Malfoy is maybe the most gorgeous thing Harry's seen in his life, bright and shining and sex on legs. His hair looks soft and manic, mussed beyond repair, and Harry wants to feel it between his fingers while he licks Malfoy's throat, wants to leave kisses that mottle Malfoy's pale skin. Malfoy's eyes are sharp as ever, don't miss a trick these days, and his mouth's still a clever, cutting thing, his persistent gitness honed by time, and Harry's distantly sure there's a reason he shouldn't think these things, only it's drowned out by the immediacy of need, the way his fingers itch to take hold.
Malfoy's in his lab robes, leaning back on his desk, his hands splayed and braced like he's on display, and his head's cocked like he's waiting for something. Harry hopes that it's him, because Harry's waiting, too.
They're not alone; Harry's got competition again, other people molesting Malfoy with their eyes, looking him over and maybe thinking things about the sweet curve of his jaw, the hitched angle of his brow, that sharp, weighing look, and Harry's not having it, he's just not.
No one else gets Malfoy now; Harry doesn't share.
Those lab robes look far too easy to spell off.
Malfoy shifts a little, works his hips back on the desk. Harry's intensely aware of every twitch he makes.
It's a rush, watching Malfoy like this. Harry wants to lick the divot of his chin.
When Malfoy looks at Harry, Harry feels it burn, heat flaring just beneath his skin. Harry's whole chest puffs with hope.
Malfoy's pretty mouth moves and Harry hears, "Oh, for fuck's sakes, Cullen, you spilled it on Potter, you are so unbelievably sacked," and he knows it must be Malfoy because the words sound so good.
Then Malfoy's wand's up and Harry's pulse trips fast and Harry doesn't know why he can't move anymore until Ron tells him it's a full body-bind.
Malfoy's been yelling a while. Harry's not sure how long, exactly, because he still can't move and unless someone turns him—Malfoy, he hopes—he can't see the clock. He can see Malfoy, though, which makes it all right.
He's absolutely fascinated by the back of Malfoy's neck, the way it flushes pinkish up to his hair and gets hidden beneath his collar when his hands wave. They've been waving a lot, Summoning potions and whatnot, flapping with rage, and Harry thinks he could watch them forever if it wasn't for that flush tease going on with Malfoy's neck.
Harry can't believe he hasn't spotted this before, how utterly lickable Malfoy's neck is.
Ron's saying something right by Harry's ear. It sounds important, May Queen and apologies and it'll wear off in a bit, probably, and Harry wants to tell Ron it's okay, Ron shouldn't sound so tense, Malfoy'll fix it, Harry's sure. Malfoy's perfect; he can fix anything.
And anyway, Harry thinks Ron'd be much better if he'd just watch the back of Malfoy's neck, too. Calmed Harry right down, got him all fuzzy and warm, and if Harry could move, he'd squirm about it, probably, because he's feeling it straight to his dick and yes, Harry should definitely have spotted this before now.
Harry won't share Malfoy except maybe Ron can look; he'll just need to promise to keep his hands off.
Malfoy stops yelling long enough to look over his shoulder. If Harry could move, he'd smile. Flirt. Something to keep Malfoy watching him, because nothing's ever felt this good in his whole life and Merlin, Malfoy staring's better than sex.
Just, Malfoy doesn't look happy staring at Harry just now. Actually, he looks a bit upset. Harry could fix that right up, soothe away the line between Malfoy's eyebrows, maybe even make Malfoy smile, too. Harry wants more than anything to be over there now, all wrapped up in Malfoy, doing anything—everything—Malfoy wants.
Malfoy comes to him. Harry thinks the body-bind's the only thing keeping his knees steady just now.
"Look, Potter, I don't know how much of this is getting through to you but there's not much we can do for you yet." Malfoy's eyes are pretty. So is his mouth. "We'll have to wait until the May Queen wears off." Malfoy makes a face, guilt and tension and regret. Harry wants to lick it away, chew a bit on the soft curve of Malfoy's lower lip. He needs to feel it giving between his teeth. "Weasley's going to wait with you while I sort out my staff and see if there's anything else I can do. Can use my office, if you'd like." Malfoy's face pulls a self-effacing twist. "Not much, I realise, but I can't let quarantines leave the labs. Ministry rules. Sorry."
Time alone in Malfoy's office sounds good, like maybe Harry can get him alone, maybe Harry might actually get to touch and there's still all that tension and guilt and everything to lick away, all that skin to darken with his teeth and maybe Malfoy's even sorry enough to let Harry move, which would just be the best thing in the world.
So Harry lets Malfoy direct him to the right door and Harry can't see Malfoy walking behind him, talking to Ron and not Harry, why? But it's all right because he hasn't felt Malfoy transfer the spell, it's still Malfoy directing him, guiding him through the forensics labs in a body-bind and it's fantastic when Malfoy settles Harry by Malfoy's desk. He can see Malfoy again and yeah, he's still as shining-glowing-gorgeous as he was back in the labs.
Harry thinks he could maybe bite his own lip at how good Malfoy looks. Well, if it weren't for the body-bind.
Ron's still there—which, no—and he's talking to Malfoy, harsh and low, and Malfoy's nodding grimly, mouth all sour, and the only reason that's tolerable is because Malfoy's still staring at Harry's face like he can't look away.
If Harry could talk, he'd totally make Ron go. Ron's his best mate and everything, Ron's even his boss since his promotion to department head last year, but surely Ron knows three's a crowd.
Then Malfoy says, "All right, you should be safe enough in here for a while, let me know if you need anything, yeah?" and starts towards the door and what, no, Malfoy's going to leave? Harry can't have that. He thinks he'd rather share, and just the thought of that concession makes his chest heave like he's slipped from his broom.
Ron's saying something—stupid, staying Ron—and Malfoy nods again and Malfoy's brows knit a little like he understands what the body-bind won't let Harry say.
"What is it, Potter? You all right?" Malfoy snorts and sort of rolls his eyes at something, maybe himself, and Harry tries to say no, no, no going with just his eyes. "You need me to get Cullen to wait with you?" Malfoy sort of growls. Harry thinks he knows why. More sharing is bad. "I suppose I can wait to flay his arse until we're finished, if it helps."
Ron's jaw-wagging again, insensible sounds that make Malfoy's mouth quirk on one side, a corner lifting a little in a private little smile. The only reason that's tolerable at all, honestly, is that he's still watching Harry when he does.
"Something like that, Weasley, yeah." Then Malfoy's going again, slipping back and through the door, and Harry fights the body-bind to make Malfoy stay because Harry cannot overstate the importance of watching Malfoy's throat and how's he meant to lick anything through a door and Malfoy's hand pauses on the knob. "Touch anything in here and I will tan your arse."
Then Malfoy's gone and Ron's talking and Harry's practically shaking with rage. Or, well, he would be, if it weren't for the bloody body-bind.
Right as rain in a bit, Ron says, or something to that effect, and he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder like he's allowed to touch and Harry starts working on his focus, trying to convince just one finger to move.
It's going to take ages, he thinks, but apparently, he's got time.
It's rough work, fighting off the spell holding him still. For one thing, it's not working, Harry's finger's not moving at all, and for another, he keeps thinking about Malfoy's neck. His jaw, his mouth, his hands sweeping with rage, the prospect of a well-tanned arse in the mix.
Distracting's not even the word.
Only you, mate, Ron says, and doused with May Queen, honestly, and can't wait for this report.
And while Ron's babbling about things in his distant, underwater-muffled voice, Harry's putting everything he's got into willing that one finger to curl.
When it happens, he's thankful for the body-bind keeping the rest of his expression still. If nothing else, it gives him the element of surprise.
It's a blur of necessary and need and now, a rush of victory and the tremble of neglect when Harry breaks the hold. He's got his wand and there's a splash of colour as he Stuns Ron and Harry's only vaguely aware of anything until he's through the door, Malfoy's back like a beacon in the flustered flurry of his staff.
"—and honest to fucking Merlin, who adds Mackled Malaclaw to a lust potion, who could possibly be that thick," Malfoy snarls and Harry's right there at his neck, sniffing in and angling himself plastered to keep Malfoy still so Harry can lick.
He tastes just as good as he looks, all sweat and smoke and sex on legs. The noise he makes is adorable, too, high and tight and alarmed. Harry doesn't want Malfoy alarmed, he wants Malfoy naked on his desk, wants his kisses mottling Malfoy's skin, so he slides a hand on Malfoy's waist and tries to pet Malfoy calm.
Malfoy's head snaps up, cracks into Harry's nose. Malfoy snaps around, startled, and that's adorable, too, wide-eyed and slack-jawed and yes, yes, this.
Malfoy's mouth isn't quite what Harry's expecting, in that it stays slack and open all through the kiss, but Harry gets to lick in behind Malfoy's teeth and he's still petting Malfoy's waist and sort of rubbing himself on Malfoy's arsecheek and it's all good, it's amazing right up until Malfoy shoves him off.
"Potter. You're out." Malfoy sounds low and dangerous, surprise fading into what Harry hopes is predatory watch.
"It's all right, I'm here, just let me," Harry croons, smooth as smoke, and he gets his other hand up to Malfoy's neck, fingers into Malfoy's—yes, very soft, very mussed—hair and then Harry's kissing him again.
Harry squirms a bit in protest when he loses contact with Malfoy's arsecheek but it's all better when Malfoy turns and Harry can burrow against Malfoy's chest.
Everyone else here's just made Malfoy mad; he'll have to want Harry if Harry proves how good he can make Malfoy feel.
Malfoy tries to say something but Harry smothers it in the kiss, just takes his time learning the unbelievable wonders of Malfoy's mouth. Harry's careful about it, doesn't want to move wrong, let Malfoy think for an instant he'd ever want anyone else, but it's so, so easy to slip into the wet heat and tense strength, just let the whole rest of the world disappear and Harry's still kissing Malfoy carefully, worshipping his mouth and rocking his hips so Malfoy can feel how hard Harry is already, how much Harry wants this, when he feels the tip of something pressing against his ribs.
He doubts very much it's Malfoy's dick.
Then there's nothing but the complete frustration of another body-bind and Malfoy yelling hostile for Ron.
This time, Malfoy escorts Harry back to his office with one hand clamped on Harry's shoulder, that luscious mouth pulled grim, those pale eyes steeled like Malfoy's off to war. Harry can't explain or soothe him or protect him or anything from the body-bind—and where's Malfoy learned one this strong?—but Merlin, he wants to do all three.
Malfoy flicks his wand at Ron in a hostile little twitch and this time, the two of them tie Harry down with straps and they're just absolutely unreasonable about not lifting the bloody body-bind, can't either of them tell how much Harry needs to keep working on Malfoy's mouth? Honestly, it's not even swollen, just a bit too red and Harry can barely see the shine of his spit.
It's a disaster all 'round, really, and isn't that just Harry's life?
Ron asks what happened and he's rubbing the back of his neck and Harry sees it all peripherally because he can't stop watching Malfoy's mouth in its suckable little frown.
Malfoy doesn't say anything until Ron shuts up. Then Malfoy stands by the door, arms folded across his chest, so tense Harry fights the body-bind again because if he bolts up just now, he'll get at least another kiss to help Malfoy relax, and he can't for the life of him read the changes passing over Malfoy's face.
He thinks maybe Malfoy looks sad and dazed. Dazed is good. Sad can be fixed.
"Let's try this again, shall we?" Malfoy sounds resolved and resigned. "You, Potter, have been hit with May Queen by one of my painfully incompetent staff and—I must stress this—you cannot leave this room. Do you know anything about May Queen? Anything at all? No? Of course not, you're with Dark Artefacts and you don't read the inter-squad reports. Merlin fuck." Malfoy rubs a hand over his face. Harry's fascinated by the knobs of his wrist. He wonders how Malfoy's wrist looks stroking through a wank, whether Malfoy does everything with his own efficient grace. "The crash course, then, just for you: think liquid Imperio in a lust potion base. Beltane special, yeah?"
Ron says something. Harry doesn't care what. He's not the one Harry needs and by now, Harry thinks that much should be clear.
Malfoy looks conflicted. He glances at Ron—Malfoy-stealing traitor, what?—and shakes his head and says, "Better, Weasley. They've bunged up this batch. As far as I can tell, they've swapped out at least some of the Ashwinder Eggs for Mackled Malaclaw. Don't ask me why." Malfoy looks back at Harry—yes yes good, Harry's stomach settles again—and quite nearly smiles. It's not one really but it's close enough. "I was working on that when Potter broke out."
Malfoy loves potions, it's practically his whole life, and the thought that Harry's pulled him away from it even for a little while feels like victory, better than any Snitch Harry's ever caught.
For someone who can't get a word out that's not muffled beyond sense, Ron has a lot to say. If Harry could move, he'd frown.
"You and Potter stay here. I'll be back when I've some preliminary results on what we're dealing with, yeah?"
Then Malfoy's off again and Harry's stuck with Ron, who can't get a word out Harry understands but who still seems to think this is a good time for a chat.
Ron's so earnest about whatever he's saying, when he's not casting frantic looks at the door or scowling at nothing in particular, that Harry lets him ramble for what feels like ages before he starts willing his way out of the straps.
This time, Harry skips the kissing, goes straight to the marks, because if he's going to be hauled off and body-bound and whatnot, babbled at by Ron and stuffed behind a door, he's going to make sure everybody who does get to stay around Malfoy understands.
Sod reception class, sharing's wrong.
And anyway, once he starts, he can't stop. Malfoy shivers back into him, just trembles a little in the bracket of Harry's arms, and the sounds he makes when Harry sinks his teeth into that smooth, salty skin make Harry want to start tearing at his robes, maybe plough home right there. He can't even be bothered worrying about the crowd, because maybe they'll see bits of Malfoy only Harry ever should but they'll also know for certain where Malfoy belongs, why Harry's the only one who should ever be allowed to touch him from now on.
Malfoy says, "Potter," slow and careful, like he's pushed it between his teeth, and Harry likes teeth so he uses his again, worries at the lobe of Malfoy's ear and sucks-licks-tugs, and Malfoy says, "Right, yeah, Singh, I can't reach my wand," and Harry doesn't get that until he's back in a body-bind and there's none of Malfoy in the spell.
Ron's scowling a lot more.
Harry spends a while Stunned.
When he comes to, there's no Malfoy and Ron's taken over Malfoy's visitor's chair, feet propped up on Malfoy's desk, scowling at Harry like he thinks he can fix this through sheer bloody-minded will.
Like there's anything wrong.
Every time Harry so much as twitches against the body-bind, Ron's hand goes to his wand.
It's taking absolute ages for Malfoy to come back. Harry spends most of it praying-willing-hoping the people around him will respect the marks.
Harry doesn't want to brag or anything but he's shut down a Dark Lord. He has absolutely no problems shutting down anyone who can't keep their hands to themselves.
By the time Malfoy does come back, he looks like hell. Gleaming, gorgeous, lickable hell. He's obviously been mucking about with his hair—stress, likely, and Harry can think of a dozen better ways for Malfoy to use his hands—so it's all wild and messed-about-with—Harry has a horrible moment of thinking it looks just-shagged and no, not on, does he have to hex a bitch, honestly—and his robes are creased and stained and when he musters up a smallish smile for Harry, Harry melts.
"Well done, Potter. You've stayed put."
Harry's grown tired of fighting the body-binds and getting Stunned but just seeing Malfoy is enough to amp him up again, have him pushing the boundaries of the restraint spell, trying to enforce his own will over his limbs. He wants to touch Malfoy all over, tug him close and show him how much Harry appreciates all his hard work, maybe coax a little of that exhaustion off, too, but honestly, right now, he'd settle for a smile.
The official MLE body-bind spell's never seemed like torture before but all Harry can do is breathe and blink and be and tonight, that's not enough.
Ron blah blah blahs, cranes his neck to look at Malfoy over his shoulder and Malfoy shakes his head slightly, pointedly stares at Harry and gestures at him with his chin.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Weasley, but I need to talk to him alone."
Alone? Harry's mind hangs on the word, fits and starts of imagining the things they could do. Malfoy draping himself on Harry's lap, splaying a hand on Harry's chest to steady himself as he sinks down on Harry's dick, rocking slow and easy and sweet as Malfoy lets Harry back at his mouth for as long as he wants. Malfoy bending Harry over his desk, shoving the reports and bric-a-brac aside to make room, too impatient or restless for spells, just two spit-slicked fingers and rucked-up robes and Malfoy stretching Harry so Malfoy can push home, the two of them rocking-restless-needy, coming with Malfoy's chest at his back, Malfoy's teeth leaving divots in Harry's neck. Harry can't think of anything he wants more than Malfoy marking him, too, telling the whole world where Harry belongs.
When Harry blinks his way out of the pleasures of his own head, Malfoy's crouched low beside his chair, practically eye-to-eye.
He puts a hand on Harry's arm. Harry thinks his toes ought to curl.
"Potter, I need you to focus on what I'm about to say. Not just listen because you, I don't know, like how I sound, but actually think about the words, all right? I shouldn't even be doing this because there's a compulsion element to May Queen and if you were anyone else, that would mean you're not of sound mind. Only, it's you, isn't it? And we both know you can throw off compulsion spells and I think maybe, if you really work at it, you can throw this off, too." Malfoy's speaking so softly, so gently, like he thinks Harry might break, and yet again, Harry's frustrated by the body-bind, by everything he can't say or do.
Malfoy's brows knit slightly, patient concern. "Do you understand that?"
Harry tries to explain everything, the absolute frustration of the body-bind, and he has to do it with his eyes and Malfoy's just absolutely incredible because he seems to understand. "Right, yeah, restraints. All right, we'll try this, then. I'll take them off and ask you not to move, because I don't want you to move a muscle, Potter, I want you just as you are and we'll see if you can."
And that's somehow worse, because even when the body-bind fades, Harry doesn't want to move, Malfoy's said that's what he wants more than anything and Harry wants Malfoy to feel good, wants Malfoy happy and pleased with him so he won't send Harry away and he'll let Harry touch him and lick him and see how he wanks, and all Harry's wanted for the past however-long is to touch Malfoy, so.
It's a conundrum.
At least Harry can move his face again, which is a relief. He's tired of looking Stunned, though he supposes helpless frustration's likely worse.
"What is this?" Harry manages, because for all he's heard May Queen and compulsion and whatnot, he's never felt like this, a hundred times worse than any Imperio he's ever thrown off, and what Malfoy really wants from him just now is for Harry to think like an Auror.
Malfoy looks worried. For Harry's sake? Harry wants to slide to his knees for sheer gratitude that Malfoy's made Harry his whole world. Just, Malfoy's said not to move.
"A stupid mistake. Yet another for the list of Muggle Appreciation Day-related cock-ups. Proof hiring Hufflepuffs is doomed to fail. Take your pick, really."
"Muggle Appre—what?" Harry shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on something that's not how good Malfoy looks. "No, I mean what the hell is going on? Liquid Imperio? Since when is that even possible, Malfoy?"
"Since idiots with wands discovered the big Muggle festival of one-offs and thought they'd cook themselves up something special to make sure they didn't spend it alone. Honestly, Potter, do you not read any of the reports? We've been chasing down May Queen for years. Just, evidently, the dose Cullen spilled on you wasn't made right."
When he's not looking at Malfoy, when he actually focuses on the badge and all the training he's put in to keeping Dark Artefacts out of the wrong hands, it does feel odd. He can pinpoint the compulsion, he thinks, and it's something new to fight. "Dark Artefacts, Malfoy. I'm not exactly required to be read in on the illegal potions rings."
"Potter, I mean it, I don't want your hands up," Malfoy says oddly, insistent and tense. Harry looks up from between the fingers he's pushed in under his glasses for a wry stare.
"Can do what I'd like, thanks. Isn't that the point?" Which is when Harry realises he's moved. Not to touch Malfoy, which still seems like a pretty brilliant plan, really, but he's out of the body-bind, so. Oh. Huh. "Do you think this counts? I know what you said, yeah, but I know what you meant, as well." This, Harry moving about in his chair but not doing anything else, Harry sliding back into the job, that's what Malfoy's hoping for. Proof Harry's not still May Queen'd off his nut.
"Well, that's your annual intelligent thought, then," Malfoy mutters and yeah, that's the prick Harry knows. "Since we both know the last thing I want is to have to spend what's left of my night down here sorting out how to save your sorry arse and we seem, however temporarily, to be working toward similar goals, what do you suggest? Because if you can't shake it off, Potter, I'll be honest: I've no clue how long it'll last."
Harry thinks about how he's been all night, the patience of Malfoy's explanation and the sheer frustration of the body-binds, the bloody pining for just a look and the brilliant sensation of being Malfoy's whole world, the sharpness of Malfoy's words and the softness of his mouth.
The way Harry never quits while he's ahead and evidently, that's something they share because Malfoy's still crouched ridiculously close and yeah, Harry's got a plan.
It's probably a terrible idea, which is why he thinks it'll work.
He reaches out, hooks Malfoy in with a broad palm on his neck, and pulls him for another go at his mouth. It's still ridiculously good, more fun still through Malfoy's muffled squawk. Harry has to force himself not to smile victoriously when Malfoy stops being a berk and just kisses back, which is the first good thing he's likely ever done with that mouth and yeah, Harry could do this for years.
Harry's hand slides down, around Malfoy's neck, over all those marks he's left through the night and down to fist a grip on Malfoy's stained robes. For the first time all night, possibly in years, Harry owns Malfoy's attention like he hasn't done since they were in school and for all his frustration, he's not letting go. He mangles Malfoy's mouth as he yanks Malfoy up, pins the git against his own bookcase and holds his wrists up over his head.
It's possibly malicious use of potions-induced research to work Malfoy's neck over until he makes those little needy sounds again but they're music to Harry's ears. Malfoy's hot and hard, damp with sweat from hovering over bubbling cauldrons all night, and he smells just a little like he's been hit with the bad end of a sour ingredients shelf, but he's so bloody easy when Harry wedges a thigh against his dick, it makes Harry's night.
Something rattles on Malfoy's bookcase when Harry starts grinding into Malfoy's hip. Something falls. Harry rests his temple on Malfoy's, forehead to scar, and breathes heavy as he pulls at Malfoy's robes. He could seriously get addicted to Malfoy's hot flush, the blown-wrecked-blissed out look on Malfoy's pointy face.
"Potter, if this is the May Queen—" Malfoy starts and Harry rebukes him with a glare, rakes his hands roughly down Malfoy's chest, nails catching Malfoy's nipples on the way. Malfoy's breath catches, too, just then, so Harry does it again.
"Shut it," Harry tells him in case the git's somehow unclear.
"No, Potter, you don't want this," Malfoy says, teeth clenched like he's pained, which is just wrong when he's so utterly gagging for it, too.
"Need it in Parseltongue? Shut. Up."
Then Harry's back at Malfoy's mouth, hard as he can, to keep Malfoy quiet and needy and whimpering while Harry works on the handjob he's been thinking about all night.
Malfoy's got to be getting close, rutting up into Harry's hand, head thrown back and eyes closed tight, and when Malfoy looks at him again, lays his head on Harry's cheek and says, "I'm so sorry, Potter, I honestly tried," he sounds so broken, Harry has to kiss him one last time, rough and sweet and almost violent with things he can't say.
Then Harry pulls back entirely and says, "Enjoy your blue balls."
It's the hardest walk Harry's taken in ages, heading out of Malfoy's labs without looking back.
That has absolutely nothing to do with May Queen.
He Accios the file from the administrivia witch's archives on his way out. It's four hours of reading he doesn't entirely understand, likely won't until he's checked with Hermione or Malfoy or Ron, but there's enough there to think about through the small hours of the night.
If this is how field Aurors spend the lead-up to Muggle Appreciation Day, hunting down the arseholes who'd brew up rape potions and call them party drinks, clearly Harry needs to get off his Dark Artefacts high horse and pitch in, spend his down time between cases helping out in the field.
Because yeah, there's a rush on cursed objects—particularly aimed at the Muggle world—for the statutory holiday the Ministry's intended to help Purebloods bridge the culture gap but next to something to compel an ideal 'mate' at the Beltane fires, what's a few charmed sex toys?
Harry thinks about the victims, the criminals and their crimes, because thinking about Malfoy stings.
Harry hopes that goes away soon or it's going to be pretty bloody awkward at work for a while.
Ron drags him out for drinks the next night, then the next and the next, like he's at all being subtle about surveying Harry's mental health. Hasn't done it this badly in years but Harry plays along, kicks around Ron's back yard for a six-pack and a game of chess and lets Ron talk him into calmness.
When he heads in for the gents, he pretends he doesn't hear Pansy Weasley trying to talk Malfoy through the Floo.
For the first time since Ron's promotion to department head, they stop talking about work after hours. No batting around theories, no water cooler tales, not so much as a single wisecrack at a co-worker's expense.
They steadfastly refuse to discuss Harry's run-in with May Queen, though Harry never gets notice that he's due at the Auror's psychological evaluation witch so maybe Ron understands that Harry needs to sort this one out on his own.
Malfoy's name doesn't come up at all.
Harry's running over the details of his last case—Green Man Distributers, Merlin help him—in the sanctity of Ron's office, getting called out on the phrasing he's kept vague in his report. Ron's flushed scarlet trying not to laugh, which Harry absolutely understands because really, he could have gone his whole career without having to fend off rampaging sex toys, and Harry's doing his level best to explain with a straight face.
"If they're sex toys, mate, just say so," Ron says, then immediately bites his lip because yeah, it's impossible not to picture the misadventures of that report.
"That's the thing, though. They weren't." Harry's not traumatised by the whole thing, unlike the first Auror on the scene, but for the sake of his temper, he's not thinking about what might have happened had magical law enforcement not stumbled on the stash. Dark humour comes with the job but it's a fine line. "Ordinary produce to a one."
Ron's brows pitch high as his laugh. "Produce?" He rubs the back of his neck and shakes his head. "You're joking."
Harry shakes his, too. "I wish. Perverting the food supply. And yet. Judging by quantities, there's a fair cry for your more phallic shapes. Carrots and broccoli and the like."
"Carrots and…" Ron shivers hard. "Carrots I think I might actually understand, but broccoli? For the love of Merlin, why?"
"Depends," Malfoy says from the door, pitching in like he always has. Did. Before. Ron looks up at him; Harry keeps his gaze trained on the report spread out on Ron's desk. The things he needs to say to Malfoy have no business coming out in the course of a workday.
"On what?" Ron challenges and yeah, before there was a stupid potion making Malfoy glow, this is how it was, the three of them getting on professionally like the Sorting Hat's wet dream, bouncing ideas off each other, backing each other up. It's why they were in Malfoy's labs to begin with, why Harry can't remember being read-in before Cullen stumbled as he passed by and spilled half a phial of sample on Harry's robes.
So Harry's not surprised, exactly, that Malfoy wouldn't knock any more than he's surprised that Malfoy would pipe up with his thoughts. They've been doing a bang-up job of avoiding each other so far but eventually, it had to end and for as awkward as this is, it could be worse.
Doesn't mean Harry needs to look at him yet.
"What you're after, I'd think," Malfoy says. "Bit of Engorgio, bit of lube, it's not all that different than the standard plastic fare."
"Well, it does have that textured head." Ron chews the thought. Harry twitches his fingers to rustle the report, a scurrilous abuse of his wandless skills but quite likely the only way to get Ron off that particular train of thought. "Make a decent anal plug, I reckon."
Too late. Harry's thrown a dirty look at Malfoy before he can help himself.
Malfoy looks like hell, like he hasn't left his labs since Beltane Eve and doesn't expect to anytime soon. Harry resolutely refuses to search out his marks. To that end, he turns back to Ron, who's rubbing his chin thoughtfully and murmuring idly about the contents of his lunch.
Pansy's packed him a salad. Harry suspects he'll be heading to the canteen.
"I'll come back," Malfoy says as Ron muses the Engorgio necessary to make kinky use of asparagus—"I hate those and she won't stop buying them"—and Harry twists around a little to put his elbow up on the back of his chair.
"I don't think so. Now you've started him, he'll be like this all day."
Malfoy's leaning against Ron's door, nothing but the standard privacy spell keeping the whole of the office from hearing what's going on in here, but Harry can't give a rat's arse about being caught out laughing it up with the boss when Malfoy looks so dead on his feet. Most Auror divisions calm down once Muggle Appreciation Day's been and gone, though Harry supposes it's a bit different in the forensics labs.
Still, he's never seen Malfoy this bad.
"He keeps that up, I'll be off food for days," Malfoy counters with a slight lift of his chin. His smile doesn't reach both sides of his mouth, let alone his eyes, and more than anything, that's what makes up Harry's mind.
"Right, well, strategic retreat?"
Malfoy looks relieved. "Before he starts on about whipped cream and, I don't know, roasted chickens or something? Sounds like a plan to me."
Harry thumps a congenial hand on Ron's desk, grateful for the reprieve. "My love to Pansy, good luck sorting out your grocery list."
Ron looks up, startled, nearly blind in thought. "You think it'd hold up through a vibration spell? Or would there be green bits all over, d'you think?"
"Weasley, don't be ridiculous," Malfoy volleys. "They'd clean right up with a charm."
"Harry, you hear anything about how well they worked?"
Harry's already well past his chair, nearly half to the door, so he throws a hand up over his shoulder in an absent sort of wave and promises Ron it's all there in his report.
As he slides by Malfoy, so close, too close, he swears he feels Malfoy's fingers flutter over his wrist. Harry slows down, a deliberate rub of chests that puts them nose-to-nose, and when Malfoy's lashes flutter against his cheeks, Harry says, "So, did you?" pitched low for Malfoy's ears.
Malfoy looks at him then, grey eyes ringed with dark smudges of lost sleep. "What matters is, it worked."
Harry's mindful of Ron still at his desk, aware they're visible to the whole of the Aurors office, as well, but he can't keep from resting his knuckles on the doorframe by Malfoy's ear, thumbing over where he's almost certain he remembers leaving a mark.
He knows he's right by what that touch does to Malfoy's face, shuttering softness and exhaustion behind a cool, calm mask.
"Too right it did," Harry agrees, and he's off before he can do anything else.
Harry loses badly at chess and ploughs through Ron's beer two more nights before Pansy snaps.
"I don't care what you two think you're doing, you're not doing it anymore," she says, dark eyes flashing something perilously close to Ginny with a Bat-Bogey Hex on her tongue. "You sort this out or I will go Weasley on you both. Am I clear?"
Somewhere in the whole unfortunate mess of growing up, Harry's actually developed a fondness for Pansy Weasley, who can cast a Sobrietus like nobody's business and who's gone toe-to-toe with Molly over prospective grandkids without fail since her wedding day. She takes no shit from anyone, not even Ron, and she's ridiculously loyal to her friends, which evidently includes Harry and has for some time. So she's as much doing this for Malfoy, which she obviously is, as she is doing it for Harry, as well, because, Merlin knows, she and Hermione have had whole weekends sorting out how to run the men's lives.
Harry considers all of that. Considers, too, what he's seen her do with that wand, let alone when full-on Weasleying's involved.
He drops a kiss on her forehead. Says, "Erm, I'd hide the veg for a while, maybe lay off the salads. Give him time to forget," and then he's off before she can dark-eye-flash him into explaining what he means.
Malfoy's hiding in his labs. Or, well, working, probably, but he's hiding, too.
"Cooper, touch that cauldron without washing your hands and a lack of employment will be the least of your concerns," Malfoy says without looking up and one of the minions sort of flinches a bit and scurries back to the scrub-up station, hands near his chin. Malfoy doesn't stop stirring whatever he's got on the go, just rolls his eyes and sighs, a pale, pointy Snape in Ministry robes.
Situation as normal if Malfoy weren't such a walking, working corpse.
Malfoy's wicked henchwitch, Singh, shakes her hand and waves her hands, desperate or close to it, to get Harry through the door. Malfoy calls her his right hand and keeps trying to make her official title 'Chief Administrator of Sense' and she's never been half bad, really, only she's been around Malfoy too long and he's best known in the department for making good Aurors cry, so Harry's not prepared to give her any ground.
In ten years, she'll be every bit the terror Pansy Weasley is but just now, she's deputy division head and Harry's got her outranked.
He flashes her a grin that makes her flinch and steps past her on his way to Malfoy's workspace.
Harry can tell when Malfoy figures out he's there because Malfoy's whole body goes stiff and straight, a deliberate pause that says he's not sure how this is meant to go, either. Malfoy says carefully, "Potter, you complete berk," calm and detached, and then there's a barrage of lab safety spells coming at Harry from all sides, Bubblehead Charms and Protegos and the like.
"What, am I not welcome down here anymore?"
"This is karmic payback, I know it," Malfoy mutters before he swivels in his chair, a pale, pointy Snape with an absolutely hilarious glare. Harry's missed this, dropping by to arse Malfoy off, pestering him out of the labs when he's worked too much, almost as much as he's missed that mouth.
"Oh, yeah, absolutely." Harry props a hip on Malfoy's workstation perilously close to his chopping board but at least he's got leverage to lean in, hover over Malfoy just exactly as he wants. Malfoy can't seem to look away. "So. It's come to my attention I've held off filing my lab incident report."
It hasn't, actually, in that no one gives a rat's arse about what goes on in the labs save the administrivia witch collating the stats; so long as Malfoy's team's keeping the department's solve rate through the roof, everyone just overlooks the occasional mishap. Still, any excuse in a storm, really. Harry's not getting into it with all of forensics looking on.
"Don't need to. I've done mine." Harry has to force himself to stay where he is through Malfoy's arch look. "Keep your arse out of my magical signature trace or you'll be writing that up instead."
The magical signature trace smells vile. Harry leans in closer anyway just to be sure he's not losing Malfoy's attention back to the job. "We need to talk." Malfoy's nose wrinkles. Harry bites down on a grin. "Yeah, I know, but we do. Call it a follow-up if you'd like."
"All right, Potter, wreck what's left of my zen. When and where?"
"No sense putting it off. Yours, mine, or scene of the crime?" Harry tips his head towards Malfoy's office door.
"Mine, I think. It'll be so much more satisfying when I kick you out." If Harry honestly thought he meant it, he might have been concerned. Instead, he hands Malfoy the wand lying abandoned beside his chopping board and straightens up.
It's meant to be impossible to Apparate in or out of the MLE forensics labs, one of many failsafes built into the quarantine protocols, but Malfoy's only just got enough time to ask Singh to finish up his signature trace before Harry's pulling him away in a Side-Along.
Malfoy's flat looks disconcertingly like the Room of Requirement before the Fiendfyre, cluttered and dusty and mostly ignored. Malfoy's fastidious in his labs but clearly, he's not home much. Harry catches glimpses of it, impressions, really, over Malfoy's shoulder while he's pulling Malfoy properly into his arms, working one broad hand in to lift Malfoy's chin.
"I'm not on May Queen anymore," Harry says and while Malfoy's wide-eyed and processing that bit, Harry ducks in to taste Malfoy's mouth without the taint of illegal potions confusing things.
It's not the same, obviously, but it's good enough, awkward and sloppy and real, a hundred times better when Malfoy kisses back.
When Malfoy pulls back, he's got his own hand cup-clutching Harry's neck and his breathing's ragged as Harry's pulse. "You're certain?"
"Unless you've some bizarre kink you'd like to share, I'd think the blue balls ought to have cleared that up. Can you honestly tell me you didn't want me to stay?"
"If it meant getting you back to your right mind, I'd have taken worse."
Merlin fuck, Harry needs to steady himself, beat back the Bludgers kicking about his gut. "Promise I'm sane now."
Malfoy squints up at him with an arch, cutting look. "I have it on good authority you're the definition of berk. I was just hoping you'd get back to your regular sort of git."
"Is this a good time to tell you I've left broccoli on Ron's desk all week?" He hasn't, actually, but he definitely would have done if he hadn't had more pressing concerns. "Anonymously, of course."
Malfoy blinks. It's delicious, what surprise does to his mouth. "That's at least a seven on the Potter Gitness Scale."
The look Malfoy gives him then, long and hot and intense, says seven's good as a go.
Malfoy kisses the world cock-eyed, a tangle of wretched-smelling lab robes Harry can't peel off Malfoy fast enough and that quick, clever mouth, the restless clutch of Malfoy's long fingers shifting like he's not sure what he wants to touch most. Harry's not entirely aware they're moving until they hit the bed and then, well, at least he's got a reasonable grasp on which way's up.
That would be the squirming arsehole pinning Harry down to molest him at length.
Harry's more than happy to go along for the ride until Malfoy Accios something that's patently not lube. Harry knows because he intercepts the bottle as it zips in from somewhere down the hall—and really, who keeps lube anywhere but next to the bed?—and when he's popped the top off, Malfoy pulls it out of his hands and swallows it back like a shot.
He flushes almost puce, scrunches his face like it burns.
Harry grabs at him when Malfoy shudders himself off-balance on the bed.
"Did you just drink the lube?" Harry hopes not but honestly, who knows? Malfoy's really bloody tired; possibly he did.
"Pepper-Up, Potter, I've slept six hours in three days; like hell I'm sleeping through this," and Harry wants to point out there's no smoke and Malfoy's hand flaps blind and he says, "Smokeless Pepper-Up, made it myself," and the blind flapping turns into yanking on Harry's robes and yeah, Harry recognises that taste when it licks over his tongue.
Six hours in three days sounds like Malfoy needs a keeper to drag him out of the labs. Harry's definitely up for the job, though if Malfoy's always this frantic-pushy with need, there's potential in having him sleep-deprived and wired on Pepper-Up, too.
No other word for it, Malfoy just attacks. Harry's robes won't ever be the same. Harry might argue but what Malfoy's doing to his nipples—total, merciless tease—is stealing Harry's words and from the sounds they're both making, he doesn't really want them back.
It's hilarious, actually, watching Malfoy fight his own robes off. He gets an arm wedged in funny because he won't slow down long enough to so much as loosen them at the neck and Harry's only holding in snickers because Malfoy's trying so hard.
Then Malfoy clunks himself with an elbow hard enough for Harry to hear the flesh connect and Malfoy growls and whatever spell he mutters makes what he's done to Harry's work clothes look tame.
All of Malfoy's so pale, Harry swears it's its own kind of white and about the time Harry registers his appreciation for how Malfoy's not glowing anymore, he spots the remains of a mark in the meat of Malfoy's collarbone and for all he's intended to let Malfoy have at Harry like Harry's had at him, Harry can't stop himself from worrying just there, working it over between his teeth until Malfoy's incredibly hot hissing sinks in.
Malfoy doesn't Accio lube, he just takes Harry's hand by the wrist and licks slowly over Harry's palm. It's hotter than it should be but it can't match the Incendio going on in Malfoy's stare, the way his just looking feels like a brand.
He's still staring Harry down when he reaches between them to line their cocks up for what might be the best wank Harry's ever had.
Harry touches Malfoy's mouth, finds two fingers sucked in for a filthy-gorgeous show, and for all Harry's wondered about the knobs of Malfoy's wrist moving through a wank, he can't stop watching his fingers disappear to pet Malfoy's tongue.
Malfoy's fist feels amazing. His tongue feels unreal. Harry's holding it together mostly—he thinks—until Malfoy slinks down him and spreads Harry's thighs, turns his attention to Harry's arsehole with the sort of intensity that steals Harry's sounds, leaves him panting and squirming for the spit-slicked finger Malfoy's rubbing over the tight knot of muscle relaxing to the touch. Harry manages incoherent babbling without vowels when Malfoy's worked three fingers into him and Harry's worked out how to fuck himself on them but Malfoy ignores Harry's dick to bite the inside of Harry's thigh hard enough to bruise and Harry's hips snap up hard and Malfoy murmurs, "That's it, so good, just let me," and he's hooking his hands under Harry's arsecheeks, spreading and lifting and lining himself up and it's all Harry can do not to buck up pathetically through the burn-stretch of Malfoy's dick pushing in.
There's a lot of lip-biting and sounds Harry's going to do his level best to forget he's made but what's going to stick with him is the way Malfoy flushes, the way Malfoy strains, the slide of sweat and semen as Malfoy breaks, all that tension slipping away when Malfoy comes and the blunt pressure of Malfoy's teeth in his shoulder that drags Harry over, too.
From there, it's all a sweaty, sticky heap and a much-needed crash.
Malfoy fits into the crook of Harry's side, his head on Harry's shoulder, one hand splayed over Harry's chest. He's asleep in seconds, stupid workaholic git, but at least Harry's got a chance to mess his hair up some more, trace his fingertips over all the pale points of Malfoy's face, and even the terror of the MLE looks angelic in sleep.
Harry wakes up to Malfoy's mouth on his dick, working Harry hard and rough and over while he's still mostly asleep and honestly, for that kind of wake-up, Harry's willing to forgive the hour.
They talk about nothing. How Pansy's never going to let them live this down. How much fun they'll have telling Ron. How likely anyone who knows them both has seen this coming for years, and won't they be shocked it's not as rage-sex-y as all that, and how yes, by extension, Harry's just inherited Malfoy's ability to make good Aurors cry.
Malfoy swears it's a perk of the job. When Harry thinks about it, he can see how it might be, at that. He's looking forward to trying it out on Malfoy's lab staff.
"At the risk of sounding sappish, I'm glad you were looking at me." Harry's never seen him smile like that, bright and sweet and real. Sure, it turns smirkish when he gets that arsehole gleam in his eyes but for a moment, it knocks Harry on his arse, just twists-jerks-owns something in Harry's chest.
If this is anything like how his dad felt about his mum, Lily Evans was doomed. Harry can't imagine ever letting go if one smile can do that.
Then Malfoy snorts and snickers, smile twisting to a smirk with the dawn of the arsehole gleam in his eye. "Imagine if you'd been looking at Weasley when the May Queen took hold?"
Harry frowns. "I was."
He loses Malfoy to a potions-feral fit, a baffled, rambling counter that no, no, that's not how May Queen works, it's instant lust for whoever you see first, and Malfoy's on about Mackled Malaclaw and luck and Harry being mistaken, of course, and Harry has to grab his wrists again, curl his fingers over those knobs until Malfoy's blinking at him, deliciously confused.
"Potter, I know how this works."
"Might've been looking at Ron just then but I promise, I've been watching you for months. Just, you didn't seem all that interested in watching back." Harry's careful, so careful, to let Malfoy know it's not a joke.
He's expecting to hear about how Slytherins are just a hundred times better at hiding these sorts of things. Instead, Malfoy says just as careful, "Months?"
Harry sort of shrugs. "Ages, yeah. Years, feels like." He rubs his thumb over the inside of Malfoy's wrist to keep him calm and sweet, to ward off that scathing wit. He adores it usually, yeah, but that's not what either of them need to hear right now. "Malfoy, I've been watching you for what feels like my whole life. Can't be surprising that I'd like what I see."
Malfoy's eyes close. His face contorts like he's working something through, something Harry can only guess at for now. "Not bad luck, good," Malfoy says quietly—Harry hopes to himself because honestly, potions-feral again—and "Like bloody Felix Felicis," and yeah, Harry's not parsing that, either, and "not lust, love," and his eyes are open again, fixed on Harry's like that's all he ever needs to say and yeah, all right, Harry gets it now.
"Sounds about right," Harry says because he can't leave Malfoy hanging now and there's more kissing and a slow, sticky mess, Malfoy tracking down his dusty lube and coaxing Harry open with three slicked fingers so he can push in and even before Malfoy's found the angle to do wicked things to Harry's prostate with his cock, Harry's thanking Merlin for his ill-timed incident in the labs.
When they tell Ron, he adds a fourth item to the complaints policy posted on his wall.
1. I did not hire Draco Malfoy.
2. I cannot fire Draco Malfoy.
3. I don't want to hear it unless there's blood.
4. There's no crying in the Aurors.
Harry doesn't need a complaints policy; everyone in Wizardom seems to know.
Just in case, though, he makes a point of leaving marks.