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“Meaning, technically, it began in the pub,” Harry replied, rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips.
“Yes, Potter, but you didn’t say which night in the pub!” Draco snapped, his voice acid with annoyance. “We nearly spent every night there, so pardon me for thinking you were referring to the one where we played chess and flirted, not—Merlin knows how long ago!”
They’d been officially dating for three months now, and only today had Draco learned that Harry had been hearing his thoughts almost from the time Draco started hearing them. Not just the night they played chess, not the night Draco’s lingering glances had turned into bold banter—but far earlier than that.
“Well, it’s not my fault, is it?” Harry said defensively, though his lips twitched as if he were suppressing a laugh. “It’s not like I asked for your thoughts to go waltzing into my head uninvited.”
Draco glared at him, though his cheeks betrayed a faint pink flush. “Oh, how generous of you to tolerate my uncensored thoughts all this time,” he shot back. “It’s a miracle you didn’t broadcast them to the entire Auror Office.”
Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t even realize they were yours at first! And when I did, well…” He trailed off, his grin widening. “Let’s just say it made things a lot more interesting.”
Draco huffed, crossing his arms. “Interesting, he says,” he muttered under his breath, though his irritation was already softening under Harry’s disarming smile.
“Come on, admit it,” Harry teased, leaning closer. “If we hadn’t heard each other’s thoughts, we’d probably still be pretending we couldn’t stand each other. So really, it’s all worked out for the best, hasn’t it?”
Draco’s glare wavered, a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible, Potter.”
“And yet, here you are,” Harry said, grinning, “dating me anyway.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but his smirk deepened. “Don’t push your luck.”
Harry, undeterred, closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips, slow and deliberate, as if to underline just how much luck he’d already pushed.
When they finally broke apart, Draco’s voice was softer, though laced with curiosity.
“You never really told me what you heard,” he said, tilting his head slightly, his gaze searching Harry’s face.
Harry hesitated for a beat, the memory surfacing like a ghost from the past. “Well…” he began, his grin faltering as he thought back to the beginning—where it all started, and the words that changed everything.
***
The whispers started out randomly.
They were in the pub after a successful raid. Draco, with almost empty drink in hand as Harry tried not to stare too much.
It didn’t help that Harry had helplessly fallen for him.
It was almost laughable, given the way things had started. When they were first assigned as partners, Harry had protested, certain they wouldn’t last a week without hexing each other into oblivion. He had braced himself for tension, for barbed insults, for the inevitable explosion that would force Robards to separate them.
Instead, something far more dangerous had happened. They worked well together. Too well. Somewhere between late-night stakeouts, shared cups of burnt Ministry coffee, and the unspoken trust that came with covering each other’s backs, the animosity had dulled. And then, without Harry’s permission, it had turned into something else entirely.
Draco swirled the last dregs of his drink, his fingers tracing the rim of the glass absentmindedly. Harry’s eyes betrayed him, tracking every movement, every subtle shift in Draco’s posture. His chest tightened as Draco turned his head slightly, pale strands of hair catching the dim light.
And then, it happened.
A whisper. Low, intimate, and impossibly clear amidst the din of the crowded pub.
“He looks at me like I’m the only one here.”
Harry froze. His heart stuttered in his chest as the words curled around his mind, soft yet so startlingly vivid it felt as if someone had leaned in close to murmur directly into his ear.
He glanced around quickly, half-expecting someone to laugh or call attention to the strange occurrence, but the world around him carried on as normal. No one else seemed to hear it.
His gaze snapped back to Draco, who had tilted his head in response to something Ron was saying. His expression was neutral, composed, completely unaware.
Harry pressed the edge of his glass against his lips, though he didn’t take a sip. His pulse thundered in his ears. That voice—it had been Draco’s. He was sure of it. But Draco hadn’t spoken.
The next whisper came a few minutes later, when Draco had shifted closer to Pansy to exchange some inside joke.
“Why does he always look so bloody good after a raid?”
Harry choked on his drink, coughing hard enough to draw the table’s attention. Ron clapped him on the back while Hermione asked if he was okay.
“I’m fine,” Harry muttered, waving them off. But his eyes darted back to Draco, who gave him a bemused look before returning to the conversation.
Harry had made peace with a lot of things over the years. The nightmares, the scars, the endless expectations. But one thing he hadn’t quite figured out how to deal with was this—this unbearable, maddening attraction to Draco Malfoy.
It had crept up on him, slow and insidious, until one day he caught himself watching Draco tie his bloody shoelaces and thought, Oh no.
It wasn’t just that Draco had grown into his sharp features, losing the sickly pallor of their school days. Or that his body had filled out, lean muscle curving under expensively tailored robes, the result of Auror training. Or that his hair, not slicked back anymore and still impossibly pale, had the frustrating ability to fall into his eyes just so, making Harry’s fingers twitch with the ridiculous urge to push it back.
No, it was worse than that.
It was the way Draco moved—fluid and precise, every motion controlled. The way his hands flicked when casting spells, elegant and effortless. The way his voice had deepened, now rich with sarcasm and the occasional, devastating amusement.
It was the way he bit his lower lip when concentrating, entirely unaware of the effect it had on Harry’s sanity. The way his eyes, cool silver, turned molten when he was truly focused on something—or someone.
It was the way he smelled—cedarwood and something faintly crisp, like winter air.
It was everything.
And Harry was doomed.
Because once he’d noticed, there was no turning back.
And now, to make matters worse, he was hearing Draco’s thoughts. His very private, very telling thoughts. At least that’s what Harry thought they were.
As the night went on, the whispers continued, each one more disarming than the last.
“His laugh is ridiculous, but I can’t stop listening to it.”
“Merlin, why does he have to sit so close?”
“I need to stop staring at his arms. No, seriously, stop staring. Oh, bollocks, I’m definitely staring.”
By the time they left the pub, Harry’s head was spinning. He barely heard the goodbyes as they all disapparated, his thoughts tangled in the impossibility of what had just happened.
Draco’s voice. His thoughts. They’d slipped into Harry’s mind without warning, unfiltered and raw.
And, worst of all, they left Harry with a burning realisation: Draco Malfoy wanted him; probably just as much as he wanted Draco.
***
At first, Harry dismissed it as his imagination. The Auror Office was never quiet—quills scratched against parchment, voices overlapped in hurried conversations, and the occasional enchanted memo whizzed overhead. It was easy to mistake a stray whisper for background noise.
But then it happened again.
A voice, low and distant, murmuring just beneath the surface of the commotion. Not quite clear, but not entirely lost to the din either. Like a secret meant for someone else.
Harry would glance up, expecting to catch someone speaking nearby, but there was never anyone there. Just Malfoy, seated across from him, head bowed over a pile of paperwork, utterly absorbed in whatever tedious report he was working on.
Harry frowned, shifting in his seat. He was probably just tired. Too many late nights, too many raids. It was nothing.
For a while, Harry convinced himself it was just exhaustion playing tricks on him. Nothing more than his own thoughts unraveling after too many late nights and too much caffeine.
But then, on an otherwise unremarkable afternoon, the whisper came again—low, insistent, curling around him like smoke.
“Wish I could see what’s under that uniform.”
Harry’s quill slipped.
Ink splattered across his report, but he barely noticed, his heart hammering in his chest. He looked up sharply, but no one was speaking. The office hummed with its usual noise, nothing out of the ordinary.
Except for Malfoy, sitting across from him, chin resting in his palm, eyes skimming lazily over a file. Completely unaware.
Or so it seemed.
Harry swallowed, throat dry. His skin prickled.
He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, just listened.
Silence.
The whisper was gone.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to return to his work, but his hand was unsteady.
Because that voice—those words—hadn’t sounded like a stranger’s at all.
They had sounded like Malfoy’s.
Harry didn’t bring it up. Of course he didn’t. How could he? There was no logical way to explain what had just happened, and even if there were, what was he supposed to say? Oi, Malfoy, have you been thinking filthy things about me loud enough for me to hear?
No. That wasn’t happening.
So he did what any sane person would do—he ignored it.
Except the whispers didn’t stop.
They came when he least expected them—soft, fleeting murmurs, slipping under his skin before vanishing into nothing.
“Bet he’d sound wrecked if I touched him just right.”
Harry had choked on his tea at that one, earning a few odd looks from their colleagues. Malfoy, meanwhile, hadn’t so much as glanced up from his paperwork.
“He always bites his lip when he’s concentrating. Merlin, it’s distracting.”
Harry had immediately stopped biting his lip.
It was driving him mad. He wasn’t imagining it—he couldn’t be. The voice was always the same, the cadence unmistakable. And every time, his gaze would snap to Malfoy, searching for some sign that he knew, that he was doing this on purpose.
But Malfoy never looked at him. Not like that. He just went about his day as if nothing was happening, as if Harry wasn’t sitting there hearing him think.
And worse, the whispers were getting bolder.
The night at the pub had nearly undone him.
It had been packed, warm bodies pressed together as laughter and conversation swirled through the air. Harry had been leaning against the bar, halfway through a drink, when Malfoy turned to him, eyes gleaming with the lazy warmth of alcohol.
“Gods, he’s close. If I kissed him now, would he let me?”
The whisper was so sudden, so devastatingly clear, that Harry nearly dropped his glass.
His breath hitched. His fingers clenched.
Malfoy was just standing there, unaware, the flickering light catching the curve of his mouth. He swayed slightly, shoulder brushing Harry’s.
Harry swallowed hard, staring ahead.
He took another sip of his drink and pretended everything was fine.
It wasn’t.
***
It happened again.
Harry had been doing his best to ignore it, to convince himself that his brain was playing tricks on him, that he was just projecting because Malfoy was… Malfoy. Infuriatingly sharp, aggravatingly competent, and, well—fit.
But then, while he was reviewing a case file at his desk, the whisper came again, sultry and sinful, curling around him like smoke.
“Harry. Bet he would look good on his knees right here. Let the whole office know how much of a Golden Boy he really is.”
Harry’s quill snapped in half.
Ink splattered across the parchment, dripping onto his fingers, but he barely noticed. His whole body had gone rigid, heat surging up his neck so fast it made him dizzy.
He didn’t dare look up.
He couldn’t.
Because if he did, and if Malfoy was sitting there, cool as ever, twirling his damn quill between his fingers like he wasn’t thinking filthy, obscene things—Harry wasn’t sure what he’d do.
He clenched his jaw, staring hard at the ruined parchment in front of him, trying to will away the vivid, treacherous image that the whisper had planted in his mind.
Malfoy, smirking. Malfoy, watching him with those sharp, assessing eyes. Malfoy, standing over him—
Harry inhaled sharply and pushed his chair back, standing so suddenly that his legs nearly knocked against the desk. He needed air. Space.
Malfoy’s head lifted at the commotion, his frown melting into something vaguely curious. “Going somewhere, Potter?”
His voice was steady. Casual. As if he hadn’t just wrecked Harry’s ability to function with a single stray thought.
Harry schooled his face into something neutral, though his pulse still hammered wildly in his throat.
“Bathroom,” he muttered, already moving before Malfoy could respond.
Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as he shoved open the door to the nearest bathroom and gripped the porcelain sink, his knuckles turning white.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But the words wouldn’t leave him. Malfoy’s voice, curling through his mind like smoke, thick and lingering.
Harry. Bet he would look good on his knees right here. Let the whole office know how much of a Golden Boy he really is.
Harry exhaled sharply, pressing his hands against his face. He could almost see it, could almost feel the heat of Malfoy’s gaze upon him as he knelt before him, those stunning eyes darkening with lust and triumph.
A shudder ran through him at the thought of being so exposed, so vulnerable, yet craving Malfoy’s touch like a starving man.
Harry’s breath hitched as he felt his arousal straining against his trousers, demanding attention. He knew he shouldn’t, knew it was wrong, but the ache was too intense to ignore. With a low groan, he locked himself in the nearest stall, the click of the latch sounding obscenely loud in the quiet bathroom.
Leaning against the door, Harry reached down to palm himself through the fabric, biting back a moan at the much-needed contact. He worked his clothed length with urgency, the urgency born of desperation and the filthy images flashing through his mind. Harry’s breathing grew ragged as he rubbed himself harder, chasing the release that felt just out of reach.
He slipped a hand inside his trousers, wrapping his fingers around his throbbing cock. The skin was hot and silky, the flesh pulsing with each beat of his racing heart. Harry stroked himself with tight, twisting motions, his thumb swirling around the sensitive head. The pleasure was exquisite, almost too much to bear, but he couldn’t stop. He needed this, needed the oblivion that only climax could bring.
Harry pumped his cock with increasingly urgent strokes, the slapping sounds of his desperation echoing obscenely in the tiled room. His hips rocked into his fist, seeking more of that delicious friction. The scent of sweat and sex hung the close air of the bathroom stall as Harry lost himself in the throes of lust.
His mind spun with the forbidden fantasies, Malfoy standing right behind him, close enough that his breath would ghost over Harry’s neck, sending shivers down his spine.
Bet you’d do anything if I asked. You’d drop to your knees without a second thought, wouldn’t you?
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, his head tipping forward as heat coiled low in his stomach. The worst—best—part was that he would. He wanted to.
All that Gryffindor bravado and yet here you are, shaking just thinking about it. Tell me, Potter… Malfoy’s voice was a purr now, dark and knowing. How long have you been waiting for this?
Harry muffled a cry of ecstasy against his other hand, his back arching as he fucked into his own grip. He was close, so painfully close. His balls tightened and his cock jerked in warning, the pleasure cresting like a tidal wave.
With a strangled groan, Harry came undone. Thick ropes of hot cum pumped over his fist and splattered against the stall wall, the creamy essence dripping down his wrist and hand. His body shuddered with the force of his release, waves of bliss crashing over him until he was left weak and gasping.
Harry slumped against the stall door, his softening cock still twitching with aftershocks. He panted harshly, trying to regulate his breathing as the fog of lust slowly lifted. The bathroom slowly came back into focus, the harsh fluorescent lights glaring in his sensitive eyes.
He cleaned himself up with shaking hands, tucking himself back into his trousers.
Harry sucked in a breath, his skin burning, his body betraying him completely. His reflection in the mirror looked wild—flushed cheeks, dilated pupils, lips slightly parted like he’d just been thoroughly ruined. And it was only a fantasy. Only his own traitorous mind conjuring Malfoy’s voice, his words.
But it felt real. Too real.
He gritted his teeth, turning on the tap and splashing cold water on his face, hoping—praying—that it would shock some sense back into him. He needed to stop. Needed to get his head straight before he walked back out there and—
Harry. The whisper was softer now, almost gentle. Almost affectionate.
Harry braced himself against the sink, eyes wide and wild in the mirror.
He was losing his mind.
***
The tension had been unbearable the next day. Every glance, every flicker of Malfoy’s smirk, every scrape of quill against parchment felt like a slow, deliberate push towards Harry’s inevitable breaking point.
That evening, the training hall in the Auror Office was quieter than usual. Most of their colleagues had finished for the day, leaving only a handful of duellists sparring in the far corners of the vast room. The torches on the walls flickered, casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor.
Harry stood across from Malfoy, wand at the ready, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled slowly. He needed this—something to burn off the restless energy coiling tight in his chest, something to drown out the whispers, the thoughts that weren’t his but felt too real.
They stood facing each other in the sparring ring, wands drawn, circling like predators sizing up their prey. Draco moved with practiced ease, sharp and fluid, his pale hair falling into his eyes as he sized Harry up.
Harry should have been focused on the duel. He was—or at least, he was trying to be. But it was impossible with Draco standing there like that, his breath quick, his wand hand steady, his gaze flashing with challenge.
And then he heard it.
“He looks good like this.”
Before Harry could process it, a flick of Malfoy’s wrist sent the first spell flying, fast and precise. Harry deflected it with a sharp twist of his wand, stepping into the motion as he fired back. They moved in a steady rhythm—attack, counter, attack again—each spell more calculated than the last.
The urge struck him out of nowhere, sudden and undeniable. The urge to pull him closer. Suddenly the distance seemed Harry’s greatest enemy.
Harry’s grip tightened on his wand. His pulse roared in his ears. Where the hell had that come from?
Draco raised his wand. Harry barely saw it. His thoughts were drowning in the impossible image—what would Draco do if he did it? Would he push him away? Freeze in shock? Or—Merlin help him—Kiss him? He wanted to kiss Draco.
Draco faltered.
It happened so fast—his stance wavered, his eyes widened just slightly, and then—
“Stupefy!”
Harry’s spell hit him dead-on, sending Draco sprawling onto the mat.
For a second, Harry just stared, his own breath unsteady. Then the reality of what had happened crashed in.
“Draco!”
He was at Draco’s side in an instant, crouching down, his hand finding Draco’s arm, warm and solid beneath his grip.
“Are you alright?” His voice came out lower than he meant, rough with something he didn’t want to name.
Draco blinked up at him, dazed. Then, too quickly, he pulled away, scrambling upright with a sharp intake of breath.
“Yeah,” he said, brushing himself off, his voice clipped. “I just… lost focus for a moment.”
Harry started to nod, but then—soft, fleeting, unmistakable—he heard it.
A whisper.
“He’s too close. Why does he have to be so close?”
The whisper hit him like a hex to the chest.
Draco wasn’t looking at him anymore—his gaze was fixed somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, his posture stiff, like he was trying too hard to seem unaffected.
Something twisted in Harry’s stomach. Of course, Malfoy found him uncomfortable. He’d gotten too close.
Harry took a step back.
Draco turned away, his shoulders tense, his breath uneven.
Draco’s wand hand twitched, his fingers flexing once before curling into a fist. He looked collected—aloof, even—but Harry had seen the briefest flicker of something else.
Still shaken, Harry forced himself to move, retreating to his side of the sparring ring. He could still hear the distant clash of spells from the other duellists, the sharp echoes bouncing off the high ceilings. But in the silence between them, there was nothing but the unsteady rhythm of his own breathing.
Malfoy straightened, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the impact of the spell. When he finally met Harry’s gaze, there was something unreadable in his expression. Then—just like that—the moment was gone, smothered beneath his usual sharp-edged confidence.
“You always this reckless in a duel, Potter?” he drawled, arching an eyebrow.
Harry’s jaw tensed. “You’re the one who lost focus.”
Malfoy’s smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Touché.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them crackled with something unspoken, something heavy.
Harry could still hear it. He’s too close.
Merlin. He needed to get out of here.
“Another round?” Malfoy asked, voice deceptively light.
Harry hesitated. His heart was still pounding from the last one, but he didn’t trust himself—not when his mind was tangled with thoughts he shouldn’t be having. Not when Malfoy was watching him like that, assessing, calculating.
Harry shook his head. “I’m done for tonight.”
He turned before he could see Malfoy’s reaction, striding toward the exit with his wand still clenched tight in his hand.
Behind him, Malfoy lingered. Harry could feel it—the weight of his gaze on his back.
Then, just as Harry reached the door, he heard it.
A whisper.
“Why do I want him to stay?”
Harry’s breath caught. He barely stopped himself from turning around.
But he didn’t stay.
Instead, he stepped out into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind him, and left Malfoy standing alone in the training hall.
The corridors of the Ministry were quiet this late in the evening, the enchanted torches flickering softly against the stone walls. Harry walked without direction, his mind tangled in knots. He didn’t know where he was going—he just knew he needed to keep moving.
Why do I want him to stay?
The whisper still echoed in his head, curling around his thoughts like smoke, refusing to leave. It was one thing to hear Malfoy’s stray musings about work, or his occasional, snide complaints about the Auror Office’s coffee. Those he could brush off, pretend he hadn’t heard. But this?
Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
He shouldn’t have heard it. He shouldn’t still be hearing it.
This was a mistake.
Whatever this was—whatever had been happening to him these past few weeks—it was wrong. Some kind of malfunction, a spell gone awry. Maybe it had done something to him, to his mind.
Because otherwise, the alternative was unthinkable.
The alternative meant that every time Malfoy had looked at him like that—sharp, assessing, unreadable—there had been something beneath it. That every time Malfoy smirked at him, every time his voice curled around a challenge, every time he stood just a little too close during their sparring sessions… it meant something.
Or Harry had just gone delusional.
Harry exhaled sharply, stopping in his tracks. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.
No.
This wasn’t real. He was reading too much into it.
***
No matter what, Harry had to act normal around Malfoy—anything else would raise suspicion. They had always exchanged banter, snarky remarks thrown back and forth like a well-worn routine. It was natural. Expected. And more than anything, it was the easiest way to hide what he really felt.
He didn’t want to risk what they had spent years building. Their friendship—if he could call it that—was solid, steady, something he could rely on. He wasn’t about to let a few stray whispers unravel it, wasn’t going to let something he didn’t fully understand ruin everything.
Harry was content with what they had. He was.
Even if, sometimes, it felt like it was never quite enough. Even if, in the quietest moments, all he wanted was to pull Draco into his arms and never let go.
The problem was, Harry had never been good at pretending—not really.
He could play the part, laugh at Draco’s dry remarks, roll his eyes at his smugness, and keep up with the sharp back-and-forth they had perfected over the years. But underneath it all, there was a quiet war waging inside him, an unbearable need clawing at the edges of his restraint.
Because no matter how much he tried to ignore it, Draco was everywhere.
The office, the pub, training sessions—everywhere Harry turned, he found himself drawn to him. It wasn’t just the way Draco looked, though that alone was enough to drive him mad—the sharp angles of his face, the way his pale hair caught the light, the graceful precision of his movements. It was the way he spoke, the way he smirked like he knew something Harry didn’t, the way he leaned in when he argued, eyes flashing with challenge.
It was intoxicating.
And worst of all, Harry couldn’t tell if Draco felt the same.
Some days, it seemed like he did. There were lingering glances, fingers brushing in passing, the way Draco’s voice softened when he said his name. The way he would lean just a bit closer until Harry could breathe in Draco’s scent like some kind of sweet torture. But then there were moments when Draco seemed distant, unreadable, his gaze darting away as though he didn’t want to be caught looking for too long. And at times those questioning looks Draco had been giving him.
Harry could never be sure. And that uncertainty was slowly driving him mad. And now the whispers were making things more confusing than ever.
So he did what he always did—he pushed it down, locked it away, and told himself it didn’t matter.
Because it couldn’t.
Because if it did, he might lose Draco entirely.
And that was something Harry couldn’t bear.
But that moment in the pub made Harry decide once and for all.
Harry scowled at the chessboard, watching Draco’s fingers dance over the pieces with practiced ease. His own king had just been unceremoniously plucked from the board—again.
“Potter, you’re absolutely rubbish at this—and it’s just Muggle chess,” Draco drawled, spinning the captured piece between his fingers before setting it down with an infuriatingly satisfied smirk.
Harry let out a slow breath and slumped lower into his chair, wrapping both hands around his butterbeer. “I thought I was improving by practicing with Ron.”
Draco scoffed, leaning back with the easy confidence that Harry had never quite figured out how to shake out of him. “Clearly, Weasley’s as hopeless a teacher as you are a student. Remind me again—how exactly did you manage to save the wizarding world?”
Harry tilted his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl before taking a long sip. “It didn’t involve chess, did it?”
Draco’s smirk deepened, his grey eyes glinting with mischief. “Funny, I recall Weasley mentioning something about chess being involved in your first year. Good thing he was there, otherwise we’d all be hissing greetings to each other in Parseltongue by now.”
Harry bit the inside of his cheek to stop a smile from creeping in. He glanced at the chessboard, the battlefield of his repeated failures, then back at Draco. “You know, you could at least pretend to let me win once.”
Draco made a show of tilting his head, studying Harry as if the idea was genuinely ridiculous. “Potter, if I ever let you win, it would be a grave insult to both of us. Besides, watching you flounder is far too entertaining.”
Harry groaned and raked a hand through his hair, making it stick up in even more disastrous angles. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”
Draco didn’t respond right away. Instead, his gaze lingered, just for a moment—sharp, assessing, but not unkind. His usual teasing was still there, but the edge of it was softer, less cutting than it could be.
“Because,” Draco said finally, voice quieter now, “despite your obvious lack of skill, you enjoy the company.”
Something about the way he said it made Harry look up.
Their eyes met, and for the briefest second, everything else—the pub, the noise, the battered chessboard—faded into the background.
Yeah. He did. He really did.
“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice coming out lower than he meant. “I suppose I do.”
A strange silence settled between them, heavy with something unspoken. The fire crackled, and Draco’s fingers drummed once against the table before he cleared his throat, breaking the moment.
He gestured at the board, his smirk sliding back into place. “Another round, then? Or shall we preserve what little dignity you have left?”
Harry huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he reached for his butterbeer. “Go on, set it up. Sixth time’s the charm, right?”
Draco arched a brow, already rearranging the pieces with practiced ease. “Oh, Potter,” he murmured, almost fondly. “You are truly hopeless.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but his fingers moved easily over the chess pieces, resetting the board. The corner of his mouth twitched—small, fleeting, but real. A smile, barely there.
Harry felt something in his chest tighten. He wanted to see that again. He wanted to reach out and trace the shape of it, hold it there, make it stay.
Merlin, he loved that smile.
But just as soon as he thought it, that same smile disappeared. His fingers tightened around his butterbeer mug as he stared at Draco, who had frozen mid-move, his hand hovering over the chessboard.
His gaze snapped up, sharp and questioning, his expression shifting—like he’d heard it.
Harry’s breath caught, his throat suddenly dry as Draco’s eyes pinned him in place.
“You said something?” Draco’s voice was light, casual—but too casual.
Harry blinked, forcing his muscles to relax. “You’ve been asking me that a lot lately. Maybe you should get your ears checked.”
Draco’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly before he dropped his gaze, his fingers resettling around the knight. The slight tremor in them didn’t go unnoticed.
Something flickered across Draco’s face—annoyance, maybe, but there was something else beneath it, something more uncertain. His fingers curled around the black knight, holding it too tightly. “Maybe you’ve been muttering more than you realise, Potter.”
Harry hesitated. He could push, press Draco on it, but the tension in his shoulders told him he wouldn’t get a real answer. Not yet.
“You alright?” he asked instead, quieter this time.
Draco let out a sharp, brittle laugh. “Perfectly fine. Your atrocious chess skills just make me question reality sometimes.”
Harry huffed a soft chuckle, but his gaze lingered. Draco wasn’t fine. Harry could feel it.
Draco’s fingers curled against the table, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Then he exhaled, deliberately shifting his focus back to the board. “Your move, Potter.”
The words landed between them like a line drawn in the sand.
Harry hesitated. Then, finally, he nudged a pawn forward, looking up to see Draco had turned his head and was looking at the fire as if he couldn’t even bear to look at Harry anymore. Harry hated that. Why did he always look away?
Draco went still.
His fingers tightened against the edge of the table, the firelight casting long shadows over the sharp angles of his face. This time he didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. The background noise of the pub—laughter, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation—felt suddenly far away, like it belonged to another world entirely.
And still, Draco wouldn’t look at him.
The silence between them stretched, thick and uneasy. Then, suddenly—Draco’s voice, sharp and seething, but not out loud.
“Might as well ruin everything. Merlin, those eyes will be the death of me.”
Harry inhaled sharply, his fingers curling into his lap as he quickly looked down. The thought slammed into him—raw, unfiltered, something Draco had no intention of saying aloud.
He shouldn’t have heard that.
The pub was too loud, the fire too warm, but Draco sat motionless, gaze locked on the board like it held every answer he refused to say aloud.
Harry swallowed hard. His voice came out lighter than he felt. “So, are you going to move, or are we going to sit here until we grow old?”
Draco smirked, but it was off—too brittle, too forced. “Impatient and dreadful at chess. How do you manage it all, Potter?”
Harry huffed a laugh, stretching his arms behind his head, trying for casual. “Some of us have talents in other areas.”
Draco’s gaze flickered—lower, briefly. His fingers tapped faster against the mug, restless, unsteady.
The thought came again, sharp and biting—Merlin, just stop. Stop making it worse.
Harry’s stomach twisted. He didn’t know if Draco meant for himself or for Harry. Maybe both.
The air between them had changed, gone tight and charged.
Then—Draco’s voice again, this time spoken aloud, smooth and lazy but layered with something else. “Careful, Potter. You’ll make me think you’re flirting.”
Harry stilled. His heart kicked against his ribs. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But—
He barely had time to process before he heard his own voice slip out, quiet, careful, “Would that be such a terrible thing?”
Draco’s head snapped up. His eyes—stormy grey, wary, too open for a single second—locked onto Harry’s. Harry saw Draco’s throat bob as he swallowed, his lips parting slightly. For a moment, Harry thought—this is it. He’s going to say something. He’s going to—
“Potter…” Draco’s voice was barely a breath, something fragile and hesitant.
Then—a loud crash from the bar. Laughter. Glass shattering. The noise broke the moment like a spell snapping. Draco flinched, and Harry felt the shift before he even saw it—the way Draco’s expression went carefully blank, slipping back into something controlled, untouchable.
Draco blinked, looking away first.
“Don’t do this.”
Harry’s chest ached at the whisper. He forced a crooked smile, though it felt hollow. “Never mind. Your move, Malfoy.”
Draco looked at him for a moment too long, then flicked a rook across the board, knocking over one of Harry’s pawns. “Check,” he said flatly.
Harry smiled faintly, but Draco wouldn’t meet his eyes.
The fire crackled, conversation swirled around them, glasses clinked. But the silence between them had never felt bigger.
***
Harry avoided Draco for days.
It wasn’t difficult, not really. Between Auror work and the usual chaos of life, he found reasons to be elsewhere—taking the longer way to the lifts, leaving meetings the moment they ended, staying out of the Leaky after work. It was fine. It had to be fine.
Because whatever had happened—whatever this was—it wasn’t real.
It wasn’t supposed to be real.
He wasn’t supposed to hear Draco’s thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to know what was behind every sharp smirk or casual insult, wasn’t supposed to hear those quiet, unguarded things slip through the cracks of Malfoy’s carefully built walls.
And yet—
“He’s ignoring me. Fine. Good. It doesn’t matter.”
Harry clenched his jaw. The thought flickered and faded as quickly as it came, as if Draco himself had shoved it down, buried it under something practiced and indifferent.
Harry exhaled sharply, gripping the handle of his mug too tight.
It wasn’t real. Draco didn’t really like him like that. He’d convinced himself of that over and over. It was one thing to hear a stray whisper of doubt, of hesitation, of—
Of nothing.
Nothing that mattered.
And yet, despite himself, the whispers still found him.
Looks good in green. Damn it. Shut up.
Harry nearly knocked over his inkpot. His hands tensed around his quill, and he forced his eyes to stay on the parchment in front of him. It was nothing. Just noise. Nothing that mattered.
He worked late that night. When he finally left the Auror Office, the corridors were empty except for a few Ministry workers heading home. He told himself the tightness in his chest was exhaustion.
But then—
“Why did you stop looking at me?”
The whisper was barely there, like a breath against the back of his mind.
Harry closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, and walked faster.
The whispers weren’t constant. They came in flickers, like stray embers slipping through the cracks of a dying fire. Sometimes Harry thought they were gone entirely—until they weren’t.
Like now.
The cafeteria was too loud.
Harry kept his head down, pushing his potatoes around his plate with his fork. Conversations blurred together, Aurors and Ministry officials talking over each other, laughter bubbling from a nearby table. He barely heard any of it. His mind was too full of static.
“Merlin, those fingers. They’d be quite a stretch.”
Harry choked on his pumpkin juice.
His tray scraped against the table as he jolted forward, coughing hard enough to turn heads. Terry Boot shot him a puzzled look from across the table.
“You alright, Potter?”
Harry barely heard him. His ears were ringing, heat flooding his face.
The whisper was already gone, vanishing as fast as it had come. But the damage was done.
He felt it—Draco’s voice curling in his mind, heat threaded into every syllable, the weight of something unspoken pressing against his skin.
His fingers twitched around his fork.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.
He shoved a bite of food into his mouth and forced himself to chew. His hands felt too warm. His whole body felt too warm.
Across the room, Draco sat at a far table, talking to a colleague. His expression was smooth, unreadable, his posture as relaxed as ever. Like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t just—like Harry hadn’t just—
Harry was not looking at his hands.
He swallowed hard and stabbed his fork into his potatoes.
The whispers weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.
And yet, hours later, long after he’d left the cafeteria, he could still hear it.
***
It all came to a head late one afternoon at the Ministry. Harry had been finishing up paperwork in the dim, stale air of an empty conference room when the door creaked open behind him.
“Potter.”
Draco’s voice froze him mid-motion.
Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to school his expression into something neutral before turning around. Draco stood just inside the doorway, arms crossed, his face carefully impassive—but his thoughts slipped through anyway.
“Don’t look at me like that.”
Harry swallowed, shoving his hands deep into his pockets, but Draco must have caught something in his face, because his eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Draco said. His voice was sharp, almost defensive, but his thoughts curled around Harry’s mind with a rawness that didn’t match his tone.
“Please, just say something. Anything.”
Harry flinched before he could stop himself, looking away. “I’ve been… busy.”
“Right.” Draco let out a short, bitter laugh, tossing the papers he’d been holding onto the table with a dull thud. “Busy. How convenient.”
Harry exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. He risked a glance up, but Draco wasn’t meeting his eyes anymore.
“Don’t you dare pity me.”
“Is there something you wanted, Potter?” Draco’s voice was clipped, his shoulders tense. “Or did you just stop by to remind me how very busy you’ve been?”
There was a crack in the last word, barely there, but Harry caught it. He wanted to say something—wanted to tell Draco that he wasn’t avoiding him for the reasons Draco probably thought, that it wasn’t some game, that it was for his own sanity—but the words tangled in his throat.
“I—no. Never mind. Forget it.”
He turned, hand already on the door, but Draco’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.
“Don’t you dare.”
Harry froze.
“Stay.”
Draco’s breath came unsteady, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “You came here for a reason, Potter. So say it.”
Harry hesitated. He could hear the clock ticking on the wall, each second stretching impossibly long.
Finally, he turned back, meeting Draco’s eyes.
“I don’t know how to stop this.”
Harry’s breath hitched. The words weren’t spoken. They were just there, pressing into him, raw and unguarded.
Draco’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. His expression didn’t change, but Harry could feel the panic beneath it, the sharp recoil of someone who had let something slip before realizing it.
Draco tore his gaze away, reaching for his scattered papers with jerky movements. “Forget it, Potter. Just—just go.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Harry stood there for a moment, listening to the unspoken words still echoing between them, before finally stepping back and letting the door click shut behind him.
But even as he walked away, the whispers clung to him, curling at the edges of his mind.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
***
Harry sat in the garden of the Burrow, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows over the tangled wildflowers and uneven grass. The scent of earth and late summer hung thick in the air, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were elsewhere.
It had been days since that moment at the Ministry, but Draco’s voice—his thoughts—still clung to him like a stubborn echo.
I don’t know how to stop wanting you.
Harry exhaled sharply, pressing his palms against his knees as if the pressure could ground him, could force the words out of his head. But they stayed, looping over and over, until they weren’t just something Draco had thought—they became something Harry couldn’t stop thinking about.
Draco was everywhere. In the quiet moments before sleep, in the early hours when he first opened his eyes, in the way his mind drifted at odd times—while helping Molly peel potatoes, while listening to George bicker with Ron, while staring at the pages of a book he hadn’t actually read.
It had gotten to the point where Harry didn’t trust himself around Draco anymore. Didn’t trust himself not to react, not to let something slip.
Usually, Draco would come with him to the Burrow, sitting stiffly at the kitchen table as Molly fussed over him, pretending not to like it while accepting every offer of food. He’d roll his eyes at Ron’s jokes, complain about the garden gnomes, sip his tea with that air of practiced indifference that only he could manage.
But this time, Harry had come alone.
And somehow, it only made it worse.
The screen door creaked open, breaking the quiet hum of the late afternoon. Harry didn’t look up, but he heard the soft steps of Hermione followed by Ron’s heavier tread as they made their way across the overgrown grass. A moment later, Ron dropped down onto the bench beside him with a sigh, stretching his legs out in front of him, while Hermione perched on the armrest, studying him carefully.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard,” Ron said, squinting against the sun. “Never a good sign.”
Harry huffed a weak laugh but didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what to say.
Hermione tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Draco’s not here.”
Harry’s stomach twisted at the way she said it—pointed, observant.
“He had work,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the tangled garden in front of him.
Hermione hummed, unconvinced. “Has work ever stopped him before?”
Harry clenched his jaw. No, it hadn’t. Draco always found a way. Even if he complained about the Burrow, about the lack of wards strong enough to keep out vermin (by which he meant the gnomes), or about the dust (It’s a wonder you haven’t all keeled over from respiratory infections, Potter), he always showed up.
Ron, apparently sensing something was off, glanced between them. “You two have a row or something?”
“No.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Not exactly.”
Ron frowned. “Then what? Because it’s weird, mate. You two have been—” He waved a vague hand. “—I dunno. Circling each other like bloody pigeons for months, and now suddenly, you’re avoiding each other?”
“We’re not circling each other,” Harry snapped, too quick, too defensive.
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look. The kind that made Harry feel like they knew more than he did.
Hermione sighed, tucking her legs up beneath her. “Harry,” she said, voice softer now. “Did something happen?”
Harry swallowed. Something had happened. But how was he supposed to explain it? That there was a new person in his head and it’s not a psycho maniac? That he heard Draco’s thoughts when he shouldn’t? That Draco didn’t really like him the way Harry had thought, that it was all some intrusive, fleeting thought Draco probably regretted? That Harry hadn’t regretted hearing it, and that was the real problem?
He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing.”
Hermione’s gaze turned sharp. “Harry—”
“Really,” he cut in, forcing a smile. “Just—things are complicated.”
Ron groaned. “They don’t have to be.”
Harry laughed, but it was hollow. “Yeah, well. They are.”
Hermione hesitated, watching him closely. Then, with a sigh, she relented. “Alright. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“I don’t.”
Ron shrugged, stretching his arms above his head. “Fine, mate. But you’re going to have to face him at some point. Whatever this is, it won’t just go away.”
Harry knew that. Knew that every time he closed his eyes and heard those words all over again.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”
No. It wasn’t going away.
***
Another thing that wasn’t going away was the ever-present, maddening heat curling low in Harry’s stomach along with an almost constant hard-on whenever Draco was near. Especially at the office.
Harry sat stiffly at his desk, fingers curled tight around the edge of a report he hadn’t read a single word of. Across the room, Draco was hunched over his own paperwork, oblivious to the fact that he was the reason Harry couldn’t focus on anything else. His tie hung loosely around his neck, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing lean, pale forearms that flexed slightly with each movement of his quill.
Draco stood up from his desk, moving towards one of the filing cabinets, and Harry’s entire body went taut, his breath hitching slightly as his eyes followed the smooth, practiced motion. The way Draco moved—unhurried, self-assured—made something restless coil low in Harry’s stomach. His gaze raked over the sharp lines of Draco’s frame like a physical caress. His mind wandered, traitorous and unchecked—what would he taste like? Or would he taste as good as he looked? Would his skin be as smooth as it looked, warm beneath Harry’s lips?
A sudden crash shattered the thought, making Harry flinch. He blinked, dragging himself back to reality just in time to see a stack of files scattered across the floor. Draco let out a quiet curse, turning his face slightly away as he bent down to retrieve them.
Harry’s gaze dipped lower. The way Draco’s trousers fit—too well, really—left nothing to the imagination. The fabric clung to the sharp lines of his hips, stretched just enough over the curve of his arse, and Harry’s mind immediately betrayed him. He could see it—could picture how Draco might feel beneath him, how pliant his skin would be under Harry’s hands, how easily he could press him down, sink his teeth into the soft flesh until Draco gasped—
Draco shifted, straightening slightly, and Harry barely had time to jerk his gaze back up before grey eyes met his across the room.
His stomach dropped.
For a moment, everything was still. The soft hum of the office seemed distant, muffled beneath the crackling tension between them. Draco’s eyes lingered, unreadable, something flickering in their depths—something Harry couldn’t name, didn’t dare name.
Then, with a slight furrow of his brow, Draco looked away, reaching for another file off the floor.
Harry exhaled shakily, forcing himself to turn back to his own work, but it was useless. His thoughts were already spiraling, drowning in images he shouldn’t entertain, in desires he should be able to control.
But he couldn’t.
And Merlin help him, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.
He could feel the heat of his skin, the tightness in his trousers, a physical ache that demanded relief. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them, to take Draco’s face in his hands and crush his lips against his own in a bruising, demanding kiss.
Harry forced himself to focus on the report in front of him, but the words blurred together, meaningless against the weight of his thoughts. His jaw clenched as he dragged a hand down his face, willing the heat in his body to subside.
This had been happening too often. Too many stolen glances. Too many nights where he lay awake, his body thrumming with restless energy, Draco’s voice whispering through his mind—I don’t know how to stop wanting you.
Except it wasn’t just Draco. It was him, too.
Harry swallowed hard and pushed back from his desk, standing abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor. He needed air. Needed to clear his head before he did something insanely stupid, like walk over to Draco’s desk and—
“Potter.”
Harry nearly cursed. He turned, schooling his face into something neutral, something that didn’t scream I was just thinking about bending you over my desk.
Draco stood a few feet away, arms crossed, an unimpressed arch to his brow. Up close, he looked… tired. His hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling into his eyes. Harry had the sudden, irrational urge to reach out and brush them back.
“What?” Harry said, his voice rougher than intended.
Draco studied him for a beat before tilting his head slightly. “Do you have that Waters case file?”
Harry blinked, the question taking a second to register. Right. The Waters case. Work. Normal things. Things that weren’t Draco’s hair or the way his shirt collar was slightly rumpled, like he’d tugged at it in frustration.
Harry cleared his throat and turned to his desk, rifling through the scattered stack of parchment. His fingers brushed over the thick folder, but for some reason, he hesitated before handing it over.
Maybe because Draco had been avoiding him just as much as Harry had been avoiding Draco. Maybe because, despite the way he seemed perpetually unimpressed, Draco still felt impossibly distant.
Harry shoved the file toward him, keeping his expression neutral. “Here.”
Draco reached out, their fingers almost—almost—brushing, but Harry pulled back just before they could touch. Draco’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he flipped open the folder, scanning the contents with a practiced eye. Harry could see the tiredness in his face now that he was close. It was like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep.
“Anything new in here, or am I just rereading the same pointless details?” Draco asked, his voice dry, but Harry caught the way his fingers tapped against the edge of the parchment, restless, like he wasn’t as composed as he seemed.
Harry leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head, as if the tension wasn’t curling hot and tight in his stomach. “Nothing thrilling, unless you count the suspect’s sudden obsession with collecting enchanted teaspoons.”
Draco hummed, turning a page. “I don’t.”
Harry huffed a short laugh, then, before he could stop himself, said, “You look like shit, by the way.”
Draco’s head snapped up, his grey eyes narrowing. “Charming.”
Harry shrugged. “Just saying.”
Draco exhaled sharply through his nose and snapped the file shut. He looked at Harry again, and there it was—that pause, that moment too long where neither of them spoke, the air between them heavy with something unsaid.
And then Harry heard it.
“Fuck, I want him. I want to taste his mouth, feel his tongue against mine, swallow every last one of those arrogant words he loves to throw around.”
The breath caught in Harry’s throat. His hand clenched at his side, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to reach out, to touch. He could feel the weight of Draco’s gaze on him, the intensity of it burning into his skin, and he wondered if Draco could see it too –the hunger, the want, the desperate, aching need that consumed him.
Draco’s face remained unreadable, his mouth set in a firm line. He hadn’t said a word.
But Harry had heard it.
And it was going to ruin him. Well, it already had.
Harry forced himself to breathe, to keep his expression neutral even as Draco’s words echoed in his skull, low and hungry. He should look away, should change the subject, should do anything but stand there like an idiot, heart hammering, mouth suddenly dry.
Draco shifted, his weight moving from one foot to the other, gaze flicking over Harry’s face as if searching for something—had he noticed? Did he feel it too?
No. Impossible.
Harry cleared his throat. “You need anything else?” His voice was steadier than he expected.
Draco blinked once, then, as if remembering why he was even standing there, nodded curtly. “Yes. The Hodder and Blinken’s file.”
Harry reached for the files, but his fingers weren’t working properly, fumbling for the edge of the parchment. Draco sighed, impatient, and stepped forward.
Too close.
Harry caught a hint of cedarwood and something sharp, something Draco, and his pulse jumped. He felt the warmth of Draco’s body just inches from his own. If he reached out—if he so much as tilted forward—
Draco’s fingers brushed his when he grabbed the file, and Harry swore he felt the air crackle between them, a snap of static that sent a shiver down his spine.
Draco inhaled sharply, but didn’t move away.
Harry clenched his jaw. He had to stop this. He had to ignore the way his body reacted, had to shove down the heat curling low in his stomach, had to pretend he didn’t hear I want him, I want him, I want him over and over again like a bloody chant in his head.
Draco finally stepped back, file in hand. He nodded stiffly. “Thanks.”
And then he was gone, leaving Harry standing there, skin tingling, brain short-circuiting, and knowing—knowing—that he was absolutely, completely fucked.
***
The afternoon was cool, the sky a washed-out grey as Harry stepped out of the small grocer’s shop, a brown paper bag balanced in the crook of his arm. The wind carried the scent of fresh bread and damp earth, the streets humming with the quiet bustle of a London evening. It was nice, being away from the office, away from the tension that had settled in his bones like a second skin.
Then—“Potter?”
Harry barely had time to react before Draco was there, standing just a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat. His hair was windswept, cheeks flushed from the cold, and he looked startlingly out of place in the Muggle street, and even though, there had been a lot of times Harry had seen Draco there but it always seemed like he had stepped out of another world and landed here by accident.
Harry blinked. “Malfoy?”
Draco’s lips quirked in something like amusement. “Fancy running into you here. I didn’t take you for someone who actually buys his own groceries.”
“Yeah, well,” Harry muttered, adjusting his grip on the bag. “Sometimes you wanna switch things up from the food that magically appears in your kitchen.”
Draco hummed, stepping closer, peering at the bag like he was trying to decipher the contents. “What’s in there? Let me guess—nothing remotely healthy.”
Harry rolled his eyes, but before he could respond, he heard it.
“His hair looks soft like this. I wonder if it’d feel different under my fingers, if I pushed it back—”
Again, that sweet torture began and Harry’s thoughts started breaking away. It had been happening more and more lately—these stray thoughts of Draco’s slipping in like whispers on the wind, half-heard, half-felt. It was like avoiding him had caused even more trouble.
Draco, oblivious, smirked at him. “Well? You just going to stand there, or do you want to get a coffee?”
Against his better judgment, Harry nodded.
They ended up in a small café tucked away down a quiet street, the kind of place Harry wouldn’t have expected Draco to set foot in. Perhaps, it would take a lot more hanging out with him to get used to it. Draco just ordered a coffee (black, obviously) and made some offhanded remark about how their biscuits were probably edible.
And for a while, it was easy.
They talked, and it wasn’t like work, wasn’t laced with tension or sharp-edged remarks. Draco complained about a ridiculous case he was handling, Harry rolled his eyes and told him to just hex his client and be done with it. Draco snorted into his coffee.
It was—nice.
Who was he even kidding? It was all he wanted and he could pretend for a moment, that maybe these whispers weren’t just in his head, that maybe Draco felt the same way.
But the pretending only got him so far.
He frowned.
His gaze drifted up, catching on the way Draco looked out the window, eyes distant, golden strands of hair falling into them, softened by the afternoon light. He looked… ethereal. Beautiful in a way that made something ache deep in Harry’s chest.
And suddenly, Harry wasn’t sure why he was even here.
Maybe he had a newfound taste for torturing himself, now that no one else was there to do it for him. Maybe he just wanted to be close to Draco, even if it meant slowly unraveling from the inside.
What was he expecting?
Did he want to say something? Did he want Draco to look back at him, to see the way Harry was watching him and understand?
Maybe Draco would understand. Maybe he wouldn’t.
Maybe it would ruin everything.
Harry forced his gaze away, fixing it on his own untouched coffee. It had gone lukewarm by now, but he wasn’t really drinking it anyway. His fingers tightened around the cup, as if grounding himself in the warmth would keep him from thinking too much—too deeply.
But then Draco sighed, shifting slightly in his seat, and Harry felt it.
“Wish we could stay like this.”
The words weren’t spoken, but they curled around Harry’s mind like smoke, curling into the spaces where doubt lived, where hope festered. It was a quiet, fleeting thought, so soft that Harry almost convinced himself he’d imagined it.
Almost.
He glanced up, his heart swiftly beating. Draco was still staring out the window, unaware—unguarded. His lips parted slightly, as if lost in whatever thought had prompted that whisper.
Harry swallowed hard.
The air between them had shifted.
A pressure building, a thread stretched thin.
This was dangerous. This—the way he let himself get lost in Draco’s presence, in the moments where it was easy to pretend.
Because all it took was one slip, one moment of weakness, and Harry wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself.
And then, as if to make it worse—so much worse—Draco turned to him, meeting his gaze.
And then he heard it.
“I want him to touch me.”
A rush of heat coiled low in Harry’s stomach, so sudden and overwhelming that he had to grip the edge of the table just to steady himself.
No. No, no, no.
He needed to leave.
Harry shoved back his chair so fast it scraped against the floor. Draco blinked, startled.
“Potter?”
Harry barely heard him. He was already grabbing his coat, his pulse roaring in his ears.
He needed to be anywhere but here.
“I—” Harry ran a hand through his hair, barely holding in a curse. His skin felt too tight, his breath too quick. “I just—forgot something. I need to go.”
And before Draco could say anything, Harry turned and left, the whispers still echoing in his head, burning through him like fire.
Draco’s voice followed him as he pushed out of the café, a sharp, confused “Potter—wait!” but Harry didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The cold air outside hit him like a slap, but it wasn’t enough to shake off the heat still crawling over his skin, the lingering ghost of I want him to touch me burning in his mind like an echo.
Harry walked fast, barely noticing where he was going, just moving, putting as much distance between himself and Draco as possible.
He shouldn’t have gone out with him.
Shouldn’t have let his guard down, let himself think—for even a second—that things could just be easy between them.
He should have known this would happen.
The whispers had been getting worse. More frequent. More dangerous. And if this kept up—if he kept hearing those kinds of thoughts—
Harry exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.
This wasn’t just tension anymore. It wasn’t just attraction.
It was desire.
And worse—Draco’s desire.
For him.
That thought sent another rush of heat through him, a mix of exhilaration and panic. Because now, it wasn’t just his own wretched feelings he was wrestling with—it was Draco’s too.
Or maybe he thought it was. It was an uncertainty.
And the more he heard, the harder it was becoming to pretend he didn’t want.
Didn’t want to push Draco up against the nearest solid surface.
Didn’t want to find out what his skin tasted like, what he sounded like when he gave in.
Harry stopped abruptly, pressing his fingers hard against his temple, trying to shove the thoughts back before they could spiral any further.
This was a problem.
A big problem.
Because if he wasn’t careful, if he kept hearing Draco’s voice in his head, kept knowing what Draco wanted—
Harry didn’t trust himself not to do something about it.
By the time he finally made it home, a dull ache settling behind his eyes, he realised—
He’d forgotten his groceries.
***
These extravagant galas were the bane of Harry’s existence. Enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily from the vaulted ceiling, shimmering as they caught the golden glow of floating candles. The air buzzed with conversation, clinking glasses, and bursts of magic as guests showed off festive charms. And the suffocation that came with it.
Harry had been here for over an hour, making polite conversation, shaking hands, and nodding along to whatever small talk was required of him. The decorations were impressive, and the warmth of the firewhisky in his glass helped ease the stiffness in his shoulders, but the whole thing was—boring.
He’d spoken to Kingsley about some upcoming policies, made small talk with Ron about the latest Harpies match, and even endured a painfully long exchange with Smith, who had somehow decided to recount his personal theories on time travel. But nothing quite held his attention. His thoughts kept drifting, his focus fraying.
And then—he saw him.
Draco.
His heart lurched before he could school his reaction.
Draco stood near the far end of the ballroom, a glass of wine held delicately in his fingers, the deep black of his suit a sharp contrast against the glittering decor. There were subtle touches of green—his cufflinks, the faint embroidery along the hem of his coat—little details Harry shouldn’t have noticed but did anyway.
For a long moment, Harry just watched. Draco looked—elegant. Effortlessly composed. But there was something else, something beneath the poise, in the way his shoulders carried the weight of the room, in the way his fingers ghosted over the stem of his glass.
Harry tore his gaze away, exhaling sharply.
He turned back to the conversation at hand—Aurors discussing recent legislation—but his mind refused to cooperate. He could feel Draco’s presence in the room like a pulse beneath his skin, a quiet hum threading through his awareness.
Eventually, his aimless mingling brought him to the refreshments table. He refilled his drink, exchanging pleasantries with a few Ministry officials, all the while resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder.
But then, as if pulled by some invisible force, his eyes found Draco again.
This time, he wasn’t alone.
Hermione was standing beside him, her mug of something steaming as she spoke. Her expression was sharp, eyebrows raised in that insufferably knowing way of hers. Draco’s shoulders were drawn tight, his grip on his glass just a fraction too firm.
A familiar pang of curiosity—jealousy?—coiled in Harry’s chest.
Draco said something, his lips curving into a smirk, but Hermione only huffed, shaking her head in exasperation.
Harry took a slow sip of his drink, watching. He wasn’t listening to a word the person beside him was saying anymore. His thoughts were there—across the room, with Draco, with the way his throat moved when he swallowed, with the way his fingers curled at his sides.
And then—Draco looked up.
Their eyes met across the crowd.
Harry’s breath caught.
Grey, steady and unreadable, locked onto emerald.
For a second, neither of them moved. The sound of the party faded, the crowd nothing more than a blur between them.
Then Harry gave him a warm smile, lifting his glass in a casual toast. Something unreadable crossed Draco’s face but he gaves a nod back, his eyes lingering.
Harry swallowed against the warmth creeping up his spine.
Harry kept an eye on Draco from across the room, his attention flickering back to him more times than he cared to admit. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Maybe it was habit—watching Draco had been second nature for years. Or maybe it was the way Draco carried himself, poised and unreadable, yet somehow still looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
Several glasses of Phoenix Fizz later, Draco made his move. He placed his empty glass on a passing tray and started toward the exit, his steps measured but quick. Harry set his own drink down and followed, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, his pulse inexplicably picking up speed. He wasn’t sure what he planned to do when he caught up, but letting Draco slip away didn’t sit right with him.
As Draco reached the threshold, he suddenly halted. Harry narrowed his eyes, stepping closer just in time to see the glimmer of enchanted mistletoe hovering above Draco’s head.
Draco’s shoulders stiffened. His breath hitched, and he nodded to himself, as though caught red-handed at something. Harry suppressed a smirk.
“Well, this is awkward,” he said, letting his voice carry just enough amusement to get a reaction.
Draco turned slowly, clearly bracing himself. His expression was neutral, but Harry caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes before it smoothed over.
“Ministry mischief-makers strike again, I see,” Harry continued, tilting his head toward the mistletoe.
Draco exhaled, his fingers twitching slightly at his side. “It would appear so.” His voice was steady, but Harry didn’t miss the tightness in it.
Harry examined the mistletoe with a smirk. “You know, rumor has it these things have a spell on them. If you don’t play along, they’ll follow you around, popping up at the worst possible moments. Could last for days—weeks, even.”
Draco arched a skeptical brow. “You’re making that up.”
Harry shrugged, rocking back on his heels. “Maybe. But are you really willing to risk it?”
Draco opened his mouth to retort but hesitated, his jaw tightening. Harry took a step closer, the space between them shrinking. It was a gamble, pushing like this, but something in Draco’s eyes held him there, made him want to see how far this would go.
“If you want,” Harry murmured, voice quieter now, “I could... I don’t know... get someone else to help you out of this.”
Maybe he had read into it the wrong way.
Draco inhaled sharply, and Harry could see it—the conflict, the way he weighed his choices in the brief flicker of hesitation. He could say no. He could brush it off, walk away, pretend this moment had never happened.
But he didn’t.
“I think...” Draco started, his voice almost too soft. He swallowed, then met Harry’s gaze directly, something raw and unreadable in his expression. “I think we can handle this ourselves.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. He had expected resistance, a scoff, maybe a biting remark about his audacity. But not this. Not agreement.
A slow grin spread across his face. “Alright, then.”
The noise of the gala faded into the background, the warm golden lights blurring at the edges. It was just the two of them now, standing beneath the enchanted mistletoe, caught in something neither of them had expected.
Harry’s gaze flickered to Draco’s lips before he could stop himself. He hesitated, waiting—offering Draco a chance to pull away. But Draco didn’t move. His breath was shallow, his pupils dark in the dim lighting.
When their lips met, it was hesitant at first, barely more than a brush, but the electricity beneath it sent something sharp through Harry’s chest. Draco tasted like wine and something colder, something familiar. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, but with a weight to it that made Harry’s head spin. Draco’s hand curled slightly against his side, the briefest touch that sent heat flooding through him.
It lasted longer than it should have. Longer than Harry had meant for it to. When they finally pulled apart, Draco’s breath was unsteady, his expression unreadable but his lips parted, eyes locked onto Harry’s as though still caught in the moment. And Harry wanted nothing more than to pull him into another kiss.
Harry let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Draco exhaled, regaining some of his composure, a smirk ghosting over his lips. “No worse than being hexed in the field.”
Harry chuckled at that, but something about the way Draco said it—like he wasn’t entirely joking—made his stomach twist.
Then reality hit him like a cold gust of wind. His pulse, still thrumming from the kiss, now turned sharp with realization. This wasn’t just a stolen moment beneath enchanted mistletoe. This was something more. Something dangerous.
His chest tightened. His hands trembled. He took a step back.
“I... I can’t, Draco,” he muttered, the words thick in his throat. “I can’t do this.”
Draco’s expression hardened instantly, but his eyes betrayed him—hurt flickered there, barely contained beneath frustration. “No.” His voice was quiet, but firm. “You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like nothing happened.”
Harry flinched. He wanted to deny it, to say it wasn’t like that—but wasn’t it? He had let the moment happen. He had let himself want it.
Draco stepped closer, eyes burning. “Tell me the truth, Harry. Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me. Why every conversation feels like there’s something between us.”
Harry looked away. He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to admit what had been gnawing at the edge of his sanity since that night in the pub. But Draco wasn’t letting him run this time.
“You can hear them, can’t you?”
Harry’s breath shuddered out of him. Panic started to come over him.
He knew that. He’d known that.
But hearing Draco say it—
He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready for the way Draco was looking at him, like he saw straight through every defense, every excuse, every attempt Harry had made to convince himself that this was nothing more than a mistake.
He wasn’t ready for the ealization settling between them like a living thing.
That there was no running from this.
From them.
“That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. Because you heard what I want. And it’s not just that I want you. It’s everything. It’s the way I can’t seem to stop thinking about you, even when I try. You felt it, didn’t you?”
All Harry heard about was the bond and Draco wanting him and couldn’t stop thinking about him. Harry wanted to pinch himself to see if he was dreaming. Draco wanted him.
Harry had been hearing Draco’s thoughts—his wants, his desires—everything he struggled to contain. It made sense now, the way Draco had been looking at him, the tension neither of them could shake. And Draco had heard his thoughts too. Harry swallowed, the weight of it settling over him. It wasn’t in his head. It wasn’t just one-sided. The bond was real, and it wasn’t going anywhere.
Draco stepped closer, the space between them thinning until the air felt charged, heavy with something undeniable. They couldn’t keep pretending this wasn’t happening. The whispers, the pull between them—it was all real. And now, they had to decide what to do about it.
Harry hesitated, his fingers twitching before he let them brush against Draco’s cheek, just once, barely there. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, voice low, uncertain.
Draco leaned into the touch, his own voice quieter now. “Then we figure it out together.”
And somehow, that was all it took. The space between them disappeared, and when their lips met, it wasn’t hesitant or questioning—it was inevitable. It was years of longing finally colliding, breaking past everything that had held them back.
Harry groaned into the kiss, gripping Draco tighter, needing him closer. And it was just the constant chant of taking Draco away that Harry registered the shift of magic before they were stumbling into Harry’s flat, still tangled together, breathless and burning.
Draco’s voice was low, desperate against his mouth. “Bedroom. Now.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He took Draco’s hand, pulling him through the door, their clothes lost along the way. And when Draco pressed him back onto the bed, eyes dark and unguarded, Harry knew—there was no more running.
***
It had been a few days since Harry had told Draco about the thoughts he’d heard.
Well, most of them.
Some, he’d kept to himself—not because he wanted to lie, but because, honestly, he wanted to see if they’d play out in real life.
The idea had lingered in the back of his mind as he made his way back from Robards’ office, his boots scuffing against the stone floor. He pushed open the door to his and Draco’s shared office and shut it behind him with a quiet click. His gaze flicked to Draco, who was at his desk, focused on something—parchment, case files, whatever it was, he looked engrossed.
Harry leaned against the door for a moment, just watching.
Draco hadn’t looked up yet, his quill gliding smoothly over parchment, his brows furrowed in concentration. The lamp on his desk cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight downward curve of his lips.
Harry swallowed. There were things he hadn’t said—things he wanted to see for himself.
Harry stood, moving toward Draco with deliberate steps. He didn’t say anything, just let the anticipation build as he rounded the desk. Draco glanced up, brows knitting together in mild confusion.
“What are you—”
Before Draco could finish, Harry reached for the back of his chair and pulled, dragging it away from the desk with a firm tug. Draco let out a soft sound of protest, his hands bracing on the armrests as he was maneuvered.
“Potter,” he started, clearly baffled now.
But Harry was already sinking to his knees in front of him.
Draco’s breath caught, his grey eyes widening as he looked down at Harry, who rested his hands on Draco’s thighs, fingers just barely pressing into the fabric of his trousers.
“What—what are you doing?” Draco asked, his voice quieter now, uncertain.
Harry didn’t answer right away. He just held Draco’s gaze, watching the flicker of realization dawn behind his eyes. Then, with a small smirk curling his lips, he squeezed Draco’s thigh lightly and murmured,
“Testing something.”
The subtext hung heavy in the charged air between them–Harry was testing the boundaries of their relationship, pushing it to new, uncharted territories.
Draco swallowed, his fingers tightening around the armrests. His posture was rigid, but Harry could feel the warmth of him through the fabric, the way his breath had gone uneven.
“Is that so?” he replied, his voice a little breathless. “And what, exactly, are you testing, Potter?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately. He let his hands slide up just a fraction, his thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against Draco’s thighs. The tension between them thickened, humming in the air like static before a storm.
Draco exhaled sharply, his knee jerking slightly. “Potter.”
Harry’s smirk widened, his eyes glinting with a newfound hunger.
“You’ll see,” he said, his hands slowly sliding further up Draco’s thighs, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “Soon enough.”
Draco huffed, rolling his eyes, but his fingers twitched like he wanted to grab Harry’s hair and hold on. His breath was coming a little faster now, his posture no longer rigid but uncertain, like he couldn’t decide if he should let himself sink into this or put an end to whatever Harry was doing.
Harry leaned in slightly, letting his fingers press just a little firmer against Draco’s thighs. He could feel the heat of him through the fabric, could see the faint flush rising up Draco’s throat. It sent a thrill through him, knowing he could do this—make Draco react like this.
“I hate you,” Draco muttered, voice breathless.
Harry smirked, fingers tracing absentminded patterns. “No, you don’t.”
Harry leaned in even closer, his breath hot against the front of Draco’s trousers. Harry nuzzled his cheek against the warm fabric, taking in his musky scent. Draco shifted slightly in his seat, his hips twitching forward almost imperceptibly, seeking more of that delicious sensation.
“Harry,” Draco said, his voice strained. “We’re in the office. Someone could walk in at any moment.”
Harry just chuckled, a low, wicked sound that sent a shiver of desire straight to Draco’s core.
“Let them,” he murmured, his fingers deftly working at the fastenings of Draco’s trousers. “I don’t care who sees. I want everyone to know that you’re mine.”
Draco’s breath hitched, his chest heaving as Harry slowly peeled his trousers down his legs. The cool air of the office kissed his newly exposed skin, making him shiver. Harry’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight of Draco’s straining erection, barely contained by his silk boxers.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry breathed, his large hands gripping Draco’s hips possessively. “You’re so fucking sexy like this. So desperate for my touch.”
Draco bit back a moan, his head falling back against the chair as Harry’s fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers.
“Harry,” he gasped, his voice ragged with need. “Please...”
“Please what?” Harry smirked, slowly tugging Draco’s boxers down, inch by torturous inch. “Tell me what you want, Malfoy. I want to hear you say it.”
Draco’s cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach and leaving a smear of pre-cum on his skin. Harry licked his lips at the sight, his eyes glinting with hunger. Draco’s chest heaved, his grey eyes blazing into Harry’s as he panted softly.
“I want you,” Draco said, his voice a low, needy growl. “I want your mouth on me. I want you to suck my cock until I can’t think of anything else. I want you to make me come undone right here, where anyone could walk in and see their Chosen one on his knees for my cock.”
Harry’s eyes flashed with unbridled hunger at Draco’s filthy words. Without hesitation, he leaned in and wrapped his lips around the head of Draco’s cock, swirling his tongue around the sensitive flesh. Draco let out a guttural moan, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair as he pulled him closer, demanding more.
Harry obliged, taking Draco’s length deeper into his mouth. He could taste the salt of Draco’s skin, the musky scent of his arousal filling his nostrils. He bobbed his head, taking Draco inch by inch until he felt the head of his cock hit the back of his throat.
“Fuck, Potter,” Draco gasped, his hips rocking forward to meet Harry’s mouth. “Your mouth feels so fucking good. Don’t stop.”
Harry growled around Draco’s cock, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through Draco’s body. He sucked harder, his cheeks hollowing as he worked Draco’s length with single-minded focus. His hands gripped Draco’s ass, kneading the firm globes as he pulled him even closer, burying his nose in the wiry curls at the base of Draco’s cock.
Draco was panting now, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. The obscene sound of Harry’s slurping filled the office, mixing with the creaking of the chair beneath Draco’s writhing body. He could feel Draco’s release building, his balls tightening as the pressure mounted.
“Harry,” Draco warned, his voice a desperate keen. “I’m going to come. Fuck, I’m going to come in your mouth. Swallow it all, Potter. Don’t let a single drop go to waste.”
Harry just moaned in response, the sound rumbling through his chest. He sucked harder, his tongue flicking out to tease the sensitive underside of Draco’s cock. He could feel it throbbing against his tongue, could sense Draco’s impending climax.
With a hoarse shout, Draco came undone. His cock pulsed and jerked as he spilled himself down Harry’s eager throat, wave after wave of hot, thick seed flooding Harry’s mouth. Harry swallowed it all greedily, his throat working to gulp down every last drop of Draco’s release.
As Draco slumped back in the chair, panting and spent, Harry slowly pulled off his softening cock, a final lick to the tip to catch any lingering drops of cum. Draco shuddered at the sensation, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. Before Draco could catch his breath, Harry was already moving, his strong hands gripping Draco’s thighs.
With a sudden, swift motion, Harry stood up and hauled Draco up with him. Draco let out a surprised gasp as he was lifted effortlessly, his hands grasping at Harry’s broad shoulders. Harry didn’t stop until Draco was splayed out on top of his desk, the surface strewn with parchment and quills clattering to the floor.
Draco’s trousers and boxers were still tangled around his ankles, his bare arse now exposed. Harry took a moment to admire the sight – Draco’s pale skin flushed a pretty pink, his chest rising and falling with each panting breath. Draco’s half-hard cock lay against his stomach, glistening with Harry’s saliva.
“Harry, what are you—” Draco started, but his words turned into a low moan as Harry nudged his thighs further apart, stepping between them. Harry’s own trousers strained against his erection, the hard length pressing insistently against Draco’s thigh.
“I’m not done with you yet, Malfoy,” Harry growled, his voice a low, rough rumble. “Not even close.” He leaned down to capture Draco’s lips in a searing kiss, his tongue plundering Draco’s mouth, making him taste himself on Harry’s tongue, the musky flavor making Draco moan into the kiss.
Harry’s hands roamed Draco’s body as he kissed him, mapping out the lean lines and hard planes of muscle. He tweaked Draco’s nipples through his shirt, rolling the sensitive nubs between his fingers until Draco was arching up off the desk.
Harry broke the kiss to blaze a trail down Draco's jaw and throat, his teeth grazing the skin and leaving a path of reddening marks in his wake. Draco tilted his head back, giving Harry better access as he surrendered to the onslaught of sensation.
Harry’s hips pressed forward, grinding his hard cock against Draco’s thigh. Draco could feel the heat radiating off Harry’s length, could sense the desperation in Harry’s touch.
Reaching Draco’s trousers, Harry made quick work of the remaining fabric, practically tearing them off Draco’s body in his haste. Draco lifted his hips to help, kicking off the troublesome clothing until he was bare and exposed beneath Harry.
Harry took a moment to drink in the sight of Draco splayed out before him, his pale skin glowing in the soft light of the office. Draco’s cock was fully hard again, leaking against his stomach, his balls drawn up tight.
“Fuck, Draco” Harry said, his voice a low, reverent whisper. “You’re so fucking sexy like this. Spread out and ready for me.”
Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s thighs, pushing them back and up until Draco’s knees were bent and his legs spread wide. Draco’s arse was now completely exposed, the tight pink hole, still slicked and puffy from this morning, clenched around nothing. Harry’s breath caught at the sight, his cock throbbing almost painfully against his trousers.
“Well, are you going to stand there gawking all day, or are you going to fuck me like you mean it?” Draco’s eyes flashed with a mix of lust and a hint of that signature Malfoy arrogance.
Harry’s eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at his lips. Draco always did love to push his buttons, even in the heat of the moment.
“Careful, Malfoy,” he warned, his voice a low, rough growl. “Keep running that pretty mouth of yours, and I might just have to put it to better use.”
Draco just smirked back, unfazed. “Promises, promises,” he taunted, rolling his hips invitingly. “Less talking, more action, Potter.”
Emboldened by Draco’s challenge, Harry made quick work of his own trousers, shoving them down his hips along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, long, hard and leaking with arousal. The thick shaft was flushed a deep, angry red, the bulbous head already glistening with pre-cum. Draco’s eyes widened slightly at the sight, a flicker of desire in their grey depths.
“Beg for it, Malfoy,” Harry commanded, his voice a low, rough growl. “Beg me to fuck you.”
Draco’s lust-blown eyes widened slightly before a smirk played on his lips.
“Make me.”
Harry just grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. He wrapped a hand around his throbbing length, giving it a few swift pumps. Draco’s eyes followed the movement, his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips.
Harry positioned himself at Draco’s entrance, the leaking head of his cock brushing against Draco’s fluttering hole. Draco gasped, his back arching off the desk as he tried to push down, to force Harry inside.
“Still want to keep running that mouth of yours, Malfoy?” Harry asked, a wicked glint in his eye as he teased Draco’s entrance with the tip of his cock. “Or are you ready to put it to better use, like sucking my cock like the eager little slut you are?”
Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he couldn’t hide the flush of arousal creeping up his neck. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Potter,” he warned, even as his hips rolled up, seeking more of Harry’s touch.
Harry just grinned, relishing the power he held over Draco in that moment. “Luckily I’m an expert in dangerous,” he replied darkly.
He leaned forward, capturing a pink nipple between his teeth. He bit down just hard enough to make Draco gasp before laving the tender bud with his tongue. Draco’s fingers tangled in Harry’s hair, gripping tight as a mix of pleasure and frustration coursed through him. Harry’s cockhead continued to tease his entrance, the promise of being filled, claimed, ruining Draco for anyone else.
Harry could feel Draco trembling beneath him, could hear the hitch in his breath as he fought the urge to beg. Smirking, Harry decided to turn up the heat, to push Draco to his limits until he had no choice but to surrender. He started to grind his hips in slow, deliberate circles, his cockhead catching on Draco’s rim with each pass. At the same time, he began to lave Draco’s nipples with attention, alternating between them with lips and teeth and tongue until they were red and stiff, until Draco was writhing beneath him.
“Harry, please...” Draco panted, his voice strained with need. But still, he refused to beg. Harry just chuckled darkly, his hot breath washing over Draco’s chest as he spoke.
“Please what, Malfoy? Please stop teasing you? Or please fuck you until you can’t walk straight?” He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, his cockhead popping inside Draco’s entrance before retreating, denying him the fullness he craved.
Draco let out a choked moan, his fingers twisting almost painfully in Harry’s hair. “Bloody hell, Harry...” he gasped. “Just...just fuck me already!”
The words were out before he could stop them, a desperate, needy plea.
Harry grinned triumphantly, his eyes glinting with wicked satisfaction. “Now that’s more like it,” he purred, rewarding Draco by pushing forward, sinking his thick length into Draco’s tight, slick heat inch by delicious inch until he was buried to the hilt. Draco threw his head back with a guttural moan, his body clenching down around Harry's throbbing cock.
“That’s it, Draco,” Harry growled, starting to move, thrusting deep and hard and fast. “You feel so bloody perfect wrapped around me. Like you were made for my cock.” He captured Draco’s lips in a searing kiss, swallowing his cries of pleasure as he fucked into him with wild abandon.
Draco could only cling to Harry, his legs locking around the other man’s waist as he surrendered himself completely to the relentless onslaught of sensation. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mixed with their harsh pants and moans and the creaking of the desk beneath them.
Harry felt Draco’s body start to tremble and tighten around him, the Slytherin’s climax fast approaching. He knew he had pushed Draco to the brink, had driven him to beg so sweetly for Harry’s cock. It was a heady feeling, knowing he had such power over the proud, aloof Malfoy heir.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry grunted, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. “You’re mine now, all mine. And I’m going to make sure everyone knows it. I want everyone in the Ministry to hear you scream for my cock.”
He captured Draco’s mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim every inch of the warm, wet cavern.
Draco whimpered into the kiss, his fingers digging into the firm muscles of Harry’s back. He could feel the coil of heat tightening in his belly, could feel the telltale tingling in his swollen cock. He was so close, teetering on the edge of the most intense climax of his life.
Harry could sense it too, could feel Draco’s walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning length. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer himself, not with Draco clinging to him so desperately, begging so sweetly for his release.
Right there, Harry...don’t stop...”
“Never,” Harry rasped, his hips never faltering as he pounded into Draco’s prostate mercilessly. “Gonna...fuck...ruin this tight arse...make it mine...”
“Yours.” Draco rasped.
“Come for me, Love,” Harry commanded, his voice a low, rough growl against Draco’s lips. “I want to feel you come apart on my cock, want to feel you screaming my name as I fill you up.” He punctuated his words with a particularly hard, deep thrust, grinding his pelvis against Draco’s as he nailed his prostate dead-on.
That was all it took to send Draco hurtling over the edge. He threw his head back with a hoarse, ragged scream of Harry’s name as his climax crashed through him like a tidal wave. His cock jerked and pulsed, painting his stomach and chest with streaks of pearly cum as his body shook and shuddered with the force of his release.
The sensation of Draco coming undone around him, the feeling of hot, slick walls rippling along his length, pushed Harry over the precipice as well. With a guttural roar, he slammed into Draco one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his cock jerked and throbbed, spilling thick ropes of scalding seed deep inside.
Harry slumped against Draco, both of them still trembling, breathless in the aftermath. Draco’s legs remained wrapped around Harry’s waist, holding him close as if afraid he might try to pull away. Harry made no move to do so, content to stay nestled inside Draco’s fluttering heat, plugging him up and keeping all of Harry’s seed inside.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry murmured, his voice rough, sated. “That was—” He exhaled, pressing lazy kisses along Draco’s throat, tasting salt and warmth.
Draco let out a breathless laugh, his fingers threading through Harry’s hair, playing with the damp strands. “Bloody hell, Potter,” he rasped, voice wrecked and satisfied. “You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”
Harry smirked against his skin, something smug and possessive curling in his chest. He tilted his head, catching Draco’s lips in a slow, lingering kiss before murmuring, “Good. Because you’re mine now.”
Draco huffed, but the way his fingers tightened in Harry’s hair betrayed him. He tilted his head back slightly, his gaze heavy-lidded, still dazed.
“Seems like you’ve kept some of the whispers to yourself,” he muttered.
Harry just smirked, pressing one more kiss to Draco’s lips before rolling them both onto their sides, unwilling to let the moment go just yet.
Draco huffed but didn’t push him away, just tightened his arms around Harry’s shoulders, keeping him close. Their bodies were still tangled together, heat radiating between them in the quiet of the room.
Harry traced slow, idle circles on Draco’s back, his fingertips dragging over sweat-damp skin. He could still feel the way Draco’s body trembled against his, the aftershocks running through both of them.
“You’re not wrong,” Harry admitted after a long pause, his voice low. “There were some things I didn’t tell you.”
Draco arched a brow, though the corners of his lips twitched. “Oh?”
Harry hummed in response, pressing a lazy kiss to Draco’s collarbone. “Some things,” he repeated, voice hushed against his skin.
Draco exhaled, a soft laugh escaping him as he ran his fingers through Harry’s hair again, nails scratching lightly at his scalp. “And do I get to hear them now?”
Harry smirked against Draco’s skin before pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His green eyes burned with something unreadable, something heavy, something Draco wasn’t sure he was ready for—but Merlin, he wanted it anyway.
“Maybe,” Harry murmured. “But I think I’d rather show you.”
Draco swallowed, his breath hitching as Harry’s hand skimmed down his side, slow and teasing. He was already spent, but the way Harry was looking at him—like he wasn’t done, like he had no intention of letting Draco go anytime soon—sent a thrill down his spine.
“You do know we’re still in the office,” Draco drawled, his smirk lazy, amused.
Harry sighed, letting his forehead drop against Draco’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”
But he didn’t make a move to untangle himself just yet.
Draco huffed a quiet laugh, his fingers still drifting through Harry’s hair.
“We’re going to have to move at some point, you know,” he said, voice laced with amusement.
Harry made a vague, discontented noise but didn’t lift his head. “Don’t want to.”
Draco rolled his eyes, though the corners of his lips twitched. “Potter, as much as I enjoy having you draped over me like some overgrown Gryffindor blanket, I’d rather not have Robards walk in and see us like this.”
Harry groaned dramatically but finally pushed himself up, though he didn’t go far. His hands settled on either side of Draco’s hips, keeping him trapped in place. “He won’t. I locked the door.”
Draco’s brow arched. “You locked the door?”
“And cast a Silencing Charm.” Harry shrugged, utterly unapologetic.
“As much as I said about wanting the Ministry hearing your moans, I’d rather keep it for myself.” He smirked. “I might’ve had a plan.”
Draco huffed, but the slight flush at his ears didn’t go unnoticed. “How very Slytherin of you.”
Harry smirked, shifting closer until their noses nearly brushed. “You’re rubbing off on me.”
Draco’s fingers trailed absently down Harry’s chest, his touch light but deliberate. “Well, if that’s the case, I should be a terrible influence.”
Harry let out a low chuckle, his hands skimming Draco’s sides before settling on his waist. “Oh, you already are.”
Draco’s smirk wavered slightly, his expression softening. “Then tell me, Potter—what exactly was this brilliant plan of yours?”
Harry hummed, trailing his fingers over Draco’s bare skin, slow and deliberate. “Something like this,” he murmured, dipping his head to press a kiss just beneath Draco’s jaw, feeling the way his breath hitched in response.
“We are at work, Potter,” he reminded him, though the sharpness in his tone was dulled by the way he was still breathless, the way his body still thrummed with the ghost of Harry’s touch.
Harry tilted his head. “You say that like you actually care.”
Draco scowled, pushing at Harry’s shoulder. “I do care,” he said, but the way he leaned into Harry’s touch betrayed him.
Harry laughed, low and fond. “Yeah, okay,” he murmured, pressing one last kiss to Draco’s jaw before finally stepping back, though his hands lingered at Draco’s waist for just a moment longer.
Draco inhaled deeply, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he surveyed the mess of the desk—parchment crumpled, quills tossed aside, ink splattered in unfortunate places. He sighed. “You’re cleaning this up.”
Harry grinned. “Fine. But only if you let me take you out to dinner after.”
Draco gave him a flat look. “Are you bribing me with food?”
“Yes,” Harry said immediately. “And it’s going to work.”
Draco clicked his tongue, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “You’re an insufferable menace.”
Harry leaned down, lips brushing Draco’s ear as he whispered, “And you love it.”
Draco shoved him away, but the smile curling at the edge of his lips betrayed him.
Draco sighed, running a hand through his thoroughly mussed hair before reaching for his trousers. He shot Harry a pointed look. “You’re still grinning like an idiot.”
Harry, utterly unbothered, simply shrugged as he plucked his shirt off the floor, shaking it out. “I’m happy.”
Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, buttoning up his shirt with a flick of his wand to smooth out the wrinkles. “You do realise we actually have work to do, yes?”
Harry hummed noncommittally, watching as Draco tucked his shirt back into his trousers, his movements neat and practiced. “You should wear your clothes like that more often.”
Draco glanced up, brow arched. “Like what?”
Harry smirked, stepping close, his fingers tugging lightly at Draco’s half-fastened belt. “Slightly undone.”
Draco huffed, swatting his hand away. “I am not walking around the Ministry looking like I’ve just been thoroughly—” He cut himself off, lips pressing into a thin line as his cheeks pinked.
Harry laughed, warm and smug. “Like you’ve just been thoroughly what?” he teased, nudging Draco’s chin with his nose.
Draco scowled, but the effect was ruined by the way his breath hitched when Harry’s hands slid over his waist. “Put your tie on and stop being a menace, Potter.”
Harry smirked but stepped back, grabbing his own tie from where it had been haphazardly tossed onto a stack of reports. He looped it around his neck, fingers working the knot with practiced ease. Draco finished fastening his cuffs, then eyed the disaster of their desk with mild disdain.
“We should at least attempt to make it look like we’ve been working,” Draco muttered, using his wand to straighten the parchment and unspill the ink.
Harry grinned, adjusting his tie. “We were working. Just… on something else.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “Merlin, I should have just hexed you back when we were sixteen.”
Harry leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to Draco’s temple. “Yeah, but then you’d have missed out on all this.”
Draco scoffed but didn’t push him away. Instead, he flicked his wand one last time, setting everything back into proper order before sinking into his chair. He glanced at the clock on the wall and groaned.
“Lunch is almost over.”
Harry plopped into his own chair across from him, smirking. “Guess we’ll just have to work overtime.”
Draco narrowed his eyes, but there was a certain softness in them, a flicker of something fond. “I loathe you,” he said, though the words lacked their usual venom.
Draco sighed, rubbing at his temples like he was regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. Harry, still watching him with that insufferable, fond grin, leaned forward over the desk, resting his chin on his hand.
“You know,” Harry said, voice softer now, lacking the teasing lilt from before. “You don’t actually loathe me.”
Draco glanced up, expression unreadable. His fingers twitched against the edge of the desk, but he didn’t deny it.
Harry’s smile softened. “I love you, you know.”
Draco froze.
Harry had imagined saying it before—thought about it in quiet moments when Draco was curled against him in sleep, or when they bickered over something ridiculous only to end up laughing. All those moments where Harry dreaded that it would be the end of the world if Draco knew but now it didn’t feel so dangerous now. Saying it now, here, in their shared office, after spending their lunch break tangled up in each other, felt right. Like it had already been true for a long time.
Draco swallowed, his throat tight. “Harry…”
Harry just tilted his head, green eyes steady, unwavering. “You don’t have to say it back,” he murmured. “Not if you’re not ready.”
Draco’s fingers curled against the wood. He had never been good at this—at feelings, at words that carried weight. But when he looked at Harry, at the quiet certainty in his gaze, something in his chest loosened.
He let out a breath, slow and measured, and then, without meeting Harry’s eyes, he muttered, “You’re such an idiot. Of course, I love you too.”
Harry’s grin widened, and then he reached across the desk, lacing their fingers together. Draco let him.