Work Header

Little Talks

Work Text:

Draco doesn't think he'll ever get used to this, to the sight of Harry Potter flushed and breathless, moving against him, his mouth wet and open on Draco's jaw, their heavy cocks sliding together, trousers gaping open, as they rut against a set of shelves in the supply cupboard. There's a box of fresh-trimmed quills pressing between Draco's shoulder blades, and he's fairly certain they've spilled an entire ream of parchment across the floor with that last spectacular thrust of Harry's, but he doesn't give a damn just as long as Harry lifts him just so--oh, fuck, yes.

"Brilliant," he manages to choke out as he wraps his long legs around Harry's hips, and Harry just laughs into the curve of Draco's throat.

Draco lets his head fall back, his hair catching on the quills behind him, and he shifts, arching his body against Harry's as Harry rolls his hips forward again. He's close, so close, and he's trying hard not to cry out. Anyone could walk past the cupboard--Merlin's tits, anyone could open the damned door at any time--and Draco knows that he and Harry are already the MLE's favourite topic of speculation this month and the last, even if neither of them will confirm it. He bites his lip as Harry's hand slips between them, his strong fingers curling around both their cocks just the way he's learned Draco likes it.

Three months it's been now, three months of late-night office shags, three months of quick gropes in cupboards and in dark corners, three months of the occasional evening spent at one another's flat--never staying over, of course. That's not the approved course of action for a mad, idiotic, completely inappropriate fling with one's co-worker, particularly if one has only recently officially divorced one's wife.

With a moan muffled into the soft angle of Harry's jaw, Draco twists one hand into the grey and red wool of Harry's robe, identical to his own save for the three stars above the insignia that mark him as Head Auror. Technically Draco supposes he's shagging his boss, and, frankly, that thought only makes him want Harry more. He catches Harry's mouth and kisses him roughly; he loves the soft noise Harry makes in return. Draco's never been with anyone who enjoyed kissing as much as Harry does. In Slytherin, kissing was a formality, a necessary ritual to be paid only passing respect to before shedding clothes. Harry, however, has made kissing an art form that thrills Draco. He could spend hours kissing the speccy bastard, if they had the time.

They never do. Harry's lips are soft and warm, and Draco lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his body stilling long enough to enjoy the shiver that goes through him as Harry's mouth moves across his. His tongue flicks across Harry's bottom lip, and Harry chuckles, his own following after it, and Draco's arms slide around Harry's neck, his fingers tangling in Harry's short, dark hair.

"Ready?" Harry murmurs against Draco's ear, and oh Christ, he is. More than, really.

Draco pushes himself against Harry, tightening his legs around Harry's hips. His mouth drags across Harry's jaw. "If you don't get me off now, you tit..."

He can feel Harry's smirk against his cheek. "What? You'll withhold paperwork for a month?"

"Two," Draco says, and his voice is breathy and raw. It catches in the back of his throat as Harry's thumb slides across the slick glans of his cock. "And I'll make sure your tea's tepid every morning."

"In that case..." Harry's fingers--those brilliant, wonderfully thick, stubby fingers--tighten around them both. Draco's body jerks, and he presses his nose against Harry's shoulder, breathing in the musky, sharp scent of Harry.

And then Harry's hand is on him, pressing their pricks together, pulling them both towards what Draco knows in his sane moments is nothing but disaster. Right now, however, he shouldn't care if Kingsley himself walked in on them with a whole phalanx of Ministry undersecretaries behind him, just as long as Harry kept stroking him like this.

He can hear Harry gasping with him, a quiet almost keening groan that Draco feels in the pit of his stomach. He's nowhere near virginal, Draco isn't, and yet no one he's been with has ever made him feel this open, this taken. Harry could do anything he wanted to Draco in moments like these. Draco's never fond of that realisation, but he can't deny its validity.

"Come for me?" Harry whispers in his ear, and Draco wants to tell him no, wants to refuse, wants to deny him that much longer, but his body betrays him. Harry's fingers twist around Draco's cock, and it's too much. Draco's hands clench Harry's shoulders and he knows it must hurt but he doesn't care because he's shuddering against Harry, coming with gritted teeth, tense shoulders, and a choked curse.

Oh, Christ. His cock is sticky and still firm and Harry's prick slides against him, hot and thick. Draco winces; the press of Harry's body is nearly too painful for his still-thrumming nerves. His legs slip from Harry's hips, feet hitting the floor just as Harry's hand tightens on Draco's arse, pulling him up against him as Harry's other hand strokes his own cock roughly, quickly. Harry's eyes are bright and wide behind his smudged glasses, and Draco can't resist leaning in to kiss him, his teeth sharp against Harry's swollen lower lip.

"Now," Draco says against Harry's mouth, and that's all it takes. He pulls back just in time to see Harry's face, to watch him fall apart, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open, whispering Draco's name.

Harry slumps forward, breathing hard, and Draco finds himself pressed back against the box of quills again. He's hot and sweaty, and he hates having Harry on him after they fuck, Harry knows that, for Christ's sake. Not to mention the wool of Harry's damned robe is scratchy against his balls.

"Harry," he says, shifting his hips. He doesn't want to push him away, but he does want him to move. Harry mumbles something and slides closer, much to Draco's annoyance. Shagging Harry is marvellous. The cuddling afterwards is a nightmare.

Draco pushes lightly at Harry's shoulders, wondering if he can be sacked for insubordination after sex. "We have to get back."

Harry lifts his head. "What if I give you the afternoon off?"

"Because that wouldn't be obvious." Draco manages to slide beneath Harry's arm, only to find himself up against another shelf. Really, you'd think the damned MLE would bring in more wizarding space for cupboards. "Particularly if you follow me."

"I could be out on field work." Harry turns, leaning back against the shelves. His trousers are still undone, and his hair is a frightful mess.

Draco wrinkles his nose; the entire cupboard reeks of sex. He flicks his wand and his mother's favourite lemon balm charm fills the air. Harry sneezes, and Draco sends another spell at his hair, smoothing it somewhat. "The Head Auror does not do field work," he points out, sheathing his wand. "Particularly not at Claridge's."

Harry grins. "That was a great room." "You certainly enjoyed the bath." Draco does up his flies, tucking his shirt back in as he does so.

"I'm fairly sure you didn't object to it either," Harry says. He flicks his wand lazily at his clothes, and the smears of come on his trousers disappear. "As I recall, you quite liked the echo."

Draco sighs. "Don't be crass." He smoothes a hand over his waistcoat as he buttons it, only to find a sticky spot on the brocade. He frowns down at it, trying to remember which spell won't destroy the warp of the fabric.

"We should go on a date," Harry says.

For a moment, Draco thinks he didn't quite hear properly. "What?"

Harry just looks at him as he buttons his shirt. There's a love bite just below his collarbone. "You and me. On a date."

Draco stills. "I don't date." His heart starts pounding. This is not what he'd expected from Harry. He'd been clear from the beginning that he wasn't interested in anything public--or at least confirming to anyone outside his very small social circle that he was most assuredly interested in what was in the Head Auror's trousers, and to be honest only Pansy knew and that was because the wretchedly smug bint had found out from that oafish Weasley she was shagging six ways from Sunday. Draco's threatened her with a fertility charm if she breathes a word about his not-relationship to anyone, particularly Blaise. He's not going to endure Zabini's I-told-you-so. He takes a shallow breath and tugs his cuffs so the proper amount of crisp white cotton shows at the edge of his robe sleeves. "I thought I was perfectly clear about that."

"You just fuck?" Harry takes a step forward and he's right there in front of Draco, and Draco can't breathe again. "Come on. We both know that's complete bollocks."

Draco's back is against the shelves. He swallows hard. "This is just sex, Potter." That's all it was supposed to be; that's all that he wants. At least that's what he tells himself. He's not ready to date, much less face the scandal of admitting he's been shagging his department head. The divorce was amicable, but it's been less than a year. A public relationship would be scandalous at best. A Malfoy--no matter how he'd proved himself over the past twelve years on the Auror force--seen with Harry Potter would ignite a firestorm in the press, and Draco's fairly certain that pointedly veiled implications that he's Imperiused the Head Auror would be the mildest thing written about him. He has utterly no desire to put his mother through yet another dredging up of their family muck. It'd been horrid enough when Father'd been released from Azkaban nine years ago, and afterwards Mother'd insisted they both retire to the Manor for good. Not even Father'd complained; now they barely come to London, preferring the quiet anonymity of Wiltshire. Draco'd been grateful when the divorce had only sparked a half column from Rita Skeeter poisonous pen, suggesting the Malfoy family secrets had been too much for Astoria to take.

If only it were that simple.

Harry's fingers brush against Draco's cheek, and Draco wants to pull away. He doesn't. "Is it just sex?" Harry asks quietly. His eyes are dark and fixed on Draco's face.

"Yes," Draco says, dropping his gaze to Harry's lips, but he knows he sounds uncertain. Frightened, even, and that realization makes his cheeks flame. He lifts his chin, mouth tight. "If you think it's anything else--"

Harry kisses him. Draco's breath catches, and when Harry's hand cups Draco's cheek, Draco can't stop himself from leaning against him, letting the kiss deepen into something he knows damned well promises more than just sex.

When Harry pulls away, Draco makes a soft sound of protest. His hand has settled on Harry's chest, and his fingers grip Harry's robe, keeping him close. "Don't," Draco whispers. He hesitates. "It's a mad idea. You're my boss. People will talk--"

Harry's mouth brushes his again, lightly. "Let them."

Draco sighs. Honestly. Sometimes Harry can be so bloody thick. Not to mention impolitic —which is probably why Kingsley's fond of him.

"Saturday afternoon," Harry says against Draco's lips. "I've got Ron's box for the Cannons match."

Draco snorts, breaking the moment. He pulls back. "The Cannons? Seriously?"

"Seriously." Harry grins at him, and Draco can't resist that mischievous light in his eyes. He sighs, exasperated, and Harry's grin widens. "It'll be fun."

"For the other team." Draco shakes his head. "I can absolutely assure you, Harry, that I am not sitting through a Cannons--"

Harry grabs Draco's hips, pulling him flush against him. "Even if it's followed by more 'just sex'?" His fingers flex across Draco's robe. "Hours of it, even?"

Draco pretends to hesitate, but he knows he's lost when Harry nuzzles his throat. "You're an utter idiot, you realise." He leans his head to one side, letting

Harry's teeth nip at his earlobe. "So that's a yes, then."

Harry's thumbs are sliding beneath Draco's waistcoat, tracing small circles across the cotton of his shirt. Christ, Draco wants him again. He almost hates this feeling, this inevitable longing as if he's some sort of ridiculously randy teenager mooning over his first real shag.

Draco tugs Harry into another kiss, quick and hard. "Next time we go to the opera."

"Next time?" Harry's eyebrow quirks.

Draco slides around him, reaching for the cupboard door. "Next time." He glances back over his shoulder. "If enduring the agony of a Cannons match doesn't turn me off sex for the rest of my life."

"They're twelfth in the league," Harry says petulantly.

"Out of thirteen, Potter." Draco opens the door a fraction and glances out into the hallway. It's clear. "I'm fairly certain that managing to eke a few points out over Wigtown doesn't qualify as an accomplishment." He looks back at him. "Wait five minutes?"

Harry glances at his watch. "Three. I have a meeting with Kingsley at half-one." He leans over and kisses Draco again. "See you in the briefing at four?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Draco pulls back reluctantly, then looks at the crack of light in the door frame. "I suppose I should..."


They look at each other. It's always odd, this final step away from one another and back into their daily routine. Awkward, even. Draco can tell the precise moment when Harry shifts from his lover to his boss, and he hates it, even if he knows it's his own insistence that they keep whatever this is quiet.

Until Saturday at least.

It's madness, this date, although he supposes he can always brush it off as two friends enjoying a Quidditch match. If he can manage to keep Harry's hands off him for an afternoon, and he's not entirely certain that's possible. Or that he wants it to be.

"Make sure you bring the Fowler reports this afternoon," Harry says, and Draco nods, reaching back for the doorknob.

Harry stops him with a touch of fingertips on his jaw. "You have a..." He trails off and strokes his thumb across a stretch of Draco's skin, before he pulls out his wand and lets the tip follow his finger. The tingle of Harry's magic seeps into Draco's skin, tightening it for the briefest second.

"Thanks," Draco says, but he wishes he could keep the love bite. There's a part of him that wants the whole damned department to know that he's Harry's, as ridiculous as that thought is. He touches his jaw, feeling the lingering warmth of the spell. "I need to make copies of that report if you want it." Harry nods, and when Draco looks back over his shoulder, Harry's watching him, his face shrouded in shadows.

"Two minutes now," Harry murmurs. Draco catches a flash of a grin. "Better get moving before Maximus decides to come find out why I'm not in Kingsley's office. Again."


Harry just laughs.

Draco closes the door behind him with a soft snick, straightening his robe as he strides down the hall back to his desk and the piles of paperwork waiting for him.

He can't hold back a smile.


Of all of the spaces in his Pont Street flat, the study with its walls of books and tall paned windows is Draco's favourite. After a difficult day, it's his inner sanctum, his well of quiet solitude. This evening he particularly needs it--what should have been a minor magical creatures case had turned into a mountain of paperwork when it was established that a mid-level wizarding diplomat from the States was involved in a smuggling ring for crimson-collared Myna birds. While Draco supervised security, Harry'd been summoned to increasingly higher-level and tightly secured meetings. Several Aurors were particularly irritated to be pulled off their active cases to watch one obviously brainless wizard sulk in a holding cell, and no one's mood was improved by the diplomat's smug certainty that he would walk free by evening.

Unsurprisingly--at least in Draco's opinion, because honestly, everyone ought to have realised there clearly were political strings being pulled somewhere--he wasn't proven wrong. At one point, Draco thought Harry might actually incinerate the owl from the American ambassador, and, to the relief of half the Auror force, he physically propelled Harry, swearing loudly and creatively at the Yanks' suggestion that Harry apologise for their inconvenience, into the back Floo before Kingsley reluctantly swooped in to collect the diplomat, the idiots from Grosvenor Square on his heels. The other Aurors had managed to stall the Minister at the door until Draco had Harry safely hidden away in his office, doing his best to distract him. He'd managed, at least for twenty minutes.

After a snifter and a half of rather good Calvados, Draco's now inclined to laugh about the whole thing. Even though the bastard's free, he won't rest easy with all of the magical creatures' rights groups in Britain and the States informed about the harsh treatment of endangered species through an anonymous tip--with photos, Dennis Creevey had made certain of that. Draco doesn't really mind that the erstwhile smuggler will have free passage from London to Connecticut. Thanks to an irate transatlantic firecall or two, his cousin Luna's Wizarding Ark Alliance will be waiting to welcome the miscreant home, and frankly, Draco's quite certain she and her naturalist friends will be far better at sweetly and brutally twisting the knife than an official censure could ever be.

Draco takes another sip of apple brandy and looks down at the folio of the Symposium in Greek spread across his lap. He's not really inclined to read tonight, particularly in another language, although he's always liked Alcibiades's outrageousness. He's just enjoying the sensation of a glass of something good in his hand and the weight of a well-loved book across his lap, the warmth of the light pooling around his Eames wizarding chair. He shifts against the tufted leather and sighs in pleasure. The poor Muggles didn't get half of the features in their version, nor the weightlessness of the levitation spells in the suspension.

He's just arranged everything to his liking and can feel the knots loosening in his shoulders when the antiquated Floo alarm buzzes, sounding something between a sackbut and a crup farting. He's been meaning to have it replaced since he and Astoria moved in after their wedding, but between her work and his there was never the time. Now he's used to it, and rather likes it, though he'll never admit to the fact. Draco resolves to ignore the Floo until he belatedly remembers that he switched the privacy settings, and it can only be his parents or the mother of his child. None of whom will be best pleased at being neglected. The Floo buzzes again, more insistently this time, and in his haste to stand up, Draco spills a few drops of amber across the immortal lines of Plato and onto the flannel of his trousers. He staggers into the hall, trailing curses and the smell of apples.

Not a hair is out of place as Astoria steps out of the Floo in a black belted dress and impossibly strict-looking strappy brown and black textured heels. For a moment, Draco admires her feline grace and simple elegance, remembering why he fell in love with her in the first place. For a moment he regrets his eventual realisation that he wouldn't be truly happy without a cock up his arse. Sometimes he wishes his bisexuality hadn't swung back to the opposite spectrum: they'd made quite the stunning couple together and up until Scorpius's second birthday they'd had a satisfying, if not brilliant, sex life. He'd thrown that all away when it'd finally struck him that he was spending most of his time in bed with her pretending she had green eyes, dark hair and a much flatter chest. Still, beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, Astoria is quite the star among young wizarding architects, and Draco's fairly certain she's better off without him in the end. She's living in Belgium now, and she and Draco share custody of four-year-old Scorpius by months unless an emergency arises.

From the look on Astoria's face, Draco knows instantly one has. "Coffee? Sambuca?" he offers, hoping to forestall the inevitable.

Astoria waves a neatly manicured hand. "No time, darling. But thanks ever so."

Draco waits as her eyes catch his trousers and her nose wrinkles. "Still drinking in the Eames chair even though it's impossible to get out of?" She'd been somewhat bitter that he'd kept it in the divorce, but he'd found it first at the flea market in Santiago and absolutely refused to give it up. It was one of the few things besides the flat he did insist on keeping.

"I assume you need something," Draco counters smoothly, ignoring her pointed reference to his habits.

Astoria bites the corner of her lightly glossed lips. "Yes. It's about Scorpius."

Draco leans against the doorframe, the soft knit of his jumper sliding against his arms. He resists the urge to cross them over his chest. "What of him?" he asks cautiously. "Has he bitten the au pair again?"

"That was one time," Astoria says with a sigh. "I've no idea why she insisted on making such a fuss over it."

"He drew blood, Astoria." Draco's mouth quirks to one side in amusement. "I'm entirely in favour of spoiling our son, but it wasn't outrageous for her to mention it to you."

Astoria flicks one hand dismissively. "He's four. When you were that age you nearly severed an elf's ear when you shut it in the wardrobe. Your father's mentioned that at least a half dozen times since Pius's birthday party. Besides, I suspect I'll have to sack this one too; I think she's teaching him to swear in Flemish. "

Draco rolls his eyes. "If it's not the au pair, then what's the issue?

Astoria sighs again. She flicks a non-existent bit of fluff off her sleeve. "I need to leave him with you."

Draco nods slowly. He's always happy to see his son, even though he doesn't like to see the rhythm disturbed. He'll have to arrange a few things for next week or the week after. "Very well. We can owl about it this weekend."

"That's just it," Astoria says, and she meets his gaze, looking guilty. "I haven't time to owl for arrangements. I have to be in Osaka by Thursday."

Draco's startled into alertness. "Sorry, what? This Thursday, as in, the day after tomorrow?"

"Well, they're seven hours ahead, but yes." As Draco frowns at her, Astoria holds up a hand in a placating gesture. "I know. I know. I'm sorry, Draco. But it's a major client and it could lead the firm to a place in the Exposition next year. We just received word this afternoon."

Her blue eyes are wide and he can tell she wants this, needs this. In her own way, Astoria's as ambitious as he is, or more so, since he realised that even after all these years, Harry bloody Potter would likely always come out on top.

Lately, however, he hasn't minded as much.

"Astoria, I've told you before--" His face is hot, and he doesn't want to be angry because he loves having his son, even unexpectedly, but this isn't the first time Astoria's dropped Scorpius on him with barely any notice, and it infuriates him when she's no respect for his schedule. And then he remembers the weekend's plan with Harry, and the heat turns to chill. "I can't."

She steps toward him. "Draco, please. You know Narcissa will dote on him, and you needn't trouble yourself with too many plans. She let it be known the last time she lunched with Mother that she wasn't seeing her grandson enough. And my parents will also want him to come for an afternoon or three."

A pang of sadness goes through Draco as the unbidden image of Scorpius as a baby wizarding chess figure pops into his head. "We can't just shuffle him about like baggage, Storey. That wasn't part of the agreement."

And then she plays the trump card Draco knew she was holding. "Christmas. I'll let you have Christmas if he can stay now for two weeks. That's all I need, Draco." She plucks at his sleeve, then smooths it. "Please."

He knows he's lost. Yet again. The cards are not coming up in his favour in this week of life's wagers. He takes a deep breath, a pang of regret shooting through him at the thought of calling off his date with Harry. In some part of him that he's not entirely comfortable with, he had been looking forward to the chance to sit with Harry in public, pretending to give a damn about the Cannons match. "Very well. Shall I come over tonight or would you like to bring him through in the morning?"

Astoria's smile is blinding. "Can you be in Antwerp in time for breakfast?"

Draco just sighs.


After he finally gets Scorpius settled and asleep the next evening, Draco settles himself in front of the Floo to arrange childminding. The carpet is not terribly uncomfortable, although he'd rather be sprawled in bed after a long afternoon of chasing his laughing son through Hyde Park. He doesn't even want to think about the paperwork that's likely piled up on his desk today, nor the curt, messily scrawled okay on the return owl he'd received from Harry when he'd written to say he'd be unexpectedly out for the day.

When Maude Greengrass's head appears in the green flames, he smiles his most aloof yet winning Malfoy smile. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realise the Greengrasses had a third daughter. Which one are you again?"

Despite herself, his hatchet-faced ex-mother-in-law laughs. "Oh, Draco. Must you be so charming?" Her lips purse. "Is there something in particular or did you just call to flirt?"

"With you, always." He thinks a few more lines of flattery couldn't hurt, but he hasn't a lot of time before he'll have to fall into bed himself--Scorpius wakes early, and it's already past eight. The excitement of being back with his Papa had led to a later bedtime than usual, much to Draco's dismay.

As is her wont, Maude switches to business immediately. "Astoria said Scorpius was staying with you this week."

"The next two, actually, and I was wondering if you'd like to see him at the weekend." Draco puts unfeigned hope into the wish, clenching a hand in his pocket and hoping for a quick, painless yes.

"Lovely," Maude says, and Draco's heart soars. "We can't wait to see him. Unfortunately, however, we're in Germany with one of Tristan's old Durmstrang friends for a country weekend, but we absolutely must plan for a visit next week. Perhaps a day or two while you're at work, if your mother will release him to our care." There's a hint of annoyance to her tone that Draco's fully aware comes from his mother's unspoken but all too obvious opinion that the Greengrasses were incapable of properly looking after the Malfoy heir.

"Yes, of course. I'll make certain to arrange that with Mother if you've days you'd prefer to have him." Draco grits his teeth and disconnects after a few pleasantries and good wishes for his ex in-laws health. Damn, damn, double damn. He immediately Firecalls the manor. When the leonine head of his father appears, his stomach sinks. His father is sometimes more difficult to convince than his mother usually, although Lucius does adore his grandson. Perhaps too much at times.

"Draco, is something the matter?" Lucius snaps. "It's getting on half eight."

"No, Father, sorry for the disturbance." Draco doesn't know when his parents began to seem old, but the last years of retirement in the country have aged them in subtle ways. And of course Azkaban still lingers in the deep lines scoring his father's mouth and eyes. "I've Scorpius for the next two weeks--"

His father frowns at him. "And you need someone to watch him while you're at work."

Draco rubs the back of his neck. "That, yes, although I've arranged for next Wednesday and Friday with the Greengrasses--"

"You rang them first?" Lucius sounds highly offended, and Draco bites back an annoyed sigh. Honestly, the amount of competition between the two sets of grandparents for Scorpius's favour cannot be helping his son develop a normal ego. Merlin only knew how much of an arse he'd be by his first year of Hogwarts, and Draco secretly suspects it's the universe's way of punishing him for his own inflated self-importance as a child. Damn his parents.

"I had assumed you and Mother would like to have him during the other weekdays," Draco says, trying to keep a patient tone in his voice. "But I was also wondering if you would like to see him on Saturday afternoon."

Lucius's face brightens and he's suddenly almost the man Draco remembers. "Excellent. Although we'll have to make it Sunday. Your mother and I have decided to cultivate the Parkinsons' acquaintance again, and we've plans for luncheon in Oxford. There's a delightful French restaurant on the Isis your mother's been wanting to try, and she's insisting that Iphigenia and Peter join us."

Draco resists a melodramatic eyeroll. His parents and Pansy's had never been close, but the post-war fallout had blurred all of the subtlety of pre-war social lines. Soon, perhaps, they can form a support group for parents of Slytherins shagging Gryffindors, a thought he represses firmly. If all goes well, they'll never know. The last thing he wants to see is the contemplative spark in his father's eye when he considers exactly what his son shagging Harry Potter might do for the family. On the other hand, at least he's not shacked up with a Weasley the way Pansy and Blaise both have. None of their parents have recovered from that particular horror. "That's a shame," he says blandly. "I know Scorpius would love to see his grandparents."

"Perhaps you would bring him for Sunday luncheon, then?" Lucius's excitement is genuine enough that Draco hasn't the heart to say no. "We could have Mimsy make Spotted Hippogriff."

A shudder runs through Draco. With the best of continental and British organics at his disposal, Scorpius has displayed a fondness for disgusting puddings, the more dull the better. It's a taste his parents, Merlin only knows why, encourage openly. "He'll enjoy that, I'm sure."

After his father closes the connection, Draco frowns, summoning parchment and quill and beginning a list. He doesn't really think he could explain to anyone exactly why he needs Saturday afternoon free, and he's certainly not willing to admit to any of his friends why he's so eager to give the care of his son into their not-entirely-capable hands. He thinks perhaps work is the best excuse after all.

The results are disappointing. Pansy raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Really, darling. Work? On a Saturday?"

Draco blinks coolly. "Crime doesn't stop for weekends, Pans. You know that."

She smirks knowingly. "Oh, I do. But I'm terribly sorry. Ronald and I will be otherwise occupied later in the day, and I really must prepare for it."

This is too much. Has everyone a thriving social life except himself, Draco wonders. Perhaps there's an occasion he wasn't invited to. "Oh really? Romantic, gingery evening a deux, then?"

Pans smothers a giggle. "Hardly. Fetish party, if you must know. Not entirely child-friendly, although I'm quite certain my godson would have a few questions about Ronald's delightful outfit."

He's still spluttering when she rings off, wishing he could unhear the last five minutes or so of the conversation. Or at least Obliviate the thought of Ronald Weasley in a leather bodysuit. Christ. The things those two get up to--he wonders if Harry has to endure the sordid details the way he does. Somehow he suspects not. It's a sad day when one realises that a Weasley is more discreet than a Slytherin. He sighs and marks Pansy and the Weasel off the list.

Blaise just snorts when he asks, the cross-Channel Floo connection crackling slightly. Really, the French simply must update their Floo network. Ringing Paris is a nightmare at times. "Draco, are you trying to foist your vampire spawn from hell off on me so you can have a dirty weekend with someone?"

Draco flares his nostrils, refusing to back down. "Of course not. And that spawn happens to be your godson." He glares at him. "And he's not a vampire."

"I'm fairly certain I still have the scars from his teeth." Blaise points to the back of his hand.

Draco sighs. "We're working on the biting issue." Or at least he is, damn it. "Look, can you mind him for me? For one afternoon?" He hesitates. "And possibly a night?"

Blaise shrugs, smirking a little. "So the rumours Ginevra hears about you shagging her ex-boyfriend rotten are true, then?"

He laughs as Draco splutters. When Draco can speak again, he asks quietly, "Who told you?"

"Shot in the dark," Blaise says. "Ginny had money on Creevey. I'm glad I won."

Draco runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Harry's invited me to go to a Quidditch match this weekend. I don't think I'm ready to introduce him to Scorpius, and Astoria's had to leave town." In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes, and oddly, Draco's pleased that he's not having to hide Harry now. He shouldn't be, but he is. Besides, he's fairly certain Pansy must have cracked and told Blaise. Or perhaps it was Ronald, but he hates the idea of the Weasel shagging one of his best friends and being the brother-in-law of another, much less the thought of them sitting around discussing his sex life. He barely suppresses a shudder.

Blaise nods, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Pudd United aren't playing this weekend."

"Right," Draco says, not wanting to admit he's going to a Cannons match. "So. Are you engaged on Saturday or will you have time for your darling and precocious godson?"

"I'd love to see the little nanny-biter," Blaise says cheerfully, "but we're closing up the flat and going to Canberra on Monday. Gin's covering the Antipodes Cup for Quidditch Weekly. Perhaps we can meet up again in Paris in six weeks?"

Inwardly Draco curses the peripatetic habits of his nearest and dearest. "Of course. Let's find a time then."

"Has Pius lost his taste for marrons glacés?" Blaise asks. "Please say yes. Six is too many even for an adult."

Draco shakes his head. "No. Although why he enjoys them is beyond me. They taste like sugared wet parchment."

"So what team did you say Potter was taking you to?" Blaise asks, and Draco swears the corner of his mouth quirks.

"I didn't."

Blaise just looks at him calmly. "I know."

A long silence stretches out between them, until Draco's shoulders drop. He sighs.

"The Cannons," he mutters.

Blaise laughs long and hard. "Oh, Draco. No. Really? I was hoping you hadn't--" "What?" Draco snaps. "There's nothing wrong with going to a Cannons match. As I recall, your wife managed to secure the box for her brothers--"

"Oh Merlin," Blaise says, horrified. "Potter is going to defile you in the family box. I'll never be able to sit down with Arthur and Molly again."

"Hah!" Draco points a finger at him. "You admit you've had to go to the Cannons as well!"

Blaise rolls his eyes. "I married a Weasley, Draco. It's the family religion; one must endure their uncivilised customs--" He breaks off as Ginevra's voice calls out from behind him.

"Oi, I heard that, clever clogs." Her face appears in the Floo over Blaise's shoulder. "Hullo, Draco. So you and Harry, eh?"

Draco gives her a long-suffering glare. "Not that it's anyone's business--"

Ginevra grins at him. "Hung like a hippogriff, isn't he?"

"I am in the room," Blaise says, huffily.

Ginevra kisses his cheek. "Sorry, darling, but he is."

Blaise gives Draco a look, and Draco shrugs. "She's not wrong."

"I loathe you both." Blaise scowls. "Perhaps I should take the miniature vampire for the weekend and leave you both to compare notes. I hear EuroDisney's nice this time of year."

"That's child endangerment, that is," Draco says.

"I don't think Pius would endanger too many children," Blaise says contemplatively. "Surely he could only bite ten or twelve before he gets bored."

Draco hangs up on Ginevra's laughter. Bastards. Scorpius could definitely achieve at least fifteen.

Greg doesn't even let him get his question out. "No," he says calmly, eating a banana. "I don't do kids."

"I haven't even asked--"

"Pansy rang." Greg takes another bite. "Something about you shagging Potter and needing a bite-proof minder. And unless you want to come home to that little bastard hanging upside down from the chandelier by his boot laces, I'm probably not your man."

As much as Draco sometimes does want that, he thinks perhaps it's a bad idea. "Thanks, Greg," he says with a sigh.

"Anytime," Greg says through a mouthful of banana. "Say, is it true that Potter's hung--" Draco shuts the Floo on him.

Desperate, he tries Granger, only to hear a message on her ansafloo informing him that she and Luna are in San Francisco for the summer. He blinks. Well. That's something to ask his cousin about later. He wonders if Harry knows what's going on there.

He leans back on his heels, his back aching from hunching over the Floo. It's gone ten now, and he's exhausted. Slowly he pushes himself to his feet, only to hear a rustle of pyjamaed legs and the smack of small bare feet from the staircase.

"Papa," a voice pipes up from the hallway, and, tired as he is, Draco can't help but smile as he walks out of the sitting room to find his son, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, sitting on the bottom step. Scorpius looks up at him, rubbing at one eye. "I couldn't sleeped." He yawns. "It smells different."

Draco scoops him up, burying his face in his son's blond curls. "Does it?"

Scorpius lays his head on Draco's shoulder, one arm wrapped around Draco's neck. "Can I sleep with you?"

Draco knows he should say no, knows he should take him right upstairs and put him back in his warded bed piled with stuffed animals. Instead he rubs Scorpius's back, feeling the small bumps of his son's spine beneath his palm as he walks up the staircase. "For a little while." Scorpius nods. He turns his head and kisses Draco's cheek before settling back against Draco's chest and shoulder, his fist pressed against his mouth. Before they reach Draco's bedroom he's asleep again.

Draco lays him on the bed, watching Scorpius curl into a small ball on his pillow as he pulls the sheet over him. He brushes Scorpius's hair back off his pale forehead, and a wave of fierce protection washes over him. Draco'd never thought he'd be a good father. He'd put it off as long as he could. But now, here, thirty years old and with the weight of a war and a multitude of bad decisions at his back, he knows there's nothing he wouldn't do for his son to keep him from the same course. His thumb smoothes across Scorpius's soft skin, and he wonders if Harry could ever understand.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, staring at his reflection the window. He doesn't know what to think; all he knows is that, whatever he decides, Scorpius has to come first. With a heavy heart, he waves his wand at the lamp and it flickers off, leaving him in silent darkness.

It takes Draco all of Thursday to decide what he's going to do. On the way home from work, he stops by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, making certain he has a proper glamour in place before slipping in with a pack of teenagers. He relaxes when he realises neither Ronald or George are at the till, and he doesn't recognise the spotty young wizard behind the counter who's staring all too obviously at the girls laughing in the corner.

He's in and out in a trice, with a small sackful of Puking Pastilles and Fever Fudge--both of which he intends to keep far out of Scorpius's reach. To distract his son, he's purchased two Pygmy Puffs which keep him occupied for the evening, much to Draco's relief, though he has a moment of panic when he thinks he's stepped on one of them. It rolls out from beneath the arch of his boot though, and Draco's heart starts again. The last thing he wants to do tonight is to have to explain the concept of death--or rather "apologies, son, but Papa seems to have accidentally murdered your new best friend."

Draco's afraid he'll have a tussle with Scorpius at bedtime, but to his surprise, his son curls up in bed happily, a Pygmy Puff humming docilely on each shoulder. Draco doesn't know if the oh-so-descriptive names "Puff" and "Pink" will stick, but if she objects, Astoria can work on something more suitable when she returns.

Scorpius refuses to leave the next morning for the Manor without the two Pygmy Puffs and it's worth it to see the look on his father's face when Draco drops the three of them off for the day. Lucius eyes the florid pink puffs of fur with distaste as Scorpius thrusts them at him, chattering about how brilliant they are.

Draco just shrugs at him over Scorpius's head. "He's quite taken with them," Draco says, hiding a smile.

Lucius holds one between two fingers, frowning at it. "Please tell me it doesn't reproduce."

"I didn't stop to ask," Draco admits. At his father's glare, he laughs. "I suspect they don't. It would be bad for business."

Lucius sniffs. "The world would be a better place without that particular shop."

Draco can't entirely argue. The Auror force does spend rather too much time cleaning up after the more experimental Wheezes. "Just play with them, and Scorpius'll be happy."

"I see." Lucius drops the Puff onto a table and it rolls away, cheerfully humming. "Your mother'll be delighted, I'm certain."

With a ruffle of his son's hair, Draco heads for the Floo. He's timed out the entire day--he has a meeting at half-eleven he has to be at, and if he takes one of the Pastilles rolling around in the bottom of his satchel just before it, he should be ill just by the end--in time to go home for the rest of the day and have a perfect excuse for cancelling his date with Harry without causing too much upset. He doesn't want to do anything, after all, that will jeopardise his ability to be shagged into a cupboard floor.

Things don't go according to plan, however.

Draco's called into another meeting at ten and has just enough time to dash back to his desk to take the Pastille. When he gets there, Harry's sitting in his chair, twisting back and forth. He looks up when Draco stops abruptly at the opening of his cubicle.

"Hey," Harry says.

Draco glances down at his satchel on the floor beside Harry's feet. "I have a meeting." "I know." Harry holds up a small brown packet. "Need this?"

The Wheezes. Draco takes a deep breath, then scowls, a sudden flash of anger roiling through him. "You went through my satchel."

"You were going to skip out on our date," Harry says calmly. "And as Head Auror I have the right to search all bags--"

"You utter shit," Draco hisses. "That is not--"

Harry shakes the packet. "You were made, Malfoy. Ron says to tell you--and I quote--that 'I can spot the pointy on him through Peruvian Darkness Powder.' Which I'm pretty sure means you need to work more on your glamour."

Draco snatches the packet of Wheezes away. "Your friends are nosy gits." That just earns him a laugh.

"I'd disagree, but they get all their gossip from your friends." Harry leans back in Draco's chair, his hands behind his head. No one should look that damned attractive when he's being utterly and unabashedly annoying. "Ginny already told me you have Scorpius for the weekend. Bring him along."

"Oh." Draco can feel his face warming. "Did she?"

Harry's mouth twitches. "And evidently Zabini is horrified to discover I have a--"

"Don't even say it," Draco says. "Your ego can't take it. Merlin knows it fills the whole department already. Mustn't let it take over the solicitors' offices too."

Harry looks rather pleased with himself, which Draco finds far too irritating for this hour of the morning. "Anyway. Really. Bring Scorpius. He likes Quidditch, doesn't he? All kids do."

"He's four, and has no idea what Quidditch even is." Draco pushes Harry's feet off his desk. "And frankly, I'm afraid his young, impressionable mind will be warped by your wretched taste in teams."

"You only wish you had such a brilliant team to be loyal to."

Draco gives him an incredulous look. "Did you hit your head this morning? Fall out of bed? Crack your skull?"

Harry stands up with a grin. He takes the packet of Wheezes from Draco and tucks it in his pocket. The cubicle's suddenly too small, Draco thinks, as Harry steps closer to him. "Tomorrow afternoon," he murmurs, and he reaches out and brushes a knuckle across Draco's mouth. Draco's breath catches. "Half two. You do know where the Cannons pitch is, yes?" All Draco can do is nod.

"Right." Harry's eyes hold his, and when his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, it's all Draco can do not to make a soft noise. "You'll be there." It's not a question, Draco's quite aware.

Somehow he manages to form words. "Yes." He clears his throat. "We'll be there."

They look at each other. Draco's tense, his body aching to reach for Harry. Someone walks past his cubicle, says hello. He has no idea who it is.

"Good," Harry says finally, and the back of his hand knocks against Draco's. Draco can feel it in every bloody cell of his body. "See you then."

"Yes," he chokes out, and then Harry's gone, and Draco sinks into his chair, staring blankly at the stack of folders on his desk, waiting for him to gather them up for the meeting.

Oh, Christ, he thinks.

There's a knock on his cubicle and he jerks around, hands shaking.

Hannah Abbott eyes him, a pad of parchment in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. "You all right?"

Draco nods. "Yes. Of course. Fine." From her sceptical look he knows he doesn't sound it.

"Right," she says. "So. Meeting?"

Meeting. Yes. "Be there in a moment."

When she walks off, he groans and presses his forehead to the stack of folders.

Really, Pansy's always been right about him, he thinks. He's absolutely a walking disaster.


Draco spends most of Saturday morning alternating between bribing his son into good behaviour and contemplating ringing Harry's Floo to tell him that he simply can't come, terribly sorry, but Scorpius appears to have come down with some sort of plague. Or dragonpox. Possibly several plagues at once.

In the end, however, he gathers what remnants of courage he has and, with gritted teeth and repeated reminders to himself not to throttle his only son and heir, wrestles Scorpius into a pair of short, grey woollen pants and a white button-down shirt, over his son's vociferous objections. Malfoys simply are not seen in public in plebian clothes like t-shirts, no matter what Astoria thinks.

Scorpius sulks through the Portkey to Devon and the walk out to the Cannons' pitch on the edge of Dartmoor, but he cheers somewhat when Draco lets him dangle over the side of a footbridge, staring gleefully at the rushing water of a small brook as he drops in stones to watch them splash. He runs ahead through a short stretch of woods, though Draco calls him back with a sharp word, and he takes Draco's hand reluctantly as they reach the crest of the tor. The pitch is spread out before them, and Draco can't help but smile at the wide-eyed look of wonder on Scorpius's face as he takes in the Cannons flags whipping in the breeze and the cheerful throng of supporters dressed in bright orange and gold.

"Papa," he breathes out. "Look." He points towards an old man in a Cannons jersey, orange streaks dyed into his long grey beard. Draco wants to say something snide, but he's fully aware whose territory he's on, and, besides, Scorpius is utterly enchanted. Draco's loath to do anything that might spoil his mood. It takes so little to send him into a death spiral of crankiness at times. There are moments Draco wonders if somehow Snape genetics have managed to infiltrate the Malfoy line: he could swear some days Scorpius's scowl looks entirely like his former Head of House's. Instead he scoops Scorpius up into his arms, carrying him down the rolling slope towards the gates to the stands. There are too many people there and Draco panics briefly before he hears his name being called.

He turns, and there's Harry, dark curls rumpled by the wind, and looking utterly amazing in a pair of faded Muggle jeans and a dark blue button-down. Draco completely ignores the tattered orange and white scarf Harry has draped over one shoulder. What he can't overlook is the large black stuffed bear clad in a too small, ridiculously orange jumper that's clutched in both of Harry's hands.

Oh, God. Draco bites his tongue. Hard. "Hello," he manages finally.

"Hi," Harry says with an easy smile, and Draco's just about to break and tell him to hide the bear for Christ's sake, but then a tiny hand reaches out towards Harry and Draco sighs. Scorpius has his face almost turned into Draco's neck, but one eye's fixed on the bear. Damnation.

Harry laughs. "Hello, Scorpius," he says, holding out the bear, and Scorpius rights himself just long enough to snatch it from Harry, then retreats back against Draco's shoulder, the bear hiding most of his face--and Draco's.

"Say thank you, Scorpius."

The bear rises higher until only a few blond curls are visible. "Thank you," Scorpius mumbles into the orange wool jumper.

"You're welcome," Harry says, watching Scorpius with a smile.

Draco pushes a furry foot out away from his mouth and looks at Harry. "You shouldn't have," he says dryly. "Really." He almost hates the way Harry's eyes sparkle at him.

"I wanted to make friends."

"Obviously not with me," Draco says, and Harry laughs again. When he puts his hand on the small of Draco's back, Draco can't hide the shiver that runs through him.

Harry has the grace not to say anything, but his fingers tighten on the cotton of Draco's shirt and his breath is warm against Draco's cheek when he leans over and murmurs, "This way."

They bypass the long queue waiting to get into the general stands, and Draco pretends not to notice the looks and whispers that follow them, none of which seem to faze Harry, who keeps his hand firmly on Draco's back. Scorpius's head is still buried in the bear, as he whispers into its ear in a language that Draco's rather certain is most likely Flemish. He can only hope it's not obscene.

Just inside the entrance, a guard greets Harry with a cheerful "'Lo, Auror Potter", and waves them towards the rickety lift for the upper boxes. As much as it pains him not to comment on the dilapidated state of the stands--really, he's suddenly grateful for Pudd United's recent renovations to their pitch--Draco's silent until they reach the door to the box and Harry pulls out an enormous skeleton key with a small black cannonball attached.

"No wards?" Draco can't help himself, and Harry just turns an amused look his way as he slots the key into the lock.

"Worse than that," he says, and the door swings open to reveal a box filled with overstuffed, if somewhat threadbare, sofas and comfortably plush armchairs draped with orange and white knit afghans. Harry stops Draco before he can step in. "Wait a moment." He flicks his wand at the open door, and a burst of golden sparks showers out at them, causing Scorpius to raise his head from the bear and laugh in delight. At Draco's quirked eyebrow, Harry grins ruefully. "George and Ron like to set prank charms and little surprises. Last time I was up here I had purple hair for a week."

"And here we all thought that was just a spat with your ex," Draco says lightly, stepping through the doorway. Scorpius peers at Harry over Draco's shoulder, watching as he shuts the door behind them.

Harry tucks the key back into his pocket. "She prefers Bat-Bogey Hexes."

"I'm well aware." Draco sets Scorpius down on one of the sofas. "Having been hit with her skill on at least one occasion that I can recall." He sits next to his son, surprised at how comfortable the sofa is, even if it does give off the slightest whiff of mothballs. "Not to mention the time she used it on Blaise when Greg decided to take him drinking in Amsterdam."

"For a given value of drinking." Harry sits on the other side of Scorpius, who looks up at him suspiciously. "It was Amsterdam."

"I like Ams'erdam," Scorpius says, pulling at the ear of the bear. "Mummy and me saw Sinterklass last Christmas."

Harry smiles down at him. "Did you?" At Scorpius's nod, Harry reaches out to tug the orange jumper down over the round belly of the bear. "Did he bring you a stuffed bear?"

Scorpius laughs. "No! Candy and a book and more candy and a toy Auror like Daddy is." He squirms next to Draco, moving closer to Harry. "I like bears."

"I did too when I was your age." Harry plays with the fur on the bottom of the bear's foot. "My cousin had a lot of them."

Draco's heart clenches. He knows the story; not from Harry--never from Harry--but from Pansy, one night just after she'd started seeing Ronald. He can still remember the furrow in her brow when she'd told him what she knew, how the Muggles had treated Harry--he'd still been Potter then--and how he'd grown up unwanted. Unloved. Knowing that had been what had broken down Draco's last walls when it came to Harry. He could never imagine spending his childhood that way, knowing that your family wanted nothing to do with you. His father may have been an utter bastard at times, and all too willing to throw his lot in with the wrong sort--the wishes of his family be damned--but Draco had never once doubted he was loved. He still doesn't.

Scorpius scoots closer to Harry and holds up the bear. "You can hold him."

"What if he sits between us?" Harry asks, and it's at that moment that Draco knows--he knows--that this isn't some passing fling. He watches as Harry settles the bear next to him, and Scorpius leans over the wretched stuffed beast, asking Harry what the three hoops are on each end of the pitch. Harry's patient in his answers, even when they lead to the more outlandish questions that Scorpius seems to enjoy asking, such as wondering if the burly, purple-clad Keeper for Portree could fit through one of them or if he'd get stuck trying.

Draco meets Harry's gaze over Scorpius's head. Thank you, he mouths, and Harry just smiles at him, reaching out to brush his fingers across Draco's cheek.

Scorpius sits on the edge of the sofa, clenching his bear with both hands, eyes wide as the players take the pitch in a riot of purple and orange. He doesn't even look up when his father leans across him to kiss Harry, only reaching back to push Draco away with an oh-so-Malfoy air of annoyance.

Harry laughs and settles back into the corner of the sofa, still holding the bear's leg. "Later?"

"Oh, yes," Draco murmurs, his lips still tingling from their brief kiss. "Most definitely." He doesn't pull away when Harry's hand settles on his shoulder behind Scorpius's back.

Perhaps this wasn't an atrocious idea after all.

It's nearly eleven when they arrive back on Pont Street, a snoring Scorpius draped over Harry's shoulder and Draco laden down with the bear--who appears to have been given the name Mr Tiddles at some point in the evening--the Portkey, a Cannons banner, bags of sweets from various vendors, and a jersey signed by the entire team--a memento of their private post-match tour of the changing rooms which was meant for Scorpius but which Draco is fairly certain, not to mention hopeful, that Harry'll end up nicking. Astoria might burn it on sight, an action Draco would be quietly in favour of. He's absolutely horrified at the realisation that his son has most likely become a Cannons supporter, God help them all. Father will be apoplectic when he finds out. Perhaps that would be a good time to mention the fact that he just possibly might be dating Harry Potter.

Draco leads them clumsily through the darkened flat and they both lay Scorpius down gently, ever so gently, onto his bed. Draco thinks of undressing his son fully, but settles on removing his shoes. He'll probably wake up during the night, and if so, Draco will change him into pyjamas then. At the moment, he's just thrilled that Scorpius is sound asleep. Finally.

He and Harry both step into the hall. Draco closes the door, leaving it open a crack, and turns, leaning his shoulders against the wall. Harry runs a hand through his hair, standing it on end, but Draco doesn't care. He wants to drag him bodily into his bedroom and muss it far worse than that.

A corner of Harry's mouth quirks and he nods in the direction of the Floo. "So I'll just..."

Draco makes the decision, stepping forward and lacing his fingers through Harry's. "Stay," he says, looking down at their joined hands.

When he glances up, Harry's watching him closely. "Are you sure?" His eyes flick towards Scorpius's door.

"Yes." Draco lets his thumb trace small circles over Harry's knuckles. "Entirely." A small smile curves his mouth. "All night. If you want."

Harry's breath catches. "Draco," he murmurs, and Draco leans in, pressing his mouth against the hollow of Harry's throat. He can feel Harry's pulse beneath his lips, quick and warm. Harry makes a soft sound, and then Draco pulls back, his fingers still twined with Harry's.

"Stay," he says again, and he steps backwards, tugging at Harry's hand, leading him down the hall to his bedroom.

Harry follows.

The sheets are warm and wrinkled beneath Draco's shoulders and his breath is coming in short, quick gasps. Harry looks up at him for a moment, his face half in shadow and half in pale moonlight from the windows. He kneels between Draco's legs, his hand poised on the back of Draco's thigh. "Everything all right?"

Draco wants to say no, things are unbearable and I'll never be the same again after you've taken me apart with your hands and your mouth, and I'll die if you don't shag me right now. Instead he nods and chokes out, "Yes, Harry. Very."

Bright green eyes linger on Draco for a moment, watching his face carefully. Then Harry nods. "Good."

Harry's weight settles over Draco, and Draco opens for the slick, smooth, perfect burn, forgetting his own name for a moment with Harry as close as he could possibly be. Their bodies join in a clasp of sweat-soaked skin and lips meeting teeth meeting tongues. Draco wraps his hands around the base of the headboard behind him and pushes back into Harry's thrusts, his ankles crossed behind Harry's back and waves of want shivering through him. This, now, this is exactly what he wants. Nothing more. Nothing else. Just this.

The one-way Muffliato that they've placed on the room will allow them to hear the sounds around them while making sure the sounds within the room do not travel. The way the headboard is hitting the wall, Draco briefly gives thanks for Auror spellcasting technology, and then he can't think anymore.

As they lie together tangled afterwards, breath still coming in gasps, Draco trails a hand along Harry's muscular shoulder. "Are you sure you truly want this?" he whispers. "I mean, this, us, me."

Harry shifts, rolling to one side, and he looks at Draco. "Yes. If you'll have me. Both of you." His hair falls over his forehead. Draco can't stop himself from smoothing it back.

"Have I told you about the biting?" Draco asks as Harry catches his wrist and presses it to his mouth. "In the interest of full disclosure."

Draco is pulled forward by Harry's hand at the nape of his neck and kissed thoroughly. "Mmmm," Harry says, worrying Draco's earlobe with his teeth. "I'm afraid the biting is legendary."

"And the love of disgusting desserts? And the tantrums?" Draco rests his forehead against Harry's. Might as well lay all Scorpius's secrets bare. There's no sense in Harry being surprised by one of Scorpius's dreaded screaming fits.

Harry strokes Draco's back. "He's a four-year-old boy. Besides, I knew you when we were eleven, so I think I'm prepared for every eventuality." He's obviously not prepared for Draco's pillow to hit him in the face, but he retaliates in kind quickly, laughing as he wrestles Draco back against the mattress.

Draco looks up at him, at shadowed golden skin and lean muscles, at rumpled dark hair and a bright grin. "You terrify me," he admits quietly, and Harry's hand settles against his cheek, fingers stroking lightly.

"And you think I'm not scared?" Harry asks. His fingertips brush Draco's hair back behind his ear.

"You're Head Auror. You're not afraid of anything."

Harry just gives him a faint smile. "If you only knew."

Draco lets his hand rest on Harry's shoulder. He flexes his fingers lightly. "What about work? You can't tell me there won't be talk--"

"You don't think they've figured it out yet?" Harry settles between Draco's legs, nudging them wider. "For Christ's sake, Draco, most of them are just grateful you manage me and run interference for them when I'm in a snit."

This is true, Draco realises. "You are a complete arse when you're annoyed with them."

"I know." Harry grins. "And they count on you to tell me to shut it."

Draco hadn't considered it that way. He frowns. "Perhaps."

Harry's thumb slips over Draco's bottom lip. Draco nips it lightly. "This has never been just about the sex, Draco. Not for me."

"I know." And Draco does. He's tried to tell himself otherwise. It was a necessary lie; he hadn't been ready to face this. To face Harry. "This could end spectacularly badly, you realise."

Harry snorts. "This coming from a man who's already stomped on my face once."

Draco catches his hand, sitting up. "Stomping on a heart hurts worse." They look at each other, rumpled and mussed and wide-eyed in the dark.

"I won't," Harry says finally. "I promise."

Silence stretches between them, then Draco nods. "I'll try," he says. "I've never been good at relationships, though."

A small smile quirks Harry's mouth. "You've seen my track record, yes? I sent Gin running to Zabini, of all people."

Draco smirks. "I have to admit, I never thought I'd see Blaise tamed by a Weasley. I don't know whether to be amused or horrified."

"What about a Potter taming a Malfoy?" Harry leans forward, pushing Draco back against the pillows. His prick drags heavily across Draco's bare thigh.

"In your dreams, Potter." Draco's arms slide around Harry's neck, pulling him down into a slow kiss. "In your dreams."

Harry laughs.

As dreams go, Draco thinks, this one could be worse.

Pale early morning sunlight streams through the windowpanes, warming Draco's face as he rolls towards Harry. A heavy arm settles across his hip, and he can feel the soft scratch of Harry's scruff against his cheek as Harry sighs.

"Morning," Harry murmurs.

Draco doesn't open his eyes. "It's too early to be alive." His body aches pleasantly; his arse burns as he shifts his hips. It's been a while since he's been shagged so thoroughly. He doesn't mind it at all.

"Coffee?" Harry asks with a yawn. "Or tea?"

"Tea, you philistine." Draco breathes in the very Harry smell surrounding him. "Ceylon, steeped for five and a half minutes. It's in the brushed steel tin in the kitchen. Top shelf."

Harry's shoulder shifts beneath him. "Aren't you supposed to make tea for your guest?" He sounds amused.

Draco just pushes his foot against Harry's leg. "Don't make me kick you out of bed." He pulls the coverlet up over his shoulder. "Get on with you."

Before Harry can slip out of bed, the door to the bedroom creaks open and Draco can hear the soft shuffle of small feet on the wooden floor.

"Oh, good," Scorpius says, and Draco opens one eye as the mattress shifts under Scorpius's knees. The black bear bangs against Draco's leg. "You're still here."

"I am," Harry says, and he leans down with the coverlet over his waist to scoop up his pants from beside the bed. Draco tries not to laugh. This is not how he imagined their first sleepover, although he's quite enjoying the stretch of smooth skin over the flat planes of Harry's back. Harry sits back up. "Did you sleep well?"

Scorpius nods. "So did Mr Tiddles." He clutches the bear to his chest. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, although his shirt is untucked and several buttons are now gone. Draco's fairly certain he's going to win the Worst Father of the Year award. Scorpius eyes Harry. "What are you doing?"

Harry stills, and from what Draco can tell, his pants are only halfway up his thighs. "Getting dressed."

"Under the blanket?" The disapproving tone in his son's voice reminds Draco of his mother.

With a small jerk of his hips Harry manages to get his pants all the way up. He swings his legs of the side of the bed. "Your Papa's still sleeping."

Scorpius pokes Draco's leg. "Wake up!"

The mattress moves as Harry stands up, grabbing Scorpius as he does. "Let him sleep a bit longer. Would you and Mr Tiddles like some tea? Maybe some eggs and toast?"

"Yes!" Scorpius squeals as Harry upends him. The bear dangles in front of Draco's face. He bats it away, unnoticed by his son. "Except Mr Tiddles wants lots of jam."

Harry rights Scorpius again, settling him on his shoulders. He doesn't seem to mind the bear smacking the back of his head. "With his eggs?"

"Ew!" Scorpius tugs at Harry's hair as he ducks to get through the doorframe. "Pretend you're a pony!"

The sound of an utterly wretched neigh drifts down the hall. Draco smiles into his pillow. He's certain he'll get up to a destroyed kitchen, oversteeped tea, and a jam-smeared son. At the moment he couldn't care less.

He thinks, perhaps, he could get used to this after all.