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I heard the rumours.
‘The sweetest arse I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Can take three at once.’
‘A perfect little cockslut.’
Absurd. Too good to be true. I didn’t believe them.
I meet Theo in Knockturn, at Seb’s. The bar is shit. Cramped, with sticky floors and crumbling plaster, at least four drunken brawls a night. But the drinks are strong, the music’s loud, and there’s always a line of pretty boys snaking down the pavement.
And I do love a pretty boy.
Theo’s sat at the bar, an empty tumbler in one hand, a cigarette in the other.
He doesn’t say hello, doesn’t even give the vodka a chance to hit my bloodstream.
“Have you heard about The Arse?”
Said with a smile. Sharp, calculating.
“The Arse?” Like we’re talking about the sodding Queen. I need at least four more drinks—Theo’s absolutely wretched to deal with sober.
“That’s what they call him,” he says.
“Is that so?” I ask, feigning ignorance.
It doesn’t work.
He takes a drag off his cigarette, smoke unfurling from his nostrils, eyes never leaving my face. “Shall we compare notes?”
I sigh. “If you insist. All I’ve heard is a load of Hippogriff shit.”
“Maybe,” he says, finishing his cigarette. “Maybe not.”
He’s baiting me; it’s so obvious that I can’t stop my eyes from rolling. I down the rest of my drink, motion to the bartender, and order a double vodka tonic. With Theo speaking in riddles—it’s going to be a long fucking night.
I keep my mouth shut, refusing to indulge in his melodramatics.
Theo, utterly predictable, soon bores of my silence.
“They say he works at the Ministry.”
I snort, a reflex. “That narrows it down.” In the years since the War, every wix and their mother has been vying for a position with the Ministry—those naïve enough to believe the government’s empty promises, and those amoral enough to see a goldmine under the guise of reconstruction.
Theo leans in, his voice dropping. “Apparently in the DMLE.”
If true, it would be marginally less dull. But—
“Like I said—a steaming pile of Hippogriff shit.” However many Aurors there are that I would love to make beg for my cock, or beg for bloody mercy, it can’t be true. I try to imagine Dawlish, arse in the air—it’s as unbelievable as it is nauseating.
Theo though… Theo can smell blood in the water.
“I’ve heard, on good authority no less—” his grin widens, teeth a shocking white like the serrated edge of a knife “—that it’s Harry Potter.”
He’s baiting me. I know it, and still, I swallow it whole.
Hook. Line. Sinker.
The very next day, I open the Prophet to a smiling photograph of an obscenely pregnant Mrs Ginevra Weasley-Potter.
A fortnight passes. I can’t work. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I think of Harry Potter and nothing else.
There’s a nondescript door and a password, ‘apricot marmalade.’ It’s less of a club than I imagined, and more a seedy bar. It’s early, barely half seven, and it’s near enough to crowded. Most everyone milling around, sat on sofas or perched on barstools, is obscured by a glamour. I can’t be bothered. Every terrible thing I’ve ever done is public record.
I avoid the bar, even though I’m desperate for a drink. The lick of Fiendfyre in my veins, the bite of cheap tequila, alcohol, any and all of it, would help. I’m on edge, liable to crawl out of my skin with the slightest provocation.
But I shouldn’t. I won’t. If it’s really Potter… just the thought makes me dizzy, intoxicated.
And if it’s not… then I’ll find comfort at the bottom of a bottle.
There’s a dark hallway lined with doors. A few are ajar, intimate splinters of light guiding my footsteps. Given that his reputation has preceded him, I know which door to slip into. I’m surprised there’s not a queue.
Any doubt that it’s Potter evaporates the moment I step into the room. I’ve only just crossed the threshold and I know. Every cell in my body vibrates at the same frequency. There must be magical dampening wards because how anyone else can’t feel it, can’t feel him, is beyond me.
Though, I suppose, no one knows Potter as well as I do.
It’s complicated, our history. I’ve loved and hated him in equal measure. The one constant has been my desire. I have always, always wanted to have him, in any and every way possible.
Now, the moment’s here, and as I should have known, I’m overcome.
I suck in a shallow breath, my lungs feeling too small, my brain starved of oxygen. My knees hit the floor. After all these weeks of hoping…
I almost spare a charitable thought for the betrayed wife, but there’s no room for her here. I should care. I don’t.
The room’s divided, a stark black wall cutting the room in half; in the wall there’s a hole, and in the hole there’s an arse.
It’s a beautiful arse. Plump and firm, with a dusting of dark hair, all clad in soft pink lace. And it’s not just any arse.
It’s Harry Potter’s arse, gorgeous and vulnerable and mine for the taking.
It’s heady. Overwhelming. I can hardly think around the fervour of my desire.
Fortunately, I’m not so gone that I don’t remember to ward the door. I don’t want any interruptions.
I stand, legs shaking, and make my way forward. Each step is like a lifetime. Finally, I make it. I rest, hands pressed to the wall, and breathe.
The wall is a new kind of magic, one I haven’t seen before. I can feel it under my palms, impenetrable.
I have to wonder if the wall is as unyielding to him as it is to me, if he can see me. I hope he can.
I breathe in. I breathe out. In and out. In and out.
I let Potter fill all my senses until I am consumed.
My fingertips graze the sheer lace, tracing the swirls and patterns, lingering at the edges, reveling in the warmth of his brown skin. He must be on his back, and I wish I could reach through the wall and touch him, feel the thick muscles of his thighs, wrap my hands around his hips. We haven’t touched in over five years, since he handed me my wand after the trials. And this is the first time I’ve touched him honestly, with the intention of pleasure, not pain.
I can’t help myself, the words escaping my mouth on a sigh. “Pretty in pink, Potter?”
I hear a shuddering gasp—whether from Potter or me, I don’t know—and everything comes into sharp focus. The goosebumps erupting under my gentle touch. The velvety smoothness of the lace clinging to his every curve. The sharp outline of his hard cock, the heft of his balls, encased in a mouthwatering pink. The whorl of his already glistening hole, open and waiting and delicate.
I am drowning in my own desperation and I claw the lace from his skin, tearing it easily. Shreds of lace fall to the floor as I kneel, pressing my hands to every millimetre of visible skin, wanting more. He smells of the earth, sharp as a lightning strike.
“Has anyone had you tonight?” I ask, knowing that only one answer will satisfy me.
“No,” he breathes, barely above a whisper.
I push my tongue into his hole and he whines. He’s slick with lube, hot and loose. He must have fucked himself open with wand calloused fingers. I imagine oil dripping down his strong hands, his breathless moans filling this room just moments before I stepped in.
It’s an indulgence, eating his arse. He could take my cock now, but I want to taste him, the salt and sweat and spice of him. I suckle at his rim, lave his arse with my tongue, bite his sumptuous skin, drink in his pleasure. And Harry Potter does not disappoint.
If I had known it could be this good, I would have dragged him into the Room of Requirement bloody ages ago. That we could have been doing this for years, and have wasted time hating each other instead, is a tragedy.
I eat him until he trembles beneath my hands, until his rim’s red and slick with spit, until I can hear him begging, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.”
It’s a testament to his arse that I haven’t thought of my own cock once, I’ve been so wholly focussed. My fingers fumble with my zip, my tongue still buried in his arse as I free my cock from my trousers and pants.
I stroke my aching cock, once, twice, and I can’t stop, the relief too profound, pushing my tongue even deeper.
“Please, please” he moans. “Fuck me, fuck me. I need it.”
And, well, who am I to deny the Chosen One?
As I stagger to my feet, my trousers pool around my knees, and I have to lean my head against the wall, drunk on him.
“Alright,” I say, more to myself than to him. “Alright.” I take a deep breath, rub my thumb over the head of my cock. “I’ll fuck you.”
It hits me then—though it’s a wonder it’s taken this long—that we are actually going to do this. I’m going to fuck Harry Potter. Despite everything, all we’ve been through, this moment feels decisive. A line, once crossed, that we can never come back from.
I cast protection charms, conjure even more lube, and press the head of my cock against his hole.
A second passes. Then another.
“Please,” he begs again. “Malfoy, please.”
He knows.
He knows it’s me and he’s begging for it—begging for me.
With one snap of my hips, I bury my cock in his arse. He cries out and I want to bottle the sound, relive it in my Pensieve every bloody day.
I hold myself still, savouring the seductive, enveloping heat while he whimpers and writhes. And, really, he is the perfect little cockslut.
I pull out, reluctantly, and let him beg. He sounds so sweet, so needy. I can’t get enough.
“Fuck—Malfoy. Pleasepleasepleaseplease.”
I fuck him—hard. He keens and I wish I could see him, the round ‘O’ of his thick lips, the redness spreading up his chest and across his dark nipples, the halo of his wild curls. I can only imagine how gorgeous he is in this moment, and not just because his arse is tight around my pistoning cock.
I fuck him and I fuck him and I fuck him.
There is nothing else in the world but this. Him and me. Us.
If I’m honest—that is how it has always been.
And as loath as I am to admit, there has never been anyone else, there never could be anyone else. Because when I’m with him, he’s all I can see.
Then, and now.
So I fuck him, and give him everything he deserves.
His neglected cock is straining against the tattered lace, and oh, how I wish I could choke on it, feel his seed sliding down my throat. Or feel it stretch me wide open, his come dripping down my thighs.
Another time perhaps.
“I’m—oh God,” he cries out and I fuck him harder, just to hear him again. And again. “Fuck. I’m close.”
I am too. To be fair, I’ve been close since I first saw his bare arse. But I want to watch him come first.
“You’re going to come for me,” I say. It’s not a request. I know Potter, and I know what he needs.
“Yesss,” he groans. “Oh fuck—”
He doesn’t touch himself. He’s going to come just from my cock. Apparently, he knows what I need as well; just the thought is electrifying.
My vision goes blurry around the edges as I whip my hips, my balls slapping his exquisite arse. “Say my name,” I growl.
“Draco,” he moans. “Draco. Draco. Draco.”
It nearly undoes me then, my name a litany on his lips as he comes, thick white ropes, messy and hot. His pleasure is irresistible, his delight in me even more so. My hard veneer cracks under the weight of his ecstasy and I tell him how pretty he is, how good, how perfect.
I would fuck him to another orgasm, deliberate and gentle, would make him come and come again, but my restraint snaps when he wraps one hand around his spent cock and sighs, “Don’t stop.”
“Your wish,” I say with another thrust, “is my command.”
I’m not a selfless man, I know little of sacrifice and have never once denied myself something I truly wanted. And I do want this, him. But there’s an exhilaration in his asking, and in my giving.
Already so close to the edge, I tumble over head first. Stars explode behind my eyes. A ravaging heat rushes through me; triumph and euphoria coalescing, alighting me from within. It’s more than rapture. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
So, the rumours about The Arse weren’t really rumours after all.
I finish with a groan, hands and face pressed to that blasted wall keeping me from him.
My softening cock slips out, and I slide three fingers into his well-used hole. I finger him, gently, come coating my hand. I want him to feel it. I want every man who comes after to know I was here. And though it makes no sense, my brain not yet caught up with my cock, I want everyone to know who he really belongs to.
Because, there is no doubt, Harry Potter is mine.
When I finally crawl into bed and sleep, my dreams are jumbled, confusing. When I wake, all I remember is flying, the Scottish countryside unrolling beneath me, and Potter at my back.
It’s half nine and I’m sat at my desk, stirring sugar into my first cup of tea when the owl arrives. She nips my fingers when she takes the proffered owl treat, and drops a plain white envelope onto my mahogany desk.
It’s unmarked. All the same, I know who it’s from.
I open it, and a pair of pink lace knickers falls into my hands. They’re sticky with come, and when I press them to my face, every moment from last night comes rushing back.
There’s a note.
Same time next week.
xx H