back towards Harry, his smirk tilts to a beguiling angle. “Because who wouldn’t want to try their hand at drowning Harry Potter? Everyone, it seems. You’ve garnered quite a crowd.”
Harry glances around to see that Malfoy is, unfortunately, correct. The group milling beside the dunk tank has almost doubled in size, and people are whispering behind their hands, casting furtive looks in Harry’s direction.
“I don’t think that’s why they’re here,” Luna sing-songs.
Malfoy turns his slimy smile on her. “Oh, you think they’re just that charitable, do you?”
“Maybe,” she says, wobbling her head from side to side. “But I imagine it’s for the same reason the ice cream lady gave Harry an extra scoop. Or why Quibbler sales double when I put Harry on the cover. He’s quite pretty to look at, don’t you think?”
Malfoy responds with a noisy scoff, but Nott shoots Harry a wink. Even Parkinson’s smirk is toothy.
“Ta, Luna. Let’s just get this over with,” Harry mutters under his breath.
“Give me your glasses,” Hermione says, and Harry hands them over. She waves her wand over the black square frames and then places them back on his nose, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. “There we are. The water will run right off. Now, off you get.” She gives him a little slap on the cheek as Harry pouts.
“Great, at least that way I can see well enough to identify the traitors,” Harry grumbles as he tugs his t-shirt over his head, straightening the white vest he’s wearing underneath.
“Oi, Harry, slow it down!” Seamus calls with a sharp whistle, bumping shoulders with Dean Thomas at his side as they both snicker.
Harry rolls his eyes, but takes his time unbuttoning his jeans and dropping them to his ankles, which has Dean and Seamus cackling and earns him a whoop from Nott, who is promptly silenced when Malfoy’s elbow slams into his gut. Harry tightens the knot on the red swim trunks he’s got on under his jeans. He hands the bundle of clothes along with his wand to Hermione, who tucks it away in her expandable purse.
“Hope you can swim, Harry!” Seamus says. He jams a handful of coins into the automated magical till alongside the tank and three balls drop from the slot. He tosses the first one between his hands.
“Don’t think I’ve got anything to worry about with your shite aim, Finnegan,” Harry calls back. He jogs up the rickety set of stairs to the opening in the side of the tank and ducks inside.
Inside the tank is like sitting in a fishbowl. The air is warm and humid, and the voices outside sound garbled, echoing as they bounce off the glass. Harry has to strain his ears to hear Seamus’ taunts and casts a covert hearing enhancement charm wandlessly. It’s a handy little spell he learnt during his brief tenure with the Aurors, before Harry found out that he wanted nothing to do with law enforcement. Or the Ministry, for that matter.
The voices suddenly ring clear as a bell. Harry chuckles as Seamus attempts to convince a smirking Theodore Nott that the Appleby Arrows sought him out, to which Malfoy drawls, “A one-armed troll would be a more promising recruit.”
Seamus glares at him and takes his place at the line, twisting the toe of his trainer in the grass and winding up, once again. Ron, George, and Dean stand at his back, all wearing varying shades of amused scepticism. Hermione and Luna are huddled off to the side, digging through their pockets and counting out handfuls of coins. Harry has only a half second to feel the sting of betrayal before Seamus is releasing the ball from his hand. It goes sailing over the top of the tank to land with a thud in the grass beyond before blinking out of existence.
“Are you sure that was a Quidditch recruiter you talked to, Finnegan? Or were you chatting up the coat hanger like at last year’s Christmas party?” Malfoy says, the smug satisfaction on his face clear, even with the sunglasses.
“Keep it up, Malfoy. I can guarantee my aim is better at close range,” Seamus says, brandishing the ball in Malfoy’s direction, who, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch.
“Note my utter lack of concern,” Malfoy says.
“I’m getting a sunburn. Can we get on with it?” Harry shouts.
“Sorry, Potter, almost forgot you were there,” Malfoy replies. The slimy smile returns.
“Bloody unlikely,” Harry mutters, to which Malfoy lifts one pale brow.
Unfortunately for Harry, Malfoy is an even more present figure in his adult life than when he was in school. It is a side effect of running one of the most well-funded charity organisations in England — because Malfoy runs the other. Catering to the affluent, The Magical London Charity Fund is at the helm of nearly all the high-end galas, posh parties, and ticketed soirees. And much to Harry’s chagrin, he raises a bloody fortune. Malfoy has one long finger pressed against the pulse of every wealthy pureblood in the UK, and he isn’t above playing into their guilt to fund his organisation. With little more than a few cool words and a disapproving tilt of his chin, Malfoy could drain vaults and pry the knobby-knuckled fingers from the purse strings of the stuffiest witches and wizards. The sorts of people who wouldn’t give Harry the time of day.
After a few years of knocking elbows with Malfoy at this fundraiser or that auction, things developed into a game of philanthropic chicken; who could amass more money for a particular cause. Harry has plenty of generous donors backing his string of charitable endeavours. Maybe more than Malfoy, if Hermione’s quarterly reports are any indication. But Harry also has a habit of dipping into his own vault on occasion, just to one-up the arrogant bastard. It isn’t any trouble, really. Harry’s coffers seem to refill at a surprising rate. Such is the benefit of fame and a couple of clever investments, Harry reckons.
Never one to shirk a challenge, Harry upped the stakes of their little game last week. He suspects the dangerous glare Malfoy’s shooting him from the other side of the glass has something to do with the half-million Galleon donation Magical London Charity Fund just received, closing their annual fundraising drive in one fell swoop. Harry kept it anonymous, of course, though he’d received a vaguely threatening and definitely insulting ‘thank-you’ note from Draco Malfoy himself. In curling script and crisp penmanship, Malfoy implied that Harry would do well to leave the sneaky business to the Slytherins, and that Harry ought to prepare himself for retaliation.
In retrospect, Harry probably shouldn’t have agreed to the dunk tank, not now he can see the vindictive edge to Malfoy’s smirk. He wonders if he might be in a spot of trouble. It’s just that Harry has the toughest time turning George down, and some part of him had hoped a midsummer funfair wasn’t Draco Malfoy’s scene… while another part…. another part hoped that it was.
Malfoy’s trademark haughty arrogance is somehow more palatable now, thanks to how bloody fit he looks in those slim trousers, tight shirts, and shiny shoes. He carries an air that screams expensive and untouchable, something Harry is happy to admire from afar. And yet, Malfoy always seems to trail Harry at parties, appearing at Harry’s elbow, whispering insults into Harry’s ear, close enough that Harry could smell the Pinot Gris on his breath. And all those times, he looked exactly as he does now, his narrow-eyed focus entirely on Harry. In turn, Harry’s attention is all on Malfoy, rather than Seamus, who, fortunately, misses his second throw by a long shot.
Harry is so busy counting the buttons undone on the collar of Malfoy’s shirt, he doesn’t notice that the line behind Seamus is at least two dozen people deep. It includes not only his friends and the assortment of bloodthirsty Slytherins but also multiple department heads from the Ministry, three reporters from The Prophet, a crowd of starry-eyed strangers, and Headmistress McGonagall.
Harry is jolted back to attention following a round of boos and jeers, as Seamus’ third ball goes whizzing past, ten feet from its target. Harry breathes a sigh of relief as Seamus is shoved aside.
“Ladies first,” George says to Luna.
Harry counts his blessings that he will at least stay dry a few moments longer, particularly because the water below him smells a little off, and emits the slightest hint of pond scum.
Luna cradles the ball in both hands, rolling it between willowy fingertips, then draws one arm back, swings it forward, and releases — sending the ball in a straight line right at the target. Harry has barely a second to widen his eyes in surprise before the seat beneath him disappears and he drops into the water with a splash.
Ron was right. The water is fucking freezing. But, fortunately, it isn’t deep and Harry springs off the bottom of the tank, bursting through the surface with a gasp, shoving the mop of wet hair from his face.
“Bloody hell!” he says, dragging himself up the ladder, shivering, to plop back on the seat.
“Sorry Harry!” Luna calls.
“That was a hell of a shot,” Ron says, awestruck.
Luna beams at him. “I help Ginny practise Quidditch when she’s home from training.”
“Practising Quidditch, eh?” George says, ribbing Luna gently. “That’s one way to describe it.”
Luna just smiles benignly as Ron makes a gagging sound.
George is up next and Harry preemptively plugs his nose before he hits the water this time. Dean strikes out, and Hermione barely even tries, thank Merlin. It gives Harry just enough time to catch his breath. He suffers through a few good shots made by the Ministry members and reporters, all of whom throw the ball with enough fervour that it feels a little personal.
Everyone steps back a collective pace when McGonagall approaches the line, eyebrows hitting hairlines.
“I do apologise, Mr Potter. But it’s for a good cause,” she says, not sounding particularly apologetic at all, if the twitching corners of her mouth are any indication. Her shot lands with pinpoint precision and Harry goes flailing backwards in surprise when the seat disappears yet again.
She muffles her laugh into her hand, covering it with a cough and a little clear of her throat before nodding and meandering back towards the vendor with the pina coladas.
“Even the Headmistress has a better throwing arm than Seamus,” George mutters, watching her go.
“I heard that!” Seamus says, clocking George in the shoulder.
“Well, yeah. That was the point.”
Harry is shivering despite the heat and is properly waterlogged by the time the line dwindles to just the Slytherins. His friends, all of whom were more focused on Luna — recently returned from the concessions with a hovering tray of drinks, a fistful of candy floss, and a bag of popcorn tucked under one arm — have a suddenly renewed sense of interest.
Zabini is next up, but when everyone turns to him expectantly — or in Harry’s case, grimly — he waves them off with a hand. “There’s no way I’m throwing while wearing a four hundred Galleon jacket. It would be hell on the seams.”
Harry releases a sigh of relief a moment too soon, because Zabini fishes out enough coin for two rounds and drops it in Theo Nott’s outstretched palm. “And Theo’s been looking forward to this almost as much as Draco.”
Nott slams the money into the till and extracts the first ball, bouncing it off his forearm to catch it mid air with a wink. “Nervous, Potter?”
Harry snorts. “Please. You think I don’t remember your pathetic attempts at Quidditch tryouts in Fourth Year? You couldn’t tell a Bludger from your broomstick.”
Nott clicks his tongue. “I don’t give a flying fuck about Quidditch. I was only in it for access to the locker rooms. And I promise, my accuracy has improved. I’ll hit the right spot all night. All it takes is the proper motivation.”
“Oh bloody hell,” Malfoy huffs, pushing his sunglasses into his hair to rub at the bridge of his nose. “Get on with it, you slag.”
“Hush, Draco. Your jealousy is showing,” Nott admonishes.
“Turing green, you are.” Parkinson snickers, pulling at a wisp of the pink candy floss Luna gave her with pointed fingernails.
“Shut it,” Malfoy snaps. Zabini throws an arm around Malfoy’s shoulders and offers him a sip from his flask, which he takes begrudgingly.
Nott makes a dramatic show of rolling up his sleeves and kissing the ball before he throws it, missing the target by a foot, which has Zabini and Malfoy bent over in laughter, and the Gryffindors chuckling and snorting into their elbows and each other’s shoulders.
It gets worse when he misses the second.
“The sun is in my eyes,” Nott argues.
“You do know that fucking Quidditch players doesn’t give you athletic skills,” Zabini says.
Nott throws the last ball at Zabini and Malfoy. Malfoy dodges it, but it smacks Zabini in the gut.
“Why you little —” Zabini wheezes from his doubled over position and chases after Nott, who makes a quick getaway.
“Does that mean I finally get a go?” Ron asks, stepping up.
“Thank Merlin,” Harry says.
Ron gives him an apologetic shrug, throws the ball, and Harry hits the water. He growls as he surfaces, snagging his glasses from where they are floating, and jams them back onto his face as he pulls himself from the water. His shirt is sopping, and he’s starting to prune; ears clogged and nose stinging.
“Sorry, Harry!” Ron calls.
“Sure you are,” Harry replies flatly, rubbing the lenses of his glasses on his soaked vest before returning them to his nose. “What is this, retaliation for betting against you at the Cannons game last week? How was I supposed to know you’d put so bloody much on them to win?”
“You know what, I think I’d like another go,” Ron says, digging around in his pockets for another Galleon.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Malfoy interrupts. He places a hand against Ron’s chest, fingers spread wide. Ron glances down at the offending hand with eyebrows raised as Malfoy gives him a sharp shove. “It’s my turn now, and I’ve been saving all week.”
Malfoy pulls a small coin purse from his pocket, which he jingles at Harry with a smirk.
“Oh bloody hell.” Harry braces himself as Malfoy drops the Galleons into the slot. He tosses the ball into the air with one hand, catching it in his palm, eyes fixed on Harry. Behind him, Ron is grimacing and Hermione is shaking her head in resignation. And yeah, Harry gets it. It’s too much to hope that Malfoy has shit aim.
Malfoy winds up and releases the ball, and it smacks against the bullseye dead on.
“Fuck,” Harry mutters, and then he’s underwater. As soon as he surfaces, he rips the glasses from his face. He’s still wiping at them with his sopping vest, trying to figure out what charm Hermione used to keep them dry when he hears the whack of the ball against the target and the seat disappears from underneath him. He’s barely opened his mouth to squawk before he’s tumbling into the water with a splash.
“You fucking arsehole! I wasn’t ready,” Harry growls as he heaves himself from the water once more.
Malfoy laughs, another ball already in his hand. The weight of the water on Harry’s clothes is only dragging him down and he yanks the vest over his head and throws it over the side of the tank, where it lands with a wet slap. He settles himself back on the seat, glasses returned to his nose, pushing the damp hair off his forehead and smoothing it from his eyes.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he calls out, because Malfoy is just standing there, holding the ball and frowning, eyes fixed somewhere at Harry’s middle. Harry glances down at his chest, the rivulets of water coursing across the skin, clinging in beads to the fine dusting of hair.
Harry may have, on more than one occasion, been accused of being unobservant, or even downright oblivious. But he knows that look. Has seen it countless times before. Heat burns behind Malfoy’s eyes, cheeks pink, tongue poking from between his lips.
Harry supposes he has been hitting the gym at a higher frequency than usual. It’s mostly because a punching bag is an excellent way to take out a bit of unnecessary rage, rather than on whatever unsuspecting bureaucrat gets between Harry and his quest for equal rights for Muggle-borns and fair treatment of Magical Creatures. And Luna has suggested he take his shirt off more often because people seemed a lot more willing to give him what he wants, and not because they were afraid of him, for a change. But hell, if he’d known it would cloud Malfoy’s eyes, he might have employed that technique a little sooner.
Harry grins, and for the first time all bloody day, feels like he just might have the upper hand.
Malfoy visibly shakes himself, frown deepening. And just as he pulls his arm back to hurl the ball at the target, he glances at Harry, and Harry winks. The ball slips in Malfoy’s hand as he releases it, and it thuds to the grass, a solid three feet short of the target.
Hermione snorts a laugh and Ron outright roars. Harry leers back at Malfoy.
“Distracted?” he shouts.
“On the contrary, Potter. I’ve never been more focused.” He chucks the next ball harder than necessary, sending the target careening backwards as Harry drops into the water yet again with a curse.
Harry grips the strings of his shorts with one hand as he climbs the ladder and gets a knee on the bench. The repeated forceful entry has him wishing he’d worn something more substantial, because if he isn’t careful, the crowd is going to get an eyeful. He hasn’t even finished retying the knot before he hears a thunk and he’s back in the water again.
“Dickhead!” Harry surfaces, pushing the hair from his eyes, his shorts hanging on for dear life. “Am I done? Can I be done?” When no one protests, he drags himself up the ladder and steps from the tank.
Malfoy is still glaring at him, reluctantly allowing Parkinson to ply him with some kind of mixed cocktail in a plastic cup. Harry can’t hear what she’s saying, but she pokes Malfoy in the chest with a finger, laughing when he snarls back and douses her candy floss with an Aguamenti, which melts to nothing on its paper cone.
Hermione wraps a towel around Harry’s shoulders. He shakes his head hard enough to scatter droplets on everyone, which makes Luna giggle, and has Malfoy barking at him and calling him an ill bred Crup.
Hermione digs around in her bottomless purse and extracts Harry’s duffel bag, which contains a clean set of clothes.
“I’m going to see if I can sneak into the Quidditch locker room for a shower,” Harry says, accepting the bag and pulling his dry t-shirt free. “I’m starting to think they filled that tank with water from the Great Lake. I smell distinctly… squid like.”
“There does seem to be algae in your hair,” Luna observes. Suddenly Ron is combing fingers through his own hair, but Harry yanks his t-shirt over his head, shoots a drying charm at his shorts, and trudges across the pitch towards the locker room.
Harry finds the locker rooms blessedly empty when he slips through the door. He peers down the aisles and checks for feet in the toilet stalls, just to be sure, then drops his bag to the floor with a sigh. He shucks his clothes, dry but still stinking of lake water, and shoves them inside the duffel. He tucks his glasses into the side pocket, along with his wand.
Harry waves a hand toward the showers and the taps turn on as steam pours into the room. Harry wouldn’t normally bother with a hot shower in the dead of summer, but he feels the need to boil the slimy tank water from his skin as soon as possible.
The showers aren’t separate stalls, but rather a wide, tiled room lined with gleaming taps. It’s far from private, and was effective in discouraging any dawdling after practice. Harry attempted to avoid them altogether after seeing Oliver Wood’s arse for the first time in Second Year, which resulted in a very confusing series of dreams and ensured that Harry couldn’t look the Gryffindor team Captain in the eye for two weeks. Harry wrote it off as a fluke and tried to forget about it, which was easy enough once Harry developed his crush on Cho, and later on Ginny. Though hindsight is a right bastard, and Harry reckons that if he’d removed his head from his arse sooner, he might have realised that the way he trailed Draco Malfoy like a jealous ex throughout school was even more telling than a passing daydream about Wood.
Harry snorts a laugh at the thought as he steps under the spray, dipping his head beneath the water. Malfoy was a little twit back in school, with his staid black suits, gleaming shoes, and permanent sneer. He isn’t all that different now, really. The suits are tighter, and he’s figured out that pale colours are more flattering than funereal black. The sneer is still there, though it’s rarely directed at Harry anymore. Rather, it has been replaced with something heated, almost sly. And Harry doesn’t quite know what to do with that.
Well, that isn’t entirely true.
Harry knows what he wants to do with it, but lusting after Draco Malfoy is absolutely not on. Malfoy isn’t even his type. Harry dates Quidditch players, friends of friends, the easygoing sorts. He prefers someone he can introduce to Molly Weasley, who will enjoy a good pint or a game on the Wireless, not the two-hundred-galleon trouser type who drinks martinis and always has an insult on the tip of his tongue. Harry doesn’t go for men like that, does he?
Okay, maybe Harry’s a little weak over Malfoy’s suits. And his voice. Hell, that deep voice with the posh accent, falling from lips curled into a perpetual smirk, is bloody sinful. The crushed velvet and melted chocolate timbre makes even the cruelest words sound like sex. There is also something about the shiftiness in Malfoy’s mercurial gaze that makes Harry feel pinned, like the world dims to darkness around him. He hates how much he likes it.
Harry conjures a handful of soap, frowning. It’s a poor substitute for the real thing, but the bar in the dish affixed to the wall has a hair on it, and Harry really needs to focus on something other than Malfoy. But the lather against his skin is slick, and his thoughts have already veered in the wrong fucking direction.
Harry wraps one soapy fist around his half-hard cock. There is something illicit and wrong about touching himself here, in his old school. That shouldn’t drive him higher, but fuck, it really does. It’s different from getting hard in his own shower to thoughts of the strip of exposed skin at the split in Malfoy’s collar, or how that sinful voice would sound around a moan, echoing against the shower walls.
Harry bites back a groan, clamping his bottom lip between his teeth hard enough to feel the sting. But that maddening edge of pain on his pleasure only makes it better, though he will rarely admit it to anyone.
Harry braces a forearm against the cool tile and lets his head hang, water soaking his hair, tugging the curling tendrils straight. He’s so lost in the sensation of his own palm and the thundering spray of water against his shoulders, cascading over his ears and muffling the world around him, that he nearly doesn’t hear the click of the locker room door opening. Though he does hear the subsequent slam as it shuts.
Harry lifts his head from the water to catch the sound of shoes on the floor and drops the hand on his cock immediately. He strains his ears, considers employing the listening charm again, but hears no more footsteps and relaxes minutely. It will be a disaster if he gets caught. The students have all left for the summer, but it is entirely possible that one of the hundred other Hogwarts alums at the benefit knows how to find the entrance to the locker rooms. Harry should have thought to lock the door, though he hadn't exactly planned to have a wank.
Harry rushes through the rest of his shower. He turns the water to cold and scrubs the algae Luna noted from his hair. Once pink-skinned and polished clean, Harry turns off the tap and summons a towel from beyond the door. He ruffles it through wet hair, rubs it across his shoulders and stomach, and loops it around his waist, struggling to knot it at his hip. He remembers swimming in these things as a student, luxuriating in the fluffy white towels big enough to engulf him. They were miles above the rough flannel he was granted at Privet Drive.
He exits the showers with caution, peering from left to right, clutching the towel’s pathetic knot at his waist. The last thing Harry needs is another exposé featuring him looking dumbfounded and unprepared lining the newsstands. He never even leaves the pub without a concealment charm anymore, not after the time the paparazzi caught him with his fly down, or when The Prophet photographed him falling arse up as he slipped on the ice outside the Leaky.
The world beyond the showers is fuzzy and Harry casts an Accio at his glasses with a wave of his hand, then frowns when they don’t immediately smack into his palm. He rounds the bay of lockers, and freezes.
Draco Malfoy is leaning against the lockers in that unbelievable suit, one hand tucked into his trouser pocket and the other loosely gripping the handle of Harry’s duffel bag.
“Looking for this?” He gives the bag a swing, then removes the hand from his pocket to reveal Harry’s glasses. “Or perhaps these?”
Harry narrows his eyes, partially because he can’t bloody see, but also because he needs to know if he’s imagining the drag of Malfoy’s gaze from Harry’s thighs, exposed by the tiny towel, all the way up to meet his own. Because he can feel it, trailing heat like fingertips against his skin.
Malfoy uncurls his fingers so Harry’s glasses lay flat in his palm. “Go on. Take them.”
Harry hesitates, then, securing the towel in one fist, extends his arm. With a wiggle of his fingers, his glasses float through the air in an arc to land in Harry’s outstretched hand. He hurries to shove them onto his face, only to clarify that Malfoy is indeed standing there, watching him with dark eyes. “What are you doing here?” Harry asks, cautious.
Malfoy shrugs in response, but the intensity of his focus only sharpens. “I thought we could have a chat.”
“Mind if I get dressed first?”
Malfoy doesn’t answer, but one pale eyebrow hitches up, mirroring the wicked curl of his lips.
Harry gestures to the bag still in Malfoy’s fist with a jerk of his chin. “Hand it over, Malfoy.”
“Why don’t you come and get it?”
“You know I don’t need my wand to take it from you, right?”
Malfoy tilts his head. “Perhaps. But I still want to watch you try.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, particularly one posed by Draco Malfoy, Harry has every intention of calling his bag to his hand with a snap of his fingers. But as the summoning magic teeters on the edge of his will, he halts, then calls it back. Because while Malfoy’s posture is as cool as casual as ever — leaning into his hip, with one ankle crossed over the other, the tip of a shiny oxford balanced against the floor — there is hunger in his eyes. Harry suspects he’s trying desperately to subdue it, to smother it beneath that haughty smirk, but Harry’s got better at reading people since he was a kid. And he needs to know if it’s because of him, and the size of that damn towel.
It wouldn’t be the first time Harry has imagined something that isn’t there. He wonders if his lustful imagination is to blame, or the open bar at every event where Harry encounters Malfoy. Because either Harry is losing his bloody mind, or conversations with his former rival have taken on a flirtatious edge. Is Malfoy up to something, or has Harry finally let his crush drive him round the twist? Harry has to find out.
Harry loosens his grip on the towel, letting it slip the slightest bit, so it catches on his hip and the curve of his arse. And sure enough, Malfoy’s eyes flick downward, tracking the movement, and he licks his lips before returning his attention to Harry’s face.
And oh yeah, there’s heat there. It’s damn well unmistakable.
“Too difficult for you, Potter?” Malfoy says with a dramatic sigh. He takes a long stride forward and plants one shiny shoe on the wooden bench in front of him — the only physical barrier between them — then launches himself over it, pausing for only a moment to look down at Harry from the height, before dropping with an elegant hop to land toe to toe with Harry. A lock of hair so pale it’s almost silver, falls from its artful coif over his forehead, and he shakes it away with a jerk of his sharp chin.
Malfoy is close enough to touch, close enough that Harry can smell his expensive cologne, but Harry resists. Holding the towel in one hand, he makes a weak grab for the bag with the other, but Malfoy pulls it away easily. He smirks, straightening his spine so that he looms over Harry, even though he’s only a few inches taller. He tosses the bag behind him, and it slides to the floor beside the lockers.
Harry doesn’t avert his eyes from Malfoy’s as he attempts to step to the right and move past him. A hand slams against the locker next to Harry’s head, blocking his path. Harry lifts one eyebrow.
Harry barely leans to the left before Malfoy’s other hand bangs against the metal beside Harry’s ear, caging him in. Malfoy leans so close that Harry can see the shifting silver of his eyes, nearly lost to the blackness of his expanding pupils.
“Did you think you could fool me with that donation, Potter?”
Harry snorts. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “A half million Galleons? Honestly.”
Harry thinks he really ought to deny it, to continue to feign innocence. That is part of their game, isn't it? But the words slip from his lips before he can properly consider the repercussions. “I didn’t think it would fool you. In fact, I kind of hoped you’d notice. And money always seems to get your attention.”
It’s true, though Harry isn’t sure why he says it. He could have simply given the money to the fund-raising drive, or any other exactly like it, courtesy of Harry James Potter. Throwing money around is what he does, after all. But where is the fun in that? Just imagining the pinched look on Malfoy’s face when the donation receipt landed on his desk Monday morning was worth every damn Knut. It’s fun one-upping Malfoy, catching him off guard and watching that familiar competitive spirit light a fire in him. Malfoy takes everything so bloody personally and yeah, Harry likes it. He likes getting Malfoy’s attention.
“Well, Potter, you have it. What do you want?”
“I wanted to take a shower, so I didn’t smell like pond scum with a side of Giant Squid. Thanks for that, by the way. And now, I’d like to get dressed,” Harry says, even though that last bit is a damned lie.
“I—” Malfoy starts, then pauses. He scrapes his incisor across his bottom lip as his gaze drops to Harry’s mouth. “I don’t think I can let you do that.”
He looks almost surprised by the words, and fuck, that’s all the bloody evidence Harry needs.
Harry releases the towel, and it slithers to puddle at his feet.
Malfoy’s eyelashes flutter, as if trying to prevent their inevitable fall. But fall they do. As slow as a feather on the breeze, they drift downward. His eyes catch on the curse scar beneath Harry’s left clavicle, then the curling tail of the tattooed dragon that peeks between his third and fourth rib — a souvenir thanks to one too many glasses of palinka on a trip to Romania with Ron and Charlie. They follow the trail of dark hair beneath Harry’s navel down and down… and he smiles. It’s the same wicked tilt of his lips Harry glimpsed the second before he hit the water in the tank.
Harry feels electrified. Malfoy doesn’t touch him, but the drag of his eyes sparks like static on Harry’s skin. Malfoy maintains his safe distance, though there is a tenseness to his spine and the set of his shoulders. He’s coiled too tightly, the frozen moment before a cat pounces.
And then he raises his eyes to meet Harry's.
Harry doesn’t think, he just grabs Malfoy by the back of the neck and drags him down against his mouth. Malfoy parts his lips at the swipe of Harry’s tongue without hesitation, groaning into the kiss. But his rigid stance doesn’t soften, even when Harry releases his grip on the pale hair at Malfoy’s nape to loop arms around his shoulders and pull him against his body. He’s so close that Harry can feel the heat pouring off of him, can smell the sharp spice of his aftershave, could count his eyelashes.
“You’ll get my suit wet,” Malfoy murmurs against Harry’s mouth.
“I’ll do worse than that,” Harry says as he tucks his fingers into the waistband of Malfoy’s posh trousers and tugs, dragging Malfoy's hips flush against his own. And oh hell yes. Harry’s been hard since his shower, and Malfoy seems no better off. The steely length of his cock, trapped behind expensive fabric, presses against Harry’s stomach.
Malfoy growls. “Do you always get what you want?”
“Usually,” Harry replies, dropping his lips to suck a mark into Malfoy’s neck, which is long and pale, and fuck, he’s totally obsessed with it. He flicks his tongue against the space beneath Malfoy’s ear. “What about what you want?” Harry punctuates the question with a scrape of teeth across Malfoy’s earlobe.
Malfoy gasps, a tremor shaking the taut line of his body, but when he speaks, his words are rich and thick as honey. “Not only do I get what I want, but I take it how I want it. And Potter, I’m going to take you slow. I’ve waited so bloody long.”
Harry doesn’t have a moment to contemplate the weight of those words before Malfoy draws away just far enough to extract his wand from inside his suit jacket. He casts a locking charm at the door, followed by a silencing spell.
“Go ahead and make all the noise you want,” he purrs. “No one is going to hear.”
“Good,” Harry says, and kisses him.
Harry has to admit, Malfoy is a damn good kisser. His wicked tongue proves clever with more than just words as it tangles with Harry’s. His kiss is deep, possessive and hard, but whenever Harry tries to match his intensity, Malfoy pulls away, swiping across Harry’s bottom lip in maddening, kittenish licks. It makes him crazy, makes him grip the front of Malfoy’s tight, white shirt, with too many of its little mother-of-pearl buttons undone. They strain, and the crisp fabric creaks as Harry tightens his fist. Malfoy still hasn’t touched him, his palms laying flat against the metal at Harry’s back. He’s so in control and it’s fucking hot, but Harry can feel his resistance hanging on by a thread.
Malfoy’s mouth drops from Harry’s lips to his throat, where he sucks and bites, then soothes the sting with a burning lave of his tongue as Harry clings desperately to his patience, lacking as it is. Harry bangs his head against the locker behind him, rattling the door on its hinges. And while it does nothing to clear the lust clouding his brain, it causes Malfoy’s smirk to grow teeth.
Malfoy pulls back, once more creating space between them, and bends forward. He tugs one of Harry’s nipples between his teeth, and Harry gasps. His thigh rests between Harry’s legs, too far to offer blessed friction.
But Malfoy doesn’t move closer, doesn’t relent. Not until Harry tangles fingers in his hair, which is just long enough to grip in his fist, and raises up on his toes, hips rolling, begging for contact. Malfoy’s thigh shifts as he scrapes teeth over the other nipple, and the drag of the fine fabric of Malfoy’s trousers against Harry’s cock is delicious — silky smooth and lighter than air. Harry bets they cost a fortune, and his dick throbs, precome beading at the tip to stain the pale material.
Harry is normally the one in charge, and not necessarily because he asks for it, but because he’s often handed control without question. Harry leads in his work, in relationships, in bed, in nearly every interaction because somewhere along the line, everyone got the idea that it’s what Harry wants. And while he doesn’t mind it, there are moments when he would give anything to sink against another body and let them take the reins.
Perhaps that is why Harry doesn’t resist when Malfoy’s hand floats away from the lockers to hold him by the jaw. He drags his thumb over Harry’s bottom lip, his mouth only centimetres away. Malfoy doesn’t look away as his other hand peels from the wall to drop between their bodies and press the heel of his palm against Harry’s aching cock.
Harry has to brace himself to keep his knees from buckling as Malfoy’s fingers swipe across his wet tip. And even though Harry presses into that loose fist, Malfoy doesn’t tighten his grip or speed up his rhythm. It’s agonising, and fantastic, and Harry’s never been more turned on in his fucking life.
Harry pants into the air between their mouths, each blink of his eyelids laboured as Malfoy watches his face with rapt attention.
And then at last — at bloody last — he gives Harry one perfectly firm stroke, wrist twisting at the end, causing light to explode in colourful spots across Harry’s vision. Harry groans. But then that hand is snaking around Harry’s hip, and with one sharp yank, Harry is wrenched away from the lockers. Malfoy spins him so they are back to front, and Harry throws out a hand, just as his chest and cheek are pressed against cool metal.
Both of Malfoy's hands are on Harry’s arse, kneading hard enough to leave fingerprint-shaped bruises. Then Malfoy grinds against him, rattling the lockers, and rubbing the outline of his cock in his trousers along the crack of Harry's arse.
Harry moans and widens his stance.
“Like that do you?” Malfoy breathes against the back of Harry’s neck. He can feel the exact moment they curl into a smirk, and a shiver runs down Harry’s spine.
Harry hums, head rolling on his neck until it drops back against Malfoy’s shoulder. Malfoy’s fingers dig into Harry’s arse again, spreading him wide as the tips skate delicately over his hole — a tickling, teasing touch.
“Is this what you want?” Malfoy asks, and bloody hell that voice. Never has Harry fantasised about a voice as often as he does Draco Malfoy’s. He knows it’s ridiculous, but there is just something about a public school accent uttered in baritone that gets Harry hot.
He wouldn’t admit it to another soul under threat of Crucio, but Harry can remember when Malfoy’s voice changed. It happened over the summer between fourth and fifth year at Hogwarts, which, if he thinks about it, signalled a transition for a lot of students in his class. Harry supposes he changed as well, though not as noticeably as Malfoy. It annoyed him at first, that the snivelling squeak he was accustomed to from his boyhood rival had deepened to a rumbling bass. And now that they are both grown men and Malfoy has redirected his signature snobbish cruelty to helping rather than harming others, well. It makes Harry so bloody hard.
“Yeah,” Harry says, reaching back to bury a hand in blond hair. “That’s what I want.”
“Mm, good.” Malfoy’s hum is so low Harry would swear he can feel the vibration in his cock.
Malfoy lays his palm across Harry’s jaw, wrenching his face around for a messy kiss that is more tongue than lips, and then there are fingers pushing into Harry’s mouth, fucking against his tongue. Harry’s mouth fills with saliva and he curls his tongue around the intrusion, lapping at them greedily, getting them sticky and wet. He sucks them right down to the webbing until he can taste the metallic tang of the silver ring Malfoy wears on his index finger. And all the while Malfoy huffs hot, noisy breaths into Harry’s ear. Liquid lust drips and pools in Harry’s gut. A flush burns up his chest and tinges his cheeks rouge, and Harry isn’t sure how much longer he can take it. He needs Malfoy to touch him, to fuck him, to do something because Harry is bloody aching for it. And no one has ever accused Harry Potter of being a patient man.
Harry gets a hand around Malfoy’s wrist and tugs the fingers from his mouth. They’re wet, dripping in spit, but it isn’t enough. While Harry doesn’t mind it rough, he needs this to be easy. He wants to feel Malfoy's cock — which is probably leaking into those bloody incredible trousers — slip into his arse like silk, because everything about Malfoy ought to be smooth, slick, greased. It is the complete opposite of what Harry is used to and everything he craves.
“I can do you one better,” Harry says, wrapping his fist around Malfoy’s spit-damp fingers. They’re so long that Harry has to drag his palm up their length. He doesn’t even need to mutter the incantation. He’s done this a hundred times before, though it never fails to get a reaction. Harry slides his fist from Malfoy’s fingers, and they are shining, a thread of liquid slick trailing from Harry’s hand. The slippery lubricant webs as he spreads his fingers.
Malfoy chuckles low and filthy in Harry’s ear as Harry braces himself against the lockers.
Malfoy noses at the nape of Harry’s neck. “That’s a cute trick, Potter. Who knew you could be so…” Harry gasps as fingers trail between his arse cheeks. “Helpful,” Malfoy finishes.
“You have no idea,” Harry grits out, straining his muscles to keep from pushing back against the fingers hovering at his hole.
“Hands in front of you, Potter,” Malfoy says, and Harry obeys, placing the flats of his palms against the lockers. He lets his forehead press against the cool metal, grounding him, anything to keep him standing as one of Malfoy’s fingers slips inside his body. Harry shudders.
“Relax,” Malfoy whispers in his ear, nipping at the earlobe.
And Harry does. He takes a shaky inhale, willing the tightness in his muscles to ease under Malfoy’s practised ministrations.
Harry doesn’t know what he expected, but it isn’t the careful, gentle way Malfoy opens him. Malfoy’s finger is long, but he eases it in slowly, letting Harry adjust to the intrusion. It’s in total opposition with the stinging scrape of teeth on Harry’s neck. There are going to be marks, of that Harry is certain. He’ll have to heal them eventually, but he wants to inspect them in the mirror first, wants to press fingers against the place where they ache to keep the memory fresh in his mind. Harry doesn’t know what’s wrong with him, but he’s always gone a little weak in the knees over possessive behaviour. And not the sort exhibited by fans or starfuckers, desperate for a page in The Prophet or an interview in Witch Weekly. But the secret sort that reminds Harry he’s owned, that he’s wanted.
A second finger joins the first, sliding in wet and easy, and Harry hisses. He wants this. He really fucking wants this and probably has for quite some time, despite efforts to avoid indulging the fantasy. Maybe that is because it is so taboo. Not because Malfoy is a man, because Harry got over the whole bisexual crisis years ago, or even because it is in their old school, which is also just… ridiculously hot. But because he isn’t supposed to want men like Malfoy. Or rather, it isn’t who Harry is expected to want. And Harry is sure that he isn’t the sort that Malfoy is supposed to want either.
“More,” Harry demands, pressing back against Malfoy’s palm, fingers buried deep in his arse.
Malfoy chuckles against Harry’s neck. “And since when have I ever done as you asked, Potter?”
“Since I asked nicely, for once.”
Malfoy laughs outright this time, the sound echoing in the empty room and clanging around in Harry’s brain, leaving irreparable dents because Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard Malfoy laugh like that before. It’s delighted and happy and Harry suffers a flash of anger that such a sound has existed and he’s never heard it. It’s followed by jealousy because certainly someone has, and that isn’t bloody fair.
“As you wish,” Malfoy says, amusement still tinging his voice.
Harry holds his breath as a third finger enters his body, roughly and without preamble, and he groans, because fuck that feels good. Harry relishes the sting of the stretch, loves the way the pain distracts him from the edge of pleasure until Malfoy drags those skilled fingers across Harry’s prostate and he nearly collapses.
“Oh fuck,” he moans, slamming a palm against the lockers.
“Right there, is it?” Malfoy croons into Harry’s ear, then he does it again.
Harry presses his face against the metal locker door, pushing his arse back on the fingers buried inside him. He wants Malfoy to fuck him, to shove him against those bloody lockers and pound him stupid. But Malfoy seems intent on opening Harry wide, because a fourth finger is lingering at the edge of his loose, stretched hole.
Harry wants to make a joke, to tease Malfoy for overcompensating, but the words disintegrate like sugar in water when Malfoy bites down on the curve of Harry’s neck right when that fourth finger breaches his body. Harry groans out a curse. Bloody fucking hell, he likes it just like that. Malfoy takes the edge off the pain in his arse with the tantalising sting of teeth in his flesh. It’s sexy and perfect and Harry’s cock is aching to be touched. But there is something sweet in the denial, in the desire to be touched, only to be refused it. Nobody has the balls to deny Harry Potter a damn thing. It figures that Malfoy would be the first.
“Do you plan on fucking me or is this some sort of revenge tactic? You just want to see if I can come from your fingers alone?” Harry grits teeth as Malfoy drags his fingertips across the sensitive bundle of nerves that has Harry bucking.
Malfoy pauses for half a second, as if stunned, and he says, “Can you come like this?”
“Keep going and you’re about to find out,” Harry says and rolls his forehead against the cool metal in an attempt to regain some semblance of composure.
“Fuck, Potter, don’t talk like that,” Malfoy says, almost reverently, though his fingers resume their movements, in and out, scissoring him open.
“Don’t you want to fuck me?”
Malfoy’s fingers thrust particularly hard into Harry’s body as he laughs. It sounds strained and there is very little humour in it. “Only since I was old enough to know what that meant.”
Harry’s mouth falls open in shock, but before he can come up with a proper response to that damned meteor of a confession, Malfoy’s fingers are dragging relentlessly across his prostate again and Harry’s vision whites out. Because yeah, he can come like this, not that anybody really takes the time to find out. Everyone wants to be fucked by Harry Potter, because Harry is powerful, and only carries a wand as a formality, and all but breathes magic. He knows it’s not normal, knows that people romanticise it rather than fearing it as he thinks they ought to. But it’s different with Malfoy, and maybe that’s why Harry suffers the fantasies as often as he does. While he’s had his suspicions that Malfoy might entertain similar desires, the verbal confirmation still lands like a punch of lust to Harry’s gut.
The fingers in Harry’s arse disappear abruptly, pulled from his body with an obscene wet sound, and Harry groans at the loss. But then Malfoy spins Harry around with a hard grip on his right shoulder. Harry goes without protest, though his knees wobble and his head swims as his back slams against the lockers.
“You’re going to look me in the eye when I fuck you,” Malfoy breathes against Harry’s lips, then kisses him — a sharp, biting thing that has Harry throwing arms around Malfoy’s shoulders in an effort to bring him closer.
It is then that Harry realises that Malfoy is still fully dressed. When Harry glances down, he sees that those perfectly tailored dove grey trousers are rumpled and tented at the front. The shoulder seams of his jacket are stretched, and the shirt buttons are straining. It’s like Harry’s middle of the night fantasies come to life. As much as he would like to strip Malfoy naked and run fingers across the sinewy muscles that run up his arms, across his stomach, and between his shoulder blades, Harry has a kink for that damned suit. He’s imagined Malfoy taking him in coat rooms, abandoned offices, and the stalls of an occupied loo at every function they’ve ever attended. And in Harry’s depraved and lust-drunk imagination, Malfoy always wore some iteration of a posh suit — one that Harry would enjoy ruining.
So, when Malfoy’s hand moves to the cuff of his jacket sleeve, intending to remove the garment, Harry stops him with a hand on his wrist. Then he drops his fingers to Malfoy’s belt.
“Leave it on,” Harry says as he undoes the buckle and begins working on the clasp of Malfoy’s trousers.
Malfoy smirks, that sharp, pointed incisor biting into his bottom lip again. “I knew you liked the suit.”
“Liar,” Harry mutters as he frees the clasp and tugs down the zip. He slips a hand beneath the waistband of Malfoy's ridiculous pants, which are black and slick as silk and definitely damp. He tugs them down just enough to free Malfoy’s cock, and then pauses, eyes widening. He suddenly reassesses the need for all four of Malfoy’s fingers stretching him, and wonders if maybe a fifth would be necessary because bloody fucking hell, the bloke was packing.
“You think I don’t see the way you look at me? You aren’t exactly subtle, Potter.” Malfoy says. “At first I thought you might ask me for my tailor. But then I remembered that you have all the fashion intelligence of a fourteen-year-old Muggle.” He runs his wide palm down Harry’s bare chest and stomach, long fingers curling around his hip, to skate down the back of Harry’s thigh, just beneath his arse. “So I concluded that it might have something to do with me. Though I’ve never tested my theory.”
“Until now. And if you’re trying to tell me I lack subtlety…” Harry starts. He tucks his ankle around the back of Malfoy’s calf and drags his thigh up the outside of Malfoy’s leg to hook around his hip. “You won’t be the first.”
Malfoy laughs with his head thrown back, and though it is only the second time Harry’s ever heard it, the sound settles in Harry’s chest and expands, as if pumped full of helium, until Harry feels so buoyant he might float away. Instead, Harry kisses him, stifling the sound with his mouth, licking the citrus-bright flavour of it from Malfoy’s lips.
But then there are two hands clamped on Harry’s arse, and with a little hop, he wraps his thighs around Malfoy’s waist. Harry’s hands fly up to grip the top of the lockers to brace his weight, though Malfoy doesn't seem to be straining. He leans in and licks a stripe up Harry’s neck. Harry tilts his head back to accommodate him and is rewarded with a sharp nip to the jaw.
The tip of Malfoy’s cock nudges at his hole, still stretched and dripping, and Harry takes a deep breath. It’s going to sting no matter what. Even if Malfoy spends hours opening him up, he’s going to feel this. But luckily for both of them, Harry likes it when it hurts. And anyway, he’s so keyed up that he hopes the pain of the stretch is going to keep him from bloody exploding the second Malfoy gets his cock in him.
Harry grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the lockers overhead, nodding at Malfoy’s questioning look. Then, Malfoy drops his hand from the back of Harry’s right thigh to position his cock. Harry’s arms shake as he lowers his body just the slightest bit, and the head of Malfoy’s huge erection breaches him. Harry wants to squeeze his eyes shut tight, but instead, he keeps them open, watching as Malfoy's expression takes on a pained tension, wrinkles forming across his forehead and between his brows.
Malfoy’s hands return to the backs of Harry’s thighs, his fingers pressing bruises into the muscles there. Harry can see the strain in his face as Malfoy holds back. Harry knows he wants to let go and thrust all the way inside Harry’s arse, but he’s trying to be gentle, and honestly? Harry is touched. It is rare that anyone handles him with care, and while Harry finds it endearing, it also completely unnecessary, because he’s bloody gagging for this and, as big as Malfoy is, he doesn’t think he can wait another second. Even if he’s going to feel Malfoy’s cock in his throat.
“Come on,” Harry coaxes. “Just do it.”
Malfoy blinks at him. “You’re sure?”
Harry growls and drops one of the hands clinging to the top of the lockers, bracing his weight, to grab Malfoy by the hair. “Seriously? Hell, I don’t think you ever asked my permission so much in your life. Yes! Just… yes. Fuck.”
Malfoy grins. “I knew I liked you.” And with that, he angles his hips, hands gripping Harry’s arse, spreading him wide, and sinks in all the way.
Harry’s head falls back against the lockers, eyes rolling into his skull. Fucking hell, he’s huge and Harry feels like he’s being split in half, but can’t find it in him to give a shit because it feels too damn good and is exactly what he needs.
Malfoy freezes as soon as he bottoms out. Harry can tell, even through the fine fabric of the suit, that every muscle in his body is pulled whipcord tight, resisting the urge to rut and fuck and take, and Harry can’t stand it.
He tugs at Malfoy’s hair, tightening the circle of his thighs locked around Malfoy’s waist, and rolls his hips. Malfoy gasps like he’s been punched.
“Oh fuck,” Malfoy groans, forehead falling against Harry’s shoulder, hips twitching. Harry feels the whoosh of Malfoy’s shaky exhale against his bare, sweat-damp skin. And then Malfoy is pulling out, slow and careful. When he thrusts back in, he’s anything but. Malfoy slams into Harry’s body and Harry lets out an embarrassing sound — guttural and animal — and Harry hopes Malfoy’s silencing spells are as strong as he promised.
Harry returns his hand to the top of the lockers, and using the leverage, rolls his hips again. It’s all the permission Malfoy needs because the next thing Harry knows, he’s being pounded into the wall, the metal of the lockers rattling and creaking with every vicious thrust.
Malfoy sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck, leaving red marks across his clavicles and shoulders as he slams into him again and again. All Harry can do is tighten his thighs around Malfoy’s waist and take it. He even drops his grip on the lockers to wrap around Malfoy’s neck, burying his nose into the place beneath Malfoy’s ear to breathe him in.
Harry’s heard rumours about the power of scent, how the addiction to someone’s smell proves more than sexual desire, but attraction on a deeper level. And even before Harry catalogued the difference between the spicy amber of Malfoy’s cologne at the pulse point in his throat, to the warm sweetness of his shampoo at his temple, Harry knew what Malfoy smelled like. He’d first scented him at the formal gala held by Malfoy’s organisation, a stuffy thing that had Harry tugging at the collar of his formal robes all night, though the open bar was generous and the hors d’oeuvres, decadent. Harry was in a foul mood that evening after an embarrassing article appeared in the tabloids, courtesy of his most recent one-night-stand — a young man by the name of Jack who felt the need to share with all of England that Harry might have some inclination towards submission. Harry was in no shape to be in public, but he’d RSVP’d, and Hermione wasn’t able to fill in for him as she was in Prague, negotiating an accord allowing the safe migration of endangered Centaur herds into Scotland.
He’d already scared off two Wizengamot members and a well-meaning Ministry grunt by snarling at them over the rim of his whisky glass. But then Malfoy sidled up behind him, whispering in his ear that, contrary to Harry’s assumptions, the bar was meant to supply liquor to all the guests, not just a grumpy Chosen One.
Harry should have tensed up at the intrusion on his personal space, but instead, his brain went fuzzy and his muscles turned slack. Because Malfoy smelled good. It was nothing like Hermione’s comforting ink, parchment, and coconut. Or Ron’s fresh cut grass and laundry soap. Or even Ginny’s spicy leather, earthy broomstick wax, and sweet jasmine — a scent he’d once equated with the best sex of his life. Harry felt like he’d been dunked in a batch of Amortentia as he sank to the bottom, drowning in sharp lemon, warm amber, and tobacco. It was distinctly masculine, and undeniably expensive, and Harry would swear he could smell it on his robes for a whole week later. And he’d checked. He sniffed the fabric daily, just to confirm that he was, in fact, out of his goddamn mind.
And now that Harry allows himself to sink into that scent, he finds that it is as intoxicating as he’d feared. He doesn’t know what that means, but that’s a concern for tomorrow, because Malfoy angles his hips just so, and his cock slams against Harry’s prostate, as he’d done with those long, clever fingers, and Harry’s vision blacks out.
Harry’s making horrible noises, his moans echoing in the cavernous room. They are matched by Malfoy’s sensual baritone and bloody fucking hell, Harry is going to come. The ache is building low in his belly, the swirling, simmering heat threatening to spark to a full blaze and overtake him. Malfoy must be suffering equally because the snap of his hips grows erratic and forceful, rather than the careful precision with which he battered Harry’s prostate just moments before.
“Oh Jesus,” Harry groans. “Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.” Harry has to hold the top of the lockers with white-knuckled fists as each breath comes in a desperate gasp. He’s sweating, perspiration beading at his brow, his lower back, and his palms. His grip on the metal over his head slips, but Malfoy absorbs the weight by slamming him harder into the wall.
“Can you really come like this?” Malfoy asks, voice rough and wrecked, and Harry’s eyes snap open.
Looking at Malfoy is a mistake, because Harry’s stomach cramps to the point of pain and he bites his lip around a noisy moan. Malfoy is flushed, cheeks burning a dark red that trails to the gaping neckline of that perfectly tailored shirt. His eyes are glassy and Harry can barely make out the ring of grey iris around the black of his pupils. Even his hair is a mess, falling over his forehead in sweat-damp tendrils, tugged to chaos by Harry’s own hands. It might be the sexiest thing Harry’s ever seen.
“God yes,” Harry replies without any hesitation.
Malfoy's mouth falls open, and Harry fixates on the glimpse of pink tongue between straight, white teeth.
“Then come for me,” Malfoy says. “Harry.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes. The simple utterance of Harry’s given name, and he’s slamming his skull back against the lockers as the heat in his gut catches fire, burning him from the inside, all the way from his centre to the tips of his extremities. His cock pulses as he moans and gasps through it, fingertips tingling and head swimming. Malfoy continues to pound into him. The slap of skin against skin, Harry’s weak groans, and Malfoy’s deep growls, flood the room. It takes every last ounce of Harry’s waning strength to keep from releasing his grip overhead and sinking down into Malfoy’s body. He all but melts against him. And then every muscle in Malfoy’s body tenses. The fingers on Harry’s arse tighten enough to make him whimper.
Harry sighs as he feels the thrum of Malfoy’s heartbeat and a liquid warmth spreading inside of him. His legs slide from their locked position around Malfoy’s waist, as Malfoy’s hands raise up to cup Harry’s jaw. His cock slips from Harry’s arse, and Harry winces as wetness courses down the backs of his thighs.
Malfoy cradles Harry’s face and kisses him. It isn’t like the biting kisses of the previous moments, though these don’t lack an ounce of that heat. Malfoy kisses him languidly, with tongue and wet lips as Harry collapses against him. He twines a hand around Malfoy’s neck, fingers carding through his hair as they kiss.
Malfoy draws back and releases a final exhale, and Harry lets him go. He softens his grip on the rumpled collar of Malfoy’s shirt, where the fingers not in Malfoy’s hair are tangled. Harry braces his own weight against the lockers behind him to keep from slipping to the floor when Malfoy steps away. Harry blinks, eyes focusing as Malfoy tucks himself away, doing up the clasps of his trousers, though his belt hangs loose. He extracts his wand and removes the stains from the fronts of his trousers, but not before Harry gets a good long look at the mess. He tucks that memory away for later.
“Do you need —” Malfoy starts, but Harry vanishes the mess coursing down the backs of his thighs with a lazy wave of his hand. Malfoy huffs a laugh. “Are you for real?”
Harry scrubs a hand through his hair and gives a helpless shrug.
“Harry, if I hadn’t just come, your flagrant use of wandless magic might just put me over the edge.”
Harry smirks at that, because sometimes he forgets that not everyone is used to the way he does magic. His friends see it all the time and while it’s lost its novelty, they do take advantage of the convenience, always asking Harry to summon another beer or remove the lid of an uncooperative jar with a blink.
“Is that all it takes?” Harry teases as he summons the duffel bag Malfoy had tossed against the lockers into his hand. And even if Malfoy doesn’t reply, the answer is in the way his eyes darken. Harry chuckles, biting his lip. “Wait until I get a chance to really show you what I can do.”
Malfoy’s mouth falls open and the hand attempting to redo the buckle of his belt slips. “Are you joking?”
Harry just shrugs, because he doesn’t know quite how to answer that, not without revealing himself entirely. He pulls a fresh pair of pants from the bag and slips into them. He then extracts dry, lake-water-free jeans, stepping into them and tugging them over his arse with a little hop.
Malfoy clears his throat and pointedly looks away.
“I’ll admit, this wasn’t what I intended when I came in here.”
Harry pauses, t-shirt in hand. “Oh?”
Malfoy casts him a nervous glance, and Harry’s heart sinks a little. He had to know it would be a possibility, this post-sex awkwardness. But for all of Malfoy’s usual swagger, he’d hoped for more.
Malfoy clears his throat, smoothing a hand over the wrinkled front of his shirt. “No.” Then he smirks. “I thought you’d play a bit harder to get.”
Harry snorts a laugh and tugs his shirt over his head, ruffling his hair with his hand and straightening his glasses. He knows he ought to say something, to fill the deafening silence with something — anything to prevent Malfoy from slinking out that door before Harry can find the words.
But Malfoy does it for him when he says, “Which is why I made a dinner reservation for this evening.” He glances at Harry from beneath pale lashes. “If you’re interested.”
Harry pauses, foot half-jammed into one of his unlaced black high-top trainers. “Wait, you’re asking me to dinner?”
Malfoy runs fingers through his hair, smoothing the strands Harry had tugged out of place, until it sat perfectly styled, once again. “I recognise this is a bit… out of the usual order. But yes. I had an entire speech prepared with the intention of tricking you into it.”
“Tricking me into dinner? Hell, Malfoy, just tell me there will be food and I’ll show up.”
Malfoy takes a tentative step closer as Harry shoves his other foot into the second shoe. “I had intended to lure you under the guise of a professional alliance.”
Harry rolls his lips over his teeth to keep his smile in check. “Thanking me for that donation after all?”
Malfoy scowls, and the familiar expression settles the nervous writhing in Harry’s stomach. “Certainly not. More like… an offer to join forces on future projects.”
“Cooperation? That doesn’t sound like your cup of tea.”
“Quite right,” Malfoy admits. He takes another step towards Harry. “Which is why it was a front to get you into bed.”
Harry’s grin spreads across his face, entirely against his will. Attempts to stifle it only causes his jaw to ache. “I mean, it’s not too late.”
Malfoy presses a knuckle underneath Harry’s chin and tilts his head to the side. He runs a finger along a trail of teeth marks. “I think it might be.”
“I meant to ask me to dinner.”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow.
“Go on,” Harry says. “Ask me.”
Malfoy places one hand on the locker beside Harry’s shoulder, and the looming movement alone is enough to have the butterflies in Harry’s gut taking wing all over again. “Would you like to have dinner? I have a table at Le Garrick at eight.”
Harry wobbles his head from side to side, pursing his lips in contemplation. “Nah,” he says. “I’m not hungry.”
Malfoy's eyes widen as his face falls. His haughty posture deflates, like someone let the air out of him. Harry snorts a laugh because he almost feels bad for the poor bastard.
“I’m kidding,” Harry says. He reaches out a hand and tucks two fingers into the strained shirt button at Malfoy’s chest. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
Malfoy scoffs and draws back. “Such a dick, Potter.”
“Call it pay back.”
“For what? I got the distinct impression you enjoyed yourself.” Malfoy extracts his wand from an interior pocket of his jacket and presses it against one of the bruises on Harry’s neck. Harry tilts his head to the side to give him better access. “Dispersimus.”
A warmth spreads over the place where Malfoy’s wand touches Harry’s skin, healing the mark, and he smiles. “I meant for trying to bloody drown me, you git.”
Draco drops his wand with a roll of his eyes. “It’s for charity.”
“Then how come they didn’t make you do it? I know you gave as much money as me,” Harry protests as Malfoy steps away to look at himself in the mirror.
“Oh, they tried,” he says as he straightens his collar. “Weasley can be quite persuasive, as I’m sure you're well aware. Which is why I offered them you.”
“What?” Harry sputters. He stands next to Malfoy in the mirror, watching as his smirk widens in the reflective glass.
“There was no way I’d be caught dead in my skivvies while people launch projectiles at me, Potter. I have some dignity.” His eyes catalogue Harry in the mirror, then he frowns. He yanks Harry closer with a hand on his wrist and pulls aside the neck of Harry's t-shirt, exposing another dark purple bruise. “The only place you’ll see me in swim trunks is on the beach in Saint-Tropez.”
“I think I’d like to see that,” Harry says.
Malfoy’s gaze flicks up to meet Harry’s, then returns his attention to the bruise, pressing his wand against the spot. “Let’s start with dinner first, shall we?”
Harry pauses him with a hand on his wrist. “Dinner sounds good. And I’ll keep that one, if you don’t mind.”
Malfoy’s eyes flash and the corners of his lips twitch, but Harry watches as he schools his expression with moderate success. “As you wish.”
Harry takes a step back and scoops up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives his hair a final tousle in the mirror. “Come on. Let’s get back out there before they send a search party.”
Malfoy nods and leads the way towards the door. He hesitates with one hand on the handle, the locking and silencing spells disintegrating. “I’m still willing to offer you a referral to my tailor, by the way.”
Harry giggles in surprise, which makes Malfoy’s expression twist as he wrestles with a smile. “What, you don’t like my outfit?”
“Though I am loath to admit it, Potter, I’d probably find you fit in a tracksuit. But my tailor is a master in bespoke garments.”
“No bloody idea what that means. Are you saying you want to match?”
“I’m saying, I’d pay money to have you stitched into something… worthy.” He runs a finger down Harry’s chest. “Call it charity.”
“You want to dress me? I’d call that staking a claim.”
Malfoy tilts his head to one side. “Mind your manners at dinner, Potter, and I’ll consider doing just that.”
With that, he opens the door, holding it wide for Harry with a magnanimous sweeping gesture. To which Harry laughs, throws an arm around his shoulders and drags him back out into the heat and crowds.