Chapter Text
“But with everyone watching us, our every move
We do have reputations
We keep it secret
Won’t let them have it,”
- Mitski
(Once More to See You)
Potter’s floo always tastes of ash.
Draco has to bite it back every time he arrives, even when it lingers in his mouth, dry and bitter, like his mood always is on nights like these.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Potter asks from his place on the sofa. It’s customary, after all.
“Shut up,” Draco responds, walking over to where Potter’s legs are spread open, clad in nothing more than ripped cut-off joggers, like he somehow knew Draco would be coming.
Draco climbs on top of him, hands immediately running through that mess of hair, while Potter’s hands land on his waist, gripping him so tight it hurts. Potter is warm—always warm. So warm that sometimes Draco wonders if Potter heats himself in front of the fireplace in his spare time, or if maybe it’s some after-effect of being the Chosen One— heating charms imbued directly into his skin. Skin that is always crackling with magic, tasting like ozone, when Draco leaves open-mouthed kisses along it, biting at each jut of bone, tongue prodding at each bit of tender muscle.
“Needy today, are we?” Potter teases when Draco grinds down on him, as if he himself is not already hard too, his own breaths already laboured.
“Fuck off,” Draco responds, gripping into Potter’s hair so tight that it will hurt.
“So, we’re in that sort of mood,” Potter says, his voice a laugh for only a second before he’s lifting Draco, then flipping him, face-first into the sofa, ripping Draco’s trousers right off with some sort of wordless, wandless spell that has Draco cursing.
In the next second, Potter’s hands are on his arse, spreading him open, before his tongue is at his hole, relentless and demanding, licking Draco open like he owns him.
Which, well.
“Fuck!” Draco curses out, fisting at whatever nearby pillow is under his hand, letting his mind go blank the way he wanted it to from the moment his skin had begun to itch with it, probably sometime around midday after his mother’s third appraising stare, or his father’s fifth rewrite of that sodding speech, or—
None of that matters now. What matters is what Draco can feel—Potter’s tongue in his arse, and Potter’s hands, hot and strong, holding him open, and searing into him as though branding him. Sometimes he wishes Potter would just brand him, leave some sort of mark that Draco couldn’t remove so he could return to it during the day, when all he and Potter were to each other was all they ever were. All they could be.
Anyway, it’s not like it would have been the first time Draco had signed himself away with a patch of skin. At least this time the devotion would be true.
“Good enough,” Potter says after one final heavy lick, pulling back, before the telltale rustling of fabric—Potter doing away with his own clothing.
The first few times this had happened, ‘good enough’ was never something Potter would have said. He was all hesitation, all worried glances, and questions about whether or not Draco was okay, whether he liked it when he touched him there, or if the pace was good for him too. So Draco had responded by biting Potter’s skin so hard he bruised, then insulting him, asking how he could have ever lost his virginity, because if this was how he fucked, it was a marvel his former partners didn’t die of boredom before he got his cock out of his pants. Potter got the hint that Draco wasn’t looking to be coddled around the third or fourth time. That was when things really got good.
In the next moment, Draco feels Potter’s cock lining up at his hole, before immediately shoving in. The burn it causes is addictive and desperate, just like how Draco wants it. Potter holds Draco’s hips in place while he fucks him, long steady pistoning that makes Draco see stars.
“What was it this time?” Potter whispers, fisting a hand in Draco’s hair, then pulling, yanking Draco up close to him. His breath is hot and wet at Draco’s ear when he asks, “Well? What got you so worked up and desperate for me?”
“Fuck—” Draco moans instead of answering. Potter’s hips slap against his arse, one hand still holding Draco in place.
“Your dad?” Potter asks, and Draco can hear the wicked smirk in his voice that always makes Draco wonder how anyone could ever believe Potter to be some paradigm of purity. “Mum? Job? Or did you just need to have me inside you again?”
“God, Potter—” Draco chokes out when Potter slams him harder.
At his name on Draco’s lips, Potter responds by sucking into Draco’s neck, a sharp feeling that Draco knows is meant to leave a mark. He releases Draco’s hair, hand moving around to Draco’s front, where he wraps it around Draco’s cock, pumping him hard and dry, rushing through it like he was just as gone for this as Draco was—something Draco didn’t know and wouldn’t allow himself to wonder about.
When he could help it.
“You love it, don’t you?” Potter asks, though he may as well be talking to himself for all Draco is able to respond like this. “Come on, Malfoy—fuck. Show me. Show me how much you love it.”
Draco feels his stomach clench, his muscles tightening, and the world falls away, and then he’s coming, spilling into Potter’s hand while Potter fucks him through it, mumbling some litany of curses and unintelligible sounds until he’s stuttering too, and stilling, deep inside of Draco. And then Draco feels it, the pulsing of Potter’s dick inside of him, Potter coming in his arse, leaving Draco with the evidence of what they’ve done. Full of the promise of what this isn’t.
Potter pulls out without preamble, collapsing back into the couch with an exhausted sigh, silent, save for his heavy breaths.
Draco begins to collect himself, face still pressed against the threadbare cloth of the couch, where he can breathe in the smell of Potter’s home for as long as he dares to before he’s to run away with the practised ease of a professional.
After a moment of this greed, Draco sits back, his arse sore and twinging, and casts repairing charms on his clothing and cleaning charms where his own come is smeared against his stomach. Without words, he dresses, then excuses himself to the loo, where he charms away the bruise Potter left on his neck, fixes up his hair, and drinks water right from the faucet, the way his father used to scold him for doing as a child. He knows he could conjure up a cup, fill it from his wand, the proper way, the pureblood way. But he could also just shove his face into the metal nook, and lap up the cold stream like an animal.
He doesn’t know why, but he’s sure the lack of civility makes it taste better.
When he re-enters Potter’s living room, Potter is fumbling with some Muggle record player in the corner, until unfamiliar music fills the room. Bizarrely, he’s still naked. Potter turns to Draco, who is buttoning his cuffs.
“Right then,” Draco says, all posh formality. “Bye.”
When Draco walks toward the floo, Potter grabs him by the wrist, and when Draco looks at him, he thinks there’s some word held behind his lips that Draco isn’t sure if he wants to hear. Some word declaring that this was to be the last time, or that Potter has met someone, or whatever excuse he needs to use. But instead of speaking, Potter looks him over, eyebrows furrowed, as if appraising. Until he spots the place on Draco’s neck where he’d left that mark, now all healed up, unblemished pale skin again.
Potter rolls his eyes and releases Draco’s wrist. “Coward.”
Draco scowls at him, turns to the floo, and leaves without another word.
*
“Are you alright, dear?” Narcissa asks from over her tea.
“Hmm?” Draco responds, looking up from the parchment of the finalised speech, finally approved by Lucious, only that morning.
“You look…” Narcissa tries, voice trailing off. “Are you nervous?”
“No,” Draco says. “Just memorising.”
“Alright,” Narcissa says, her lips pursed.
The speech goes well. Draco gets a polite applause from all of the donors, and his father’s grin tells Draco that he probably earned their foundation loads and loads of money. Money that will be going to St. Mungo’s, for treating victims of the Second Wizarding War, but, more importantly, will also continue to cement the Malfoy family’s reintegration into polite wizarding society. A slow but steady march forward to prove their reformation, with Draco as the prized jewel in the crown of lies.
Because, as everyone now knew, Draco did something very important before the war ended. Draco didn’t give Potter up when Potter showed up, bruised and disfigured at the Manor, even though he knew it was him. The second Lucius had heard this at Draco’s hearing, straight from Potter’s mouth, himself, Lucius had already begun planning, putting together the perfect way he could use it in their efforts to become what they once were again.
And soon, that was all it became. Proof that the Malfoys weren’t true believers, and would stand up for what was right when it really came down to it, when it really mattered. No, that moment no longer held the truth of what Draco was actually feeling when it happened, when years of a schoolboy grudge fell away, looking into the eyes of the one person who’d haunted Draco’s thoughts and dreams since he was very small. Potter’s fate relied entirely on Draco, for the first time. When everything became clear for once, even as Draco insisted that he couldn’t be sure, when the truth was that it was the first time he finally did feel sure. Sure that Potter was the only thing he ever truly wanted, and that Draco would die before handing him over to the Dark Lord. That Draco would subject himself to whatever horrible torture he would face for this insolence, if only it could buy Potter just a few more minutes time.
Whatever.
A darker side of Draco questions if maybe it was just that latent Malfoy family gene, ensuring his own safety, as though it already sensed the changing tides of war. That would have been a lot easier to stomach.
Whatever it was, at its core, it didn’t matter. All that mattered now was how the Malfoy family could use that moment in their favour. And how much money Draco could make for the foundation with it. How far they could push the narrative.
Draco sips his champagne, listening to Felix Rosier and Gareth Greengrass discuss that-Granger-girl’s new proposed policies to allow centaurs to elect representatives to sit on the Wizenmagot. Draco tunes them out once they begin laughing about whether she’d advocate for dragons, or god-forbid, house-elves next.
His skin begins to ache with need by the fifth glass of champagne, making his collar feel hot and making him notice just how uncomfortably his loafers pinch his heels. And then all he can think about is Potter’s mouth, and his tongue inside it. Or maybe the feeling of Potter’s cock in his hand, heavy and hard, something real and tangible and vivid, unlike the dull drone of voices that surround him like a swarm of buzzing locusts.
Draco is definitely drunk when he stumbles out of Potter’s fireplace, steadying himself against the back of the armchair, and trying to get the room to stop spinning.
“Thought I’d see you tonight,” says a voice from the kitchen. Potter strolls in, dressed in muggle clothing that hangs off him like a dream.
“C’mere,” Draco says, voice embarrassingly slurred.
“Jesus, Malfoy, how much have you had to drink?” Potter says instead.
He walks forward, and leans in close, but his hands don’t grab at Draco’s waist the way Draco wants them to. He only grazes his nose along Draco’s neck, inhaling.
“You smell like a pub,” Potter laughs.
“Would you like to see if I taste like one too?”
Potter laughs again, breathing right against his neck. “I bet you taste better.”
“Why don’t you find out?” Draco asks, words still slurring. He presses his nose into Potter’s inky-black hair, and doesn’t hide the way he breathes in, too drunk to deny himself the small comfort of how Potter smells, all concentrated and strong like this.
Potter bites him on the collarbone, gently. Then, slowly, he lets his hands trail up Draco’s sides, untucking his shirt as he goes. After he gets it loose, Potter runs his hands up under it, massaging into Draco’s bare skin, and breathing deep at the crux of Draco’s shoulder.
“Please,” Draco begs.
Potter licks at a spot on Draco’s neck, while his hands coast down the back of Daco’s trousers, where he grabs Draco’s arse in both hands, and groans.
“I want you to fuck me,” Draco whispers.
Potter doesn’t.
Instead, he pushes Draco into the sofa, then walks off, leaving Draco alone in the quiet of his living room. Draco blinks around, taking in the warm hues that he usually doesn’t have time to study. Everything is a shade of red or brown, lit by flickering candlelight, some furniture patchy, some looking brand new. Photos line the walls, some of that-Granger-girl and Ron Weasley, some of a baby that Draco knows he’s related to.
And some that could only have been taken before Potter was born, because they feature a man who looks just like Potter, and a woman with beautiful red hair and familiar green eyes.
Draco doesn’t know why, but he feels like crying.
Potter returns, and Draco swallows down the feeling. He hands Draco a drink that bubbles with magic.
“What is it?”
“Drink,” Potter answers.
Draco glares, but does as he’s told.
As soon as the cold, cucumber-y potion hits his tongue, his intoxication begins to wean, until he feels only a lingering buzz beneath his skin. The fuzzy drunken haze he’d so carefully cultivated had been stolen from him, ripped out like a rug beneath his feet.
At least the room stopped spinning.
“Better?” Potter asks, eyebrow raised and smirking.
Draco answers by attacking Potter’s jeans, yanking them down, and baring Potter’s soft cock to the room.
“Christ—” Potter chokes out before his hand is in Draco’s hair, carding through it while Draco sucks him into his mouth, working him over until he’s hard and throbbing on his tongue. He tastes like salt and sweat, a hint of woodsy soap, and something so distinctly him that Draco can only compare it to the smell of a campfire, or the countryside in the summer, right when the sun has dipped below the horizon.
Draco sets a pace that has him gagging, even when he tries not to. But he knows Potter likes it when he gags, so he doesn’t really mind, even if something inside of him still instinctively rears in embarrassment. It’s worth it to have the feeling of Potter’s dick down his throat and to hear Potter grunting above him.
“Look at me,” Potter whispers over the crackle of his fireplace.
Draco obliges him, and casts his eyes up, so they can land in Potter’s green gaze. Potter gasps, something small on soft lips, and his hand tightens, while Draco keeps bobbing his head, running his tongue along the underside of Potter’s dick.
“That’s pretty,” Potter says almost casually. The hand in Draco’s hair drifts down to drag beneath Draco’s cheekbone, in the indent of his cheeks, where they’re hollowed around Potter’s cock. “You’re so pretty like this.”
It’s horribly embarrassing the way Draco relishes every word.
Draco flicks his tongue along Potter’s slit, and Potter moans from it, eyes on Draco’s the entire time.
“I’m going to come,” Potter warns him.
Draco keeps sucking.
“You want me to come in your mouth?”
Draco responds by bobbing his head again.
“Fucking—”
And then he does come, filling Draco’s mouth, while Draco chokes it down, sucking him through every last drop until Potter shivers and pulls away, holding Draco back by a tightened fist in his hair.
Potter collapses beside him, not bothering to pull his jeans back on. Instead, he kicks them off entirely. But the itch has been scratched for Draco with just this, and he’s going to leave, the way he’s supposed to, the way he always does. He wipes his face off with the back of his hand then leans forward to stand up.
“That dinner was tonight—the speech you had to give, right?” Potter asks before Draco can escape.
Draco scowls. “How’d you know?”
“Lucius always sends me an invitation,” Potter says, a humourless laugh.
“He does?” Draco asks, not realising how much deeper the embarrassment could reach.
“Waste of parchment.”
Draco frowns.
“Did you talk about the Manor again?” Potter asks, voice different.
“Had to.”
“Whatever,” Potter says, tone going biting. “You’d think they’d get sick of that story by now.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Draco says, a sigh.
“I would,” Potter says, and Draco thinks they’re not speaking the same language anymore.
They sit in silence for a moment, and all Draco can think about is the taste of Potter still on his tongue. More salt and fire. Human and bitter and sweet.
Draco stands up so he can go home. He wishes he were still drunk.
“You’re not leaving already?” Potter asks, and if Draco still allowed himself to believe in lies, he’d think his tone sad.
“What else is there to do?” Draco asks.
“C’mere,” Potter says.
Draco turns around, just to appease him.
Potter stands up and kisses him, his lips soft against Draco’s. There’s a tenderness in it that Draco has tried to forget over the course of this madness together and it scratches at that weird feeling he had earlier, the one that he felt might bring tears. So he pushes Potter away from him, and Potter’s face is a scowl, and Draco is gone, not looking back already.
*
Draco is out with Pansy and Blaise when he sees Potter in person, outside the comfort of Potter’s living room, for the first time in a while. Potter is with Ron Weasley and Dean Thomas— the fit Dean Thomas that Draco used to stare at whenever Potter wasn’t around back in school. The Dean Thomas that had been trapped in Draco’s basement, under an accusation of unclear parentage and impure blood.
Blaise flags them over, because of course he does.
Potter is staring at Draco the whole time, so Draco buries his face into his beer. If he looks up, he knows he’ll be staring back, or worse, studying Weasley’s face, trying to determine if he knows about what he and Potter get up to when it’s dark out and Draco is lonely. Draco doesn’t have any right to hope that he doesn’t. To wonder what it would mean if he did.
“Did you hear that Bulgaria elected a Veela into office?” Ron asks Blaise, in between sips of his beer.
“I did,” Blaise says casually. “Heard the merpeople weren’t too happy about it.”
“I thought that was because the bill to legalise the merpeople’s wand-ownership was thrown out the same day,” Pansy says.
And Potter just keeps staring at Draco like he’s trying to bore holes through his face.
“Heard the Malfoy family raised nearly ten thousand galleons at the benefit dinner last month,” Dean says, grinning at Draco. Draco can’t tell what he means by it.
Draco shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. My father handles it.”
Ron raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.
Potter is still staring.
Eventually, the Gryffindors leave the Slytherins alone, and Draco occupies himself by drinking a few more glasses of beer. At one point, Blaise manages to flirt his way into a group of unfamiliar witches and wizards, until they join them at their booth, making it more crowded than Draco would like.
One of them is American, with a loud obnoxious accent, who gesticulates with every word he says. He’s annoying and boisterous, and any other time Draco wouldn’t have the time of day to even be around him. But he also has these sweet dimples and these thick dark eyelashes, so Draco lets him flirt, and lets his hand linger on his knee beneath the table, even though he can’t help but think that it’s not as warm as Potter’s. Normally, Draco would never allow a man to flirt with him in public like this, but he’s been thrown off by the sight of Potter and Dean Thomas, and he’s feeling vulnerable and weak.
When the American throws an arm around Draco’s shoulder, Draco finally allows himself to look up, and catches Potter staring at him from across the room, and for a moment Draco feels like he’s back at Hogwarts, catching Potter staring from across the Great Hall. He wonders if Potter’s reasoning is any different now. What crime Potter could be suspecting him of here.
Well, one thing is certain. Potter certainly looks just as angry as he used to back then, his jaw just as clenched, colour rising in the very same way.
The American drags his thumb up the back of Draco’s neck, and Potter leaves the bar entirely.
Draco is in Potter’s living room half an hour later.
Potter is on him at once.
“Trying to get my attention?” Potter demands, no room for pleasantries, and his hands all over Draco immediately, shoving Draco into the jagged brick of his fireplace. Potter is already hard, something Draco can feel through his trousers, and he’s not being gentle, gripping into Draco’s skin so tightly it hurts. In fact, Draco can hardly breathe with it, under Potter’s attention like this.
Maybe he had been, then. Maybe he always was.
“Surprised you didn’t put up a charm to keep me out,” Draco says, letting Potter unbuckle his belt and undo his trousers, still standing at the edge of his fireplace. Leaning, more like.
“If you didn’t come here tonight, I would have,” Potter says, voice harsh. He smells like gin.
Draco keens when Potter rips at his shirt, then appears to get impatient, and charms it off all together, leaving Draco stark naked, Potter fully dressed. Unfair.
Potter’s hands grip Draco’s naked arse. He kneads it, spreading it beneath his palms, his fingers venturing deeper toward his hole. “You fuck him?”
Draco scoffs. “In the twenty minutes since you last saw me?”
“It’s been thirty. And who knows? Didn’t look like the type to take his time.”
“And what if he did fuck me?” Draco asks, feeling mischievous.
Potter hisses in Draco’s ear, then grips Draco around the back of his neck, slamming their faces together so hard that Draco thinks he can taste blood. But he kisses back anyway, addicted to the taste of Potter’s mouth, even when it’s tinged with alcohol and pain.
Potter steps them backward to the sofa that Draco tries not to feel ownership over. A tall order, he feels, after having been fucked on it so many times.
Suddenly, Potter is whipping them around, shoving Draco back into the couch, then flipping him, so Draco is folded over the backrest, his arse up in the air. Potter drags a hand over his exposed hole, his fingers pressing dry at the rim.
“Did he?” Potter asks from behind him. “You let him touch you?”
“Maybe,” Draco teases, and he can feel the air shift with Potter’s magic, angry and charged.
“Yeah? You let him fuck you in the alleyway before you came here, or was it the loo? Am I gonna feel his come inside you?” he asks before he spits on Draco’s hole, then rubs it in with his thumb.
“No,” Draco finally admits, losing the capacity to think clearly.
“Why not?” Potter asks, rewarding Draco’s answer with a press inside, filling him magically with wet warmth. His fingers curl, massaging at Draco’s hole, making Draco grunt.
“Ah—“ Draco bites out instead.
“Why not?” Potter repeats.
“He wasn’t you,” Draco admits, hating himself for it. But he can’t help it with Potter’s hands on him, inside of him.
“Good,” Potter breathes, before biting Draco’s arse and pushing in another finger, pressing down until Draco’s voice goes hoarse with his moans. “So fucking good.”
Draco whines when Potter’s fingers slip out, and Potter only laughs at it. Draco waits until Potter is pressing against him with his cock, and he braces for it, desperate for Potter to be inside him again. But Potter only teases him with it, tapping it against him, then pulling back every time Draco tries to get him inside. By the third or fourth time, Draco is cursing his name.
“You got to tease me all night, and you can’t stand even a little bit from me?” Potter asks, swiping the head of his dick over Draco’s rim again.
“Like I’ve ever been good with the taste of my own medicine,” Draco says.
Potter laughs, something full. Then presses again at Draco’s hole and Draco holds his breath, sure he’s finally going to enter him, but he pulls away at the last moment again, leaving Draco cursing filthy profanities.
“You’re a cruel fucking bastard,” Draco says.
“I thought you were going to go home with him, right in front of me,” Potter answers, voice smaller. “That’s cruel.”
Draco only sighs. “Don’t want anyone else touching what’s yours to fuck?”
Potter seethes again, his thumbs pressing into the dimples at Draco’s back. “You think that’s what it is?”
“What else?”
“Right,” Potter says before shoving in and spearing Draco open.
*
Draco is sitting across from Pansy in the Parkinson green room. It’s Draco’s favourite place in the whole Parkinson estate, the walls all windows, letting in so much sun that the room is always warm, like an oven or a campfire. Enormous green plants line the tall glass windows and drape across the ceiling, making the air always feel fresh and humid. Sometimes, the room makes Draco feel like he’s inside of an emerald, surrounded by the shimmering, hazy green.
Draco is sipping some lemonade Pansy had the maid prepare—her house-elves had all been freed last year, an act of preemptive kindness before the house-elf-freedom bill set in, or maybe just to get ahead of whatever way the Daily Prophet planned to spin it. Whatever it was, the lemonade tastes the same.
“Where’d you run off to the other night?” Pansy asks while flipping through Witch Weekly.
Draco pauses, wondering if he should just admit it finally. Pansy was always understanding, and Draco knew she wouldn’t make fun of him, and that she probably wouldn’t tell anyone else. It would certainly be a relief to not have to come up with any more excuses.
But Draco isn’t sure he can stand her pity.
“Went home. Stomach wasn’t feeling great,” Draco lies.
“Pity. That American was all over you,” Pansy says. “And he was cute.”
Draco shrugs.
“Why do I feel like you’re keeping something from me?”
“Because you’re a perpetually suspicious person.”
Pansy frowns, appraising, before she nods. “Touché.”
Draco returns to his lemonade.
“If there is something… you know you can tell me,” Pansy says, voice softer than usual.
“What are you getting at?”
“I just—“ Pansy sighs, and puts the magazine down. She looks at Draco, and even though Draco hasn’t confessed anything, there’s still pity in her eyes. “We aren’t children anymore, Draco. We aren’t… we don’t have to still be beholden to our parents like we once were. That’s all.”
Draco turns away from her. “Maybe I’m just fucking someone.”
Pansy scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I already figured that out.”
Draco’s eyes widen.
“Oh, darling, you aren’t as sneaky as you think you are,” Pansy says. “Is it anyone I know?”
Draco sighs.
“Alright, never mind,” Pansy says.
“That’s all? No interrogation?”
“I’m just glad you’re seeing someone at all. Especially someone secret.”
“Why?”
“Because your father won’t stop peddling the idea that you’re straight.”
“So?”
“So… you’re not,” Pansy laughs. “And if you’re keeping whoever it is you’re fucking a secret, then at least that means they must be worth keeping a secret.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.”
“Everything we do is a riddle. Always has been.”
“Doesn’t it exhaust you?”
“Of course. But there’s nothing to be done. It’s the price of privilege.”
*
The first time it happened, Draco thought he was going to die of embarrassment. He was wasted, leaning against the wooden wall of a banquet hall he hasn’t been back to since, at an event thrown by the ministry to celebrate the efforts that have been made since the conclusion of the war. Draco had to practically self-flagellate on stage, expressing how deeply sorry he was for all of his horrible mistakes, while his father stared, nodding when Draco sounded sincere, frowning when Draco didn’t. And Draco was sorry. That wasn’t the point.
The point was that he had to turn his remorse into well-worded sentences, laying himself bare for people who he knew didn’t give a fuck about him, and would have left him to burn in the Room of Requirement, to die right alongside Vincent. Around then, Draco had already begun to notice the way Vincent’s name was never included when they memorialised the dead, and had only just started to truly resent them all for it.
Draco still visited his grave. He left flowers since Vincent’s parents couldn’t. Not from Azkaban, anyway.
And all of that might have explained why Draco was so surly, scowling at the milling attendees as though it could make up for the parts of war that people didn’t like to talk about. Like people who died too young to learn remorse.
“You look like you’re having fun,” Potter said, walking up all casual swagger.
“Oh, loads,” Draco said, sipping his beer and trying not to let his eyes linger.
“I thought you were just so grateful to be allowed back, to repent for your failures,” Potter said, echoing Draco’s own words back to him. It might’ve been the cruellest thing he could’ve done at that moment.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Potter laughed, putting his hands up in surrender. “So, who wrote it? You? Or do the Malfoys have an official speech writer?”
Draco rolled his eyes. “My father.”
Potter grimaced.
“Can’t he do his own speeches?” Potter asked.
“Maybe. If he’d have been the one who managed to switch sides before you-know-who fell.”
“Like you did?”
Draco scowled and looked away.
Potter didn’t say anything, occupying his mouth with the straw in his drink.
“Did you come over just to gloat?” Draco asked.
Potter frowned. “No.”
“Then why?”
Potter shrugged. “Nobody else here worth talking to.”
Draco’s stomach flipped over when Potter said it. His cheeks heated, and he knew it must have been visible, so he didn’t say anything, too drunk to come up with some biting response.
“I hate these things,” Potter said after a moment of silence.
“Me too.”
“Then let’s get the fuck out of here, yeah?”
Draco turned so quickly that he tweaked his neck.
Potter shrugged in response.
They went to a pub that Potter picked, down the street from his home. Potter bought Draco a pint, but Draco didn’t drink it, too drunk and confused already.
To this day, Draco doesn’t really remember what they talked about, other than the fact that it was cordial, for the first time in their lives. He had even made Potter laugh a few times, and in return Potter made him blush.
Then, when Draco stood up, he stumbled, and Potter righted him, but Draco thought it was something else. Maybe just hoped.
But he slammed his face into Potter’s, right there in the pub, catching his lips against his the way he thought could never, ever happen.
Looking back, Draco still doesn’t know what had made him so foolish in that moment. If it had been the drinks, or Potter’s laugh, or the absolute bizarrity of the night in total. Whatever special combination that had allowed Draco to lose his mind so entirely.
Draco had been too drunk for him to remember if Potter had kissed him back.
He pulled away near instantly, a small moment of clarity, and looked into Potter’s eyes, horror rolling through him in waves. But Potter only looked confused, his green eyes soft, maybe pitying.
Whatever it was, Draco apparated away immediately, and had splinched himself so badly the house-elves had to fix him up.
Upon waking up the following morning, he immediately vomited. He remembered what he had done and then he vomited again.
And then, Draco bravely proceeded to hide himself away for five whole days, bored to tears in his room at Malfoy Manor.
It took a week for Potter to finally find him, in Diagon Alley, when Draco had thought he’d be safe shopping for ties. He grabbed Draco by the wrist before Draco could escape and apparated them both back to his place, and Draco found himself wondering if Potter was about to kill him for what he did. If maybe Draco would let him.
“You kissed me,” Potter said, sounding breathless.
“Sorry,” Draco said. “I barely remember.”
“Did you mean to?”
“Remember?”
“What? No—“
“What?” Draco asked, eyebrows furrowing.
“Kiss me.”
“Kiss you?”
“Er—yeah.”
“Are you fucking with me?”
Potter frowned. “No.” He stepped closer into Draco’s space. And Draco couldn’t retreat, the wall of Potter’s living room already at his back.
“What are you doing?”
“Something stupid, probably,” Potter said, then grabbed Draco by his face and kissed him.
It was searing hot, and Draco fucking moaned into it like a sodding teenager. It was the best kiss he’d ever had and it didn’t even last very long before Draco had to run away again, stumbling into Potter’s floo, stealing a handful of the emerald green powder so he could hide again back at home.
At the time, he didn’t understand why he ran, but he thinks he gets it now. He had felt so exposed, ripped open and raw, just by the feeling of Potter’s lips on his and he couldn’t handle it. It was so much, all at once, like being thrust into the violent yellow sun after a week underground, searing his pale skin, so bright his eyes were watering. The only thing he could do in the face of unrelenting light was retreat back to where things were dark and quiet and safe. Where pitiful creatures like him could burrow and latch their desperate claws deep.
A week after that, Draco had another drink too many, and found himself crazed, unable to stop thinking about the kiss he’d run away from. At his moment in the too-bright sun that he had already come to miss. Without allowing himself to change his mind, he grabbed a handful overflowing with floo powder and ended up in Potter’s living room again.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Potter asked, jaw set and angry. Angrier than Draco expected.
Draco responded by ripping off his own top.
Potter’s eyes went wide, and his throat bobbed, eyes roaming down Draco’s torso, hopefully not lingering on the scars. But Potter didn’t move, so Draco toed off his loafers next, stepping forward with it.
Red flushed up Potter’s cheeks. “What are you doing?”
“Something stupid, probably,” Draco answered before undoing his belt, and shoving down his trousers, leaving him only in his obscenely tented pants.
“Christ, Malfoy,” Potter choked out before he was up, his mouth on Draco’s at once, hands all over Draco’s body like he was trying to memorise it beneath his palms. He was so gentle with it, fingers barely ghosting over Draco’s skin like he was afraid he could break him.
Draco wasn’t gentle in return. He’d been thrust into the sun, already burnt, and had nothing left to lose. So he ripped at Potter’s shirt while Potter pressed gentle kisses to his neck. He shoved his thigh against Potter’s crotch so he could feel the hard shape of his cock beneath his jeans, while Potter carded his fingers through Draco’s hair, running his nails soft along his scalp.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Potter whispered.
“Shut the fuck up,” Draco seethed, before sucking at Potter’s neck.
“You’re such a fucking prat—“
“Do you want to fuck me or not?”
Potter’s jaw set, and his fingers dug into Draco’s waist, so Draco raised an eyebrow. Potter yanked them backwards, until they landed clumsily on the sofa, Draco falling on top of Potter, his naked limbs askew.
Draco’s hips rolled forward as if of their own accord. The heat of Potter beneath him was starting to get to him, and his body was reacting before his brain could.
“What do you—fuck, how—“ Potter grunted out, rolling his hips up too, the hard outline of his clothed cock dragging against Draco’s own.
A whine escaped Draco’s mouth. He responded by managing to get a knee down to steady himself up so he could start yanking at Potter’s clothing, no longer satisfied by being the only one nearly naked. It wasn’t like he had a good answer for Potter anyway.
Potter took the hint and began scrambling to yank off his own T-shirt. So Draco began to work at the button on Potter’s jeans, his hands trembling in a way he hoped Potter wouldn’t notice. Finally, he managed to yank them down, revealing Potter’s own tented pants. Draco couldn’t help but to take a moment to let his eyes roam over Potter’s body, taking in the hard lines of his muscles, the dark swirls of hair that accented his torso, the myriad of scars that Draco had never known about. His dreams hadn’t done this moment justice.
When he looked up to Potter again, Potter was blushing. It was endearing in a way that Draco didn’t want to think about.
“Should we talk about this first maybe—“
Draco slammed their mouths together before Potter could finish his sentence. If he and Potter talked about this then Draco would surely lose whatever miracle nerve had brought him here. Luckily, Potter allowed it, opening his mouth for Draco to shove his tongue in, licking along his lips, then along Potter’s tongue.
Potter rolled his hips up, and his hands landed on Draco’s hips, gripping hard and pulling him impossibly closer until Draco shivered at the feeling of their barely clothed cocks pressed so tightly together.
“Can I—“ Potter whispered when Draco began licking at his neck.
“What?” Draco asked.
“Take these off—“ Potter said, gently snapping the waistband of Draco’s pants. The sharp feeling made Draco shiver.
“Okay.”
Draco heard a tight breath from Potter, before he felt a wave of magic roll over them, and they were suddenly both fully naked, pressed together. The sort of thing Draco thought would only ever happen in the most humiliating corners of his fantasies.
Draco pulled off, unable to help himself, wanting to know what Potter’s cock looked like. It was thick, and curved, a ruddy red that looked the same colour of Potter’s lips, erupting from a nest of dark curly hair that trailed all the way up to his stomach.
“Fuck—“ Potter whispered, eyes cast down as well.
Draco wondered if Potter had ever been with another man before. Draco hadn’t. He hadn’t been with anyone before.
Draco rolled forward while Potter watched, dragging his cock along the jut of Potter’s hip, sliding it along the side of Potter’s cock. And Potter’s fingers dug into his waist in response, his abdominal muscles twitching, his breaths stuttering. There was something unbelievable, almost addictive, about the realisation that Potter was hard because of him. That he could make Potter feel good, maybe even make him come. Could maybe do it with his cock.
Draco rolled his hips forward again.
Potter pulled his own lip between his teeth, then Draco felt another wave of magic, and where their bodies met became slippery and warm, wet with something thick and tingly. The show of perfect magic would have been annoying if Draco weren’t so already gone for it. Draco rolled his hips again, aiming for Potter’s cock, and when they dragged against each other, Draco felt like he’d been hit by a stunning spell, overwhelmed and delirious in the feeling.
Potter’s hips jerked forward, a small desperate motion, so Draco rutted again, setting a pace, almost as if he were fucking Potter like this, thrusting into the tight space of their bodies together. He hit an angle that rubbed at the underside of the head of Potter’s cock and Potter finally moaned, a sound Draco knew he’d have no problems memorising.
“Holy fuck, Malfoy,” Potter said, voice breathless, before shoving his hand between them, and gripping both of their cocks together, pumping them. Draco couldn’t help but fuck into it, fucking Potter’s calloused hand and the underside of Potter’s dick together, and it was all too much, so sudden, that Draco came, early before it ever even began. He came in bursts that pooled in Potter’s hand, now a blur around the two of them, then in thick puddles on Potter’s chest, making a mess of both of them.
“Fuck—I’m—“ Draco tried to apologize, but suddenly Potter shouted, thrusting forward into his own hand, the underside of Draco’s cock, and then his come was adding to the mess. It landed warm and wet on Draco’s cock, sending a shiver up Draco’s spine, and made his balls ache with the sudden hardening of his dick again, overstimulated and lost in it.
But when Potter pulled his hand away, gasping and panting, and wiped it so carelessly against the couch, Draco remembered the truth of it all.
“Sorry,” Draco said, finishing his apology from earlier.
“Huh—what?” Potter asked in between heavy breaths.
Draco stood, grabbing his wand from his discarded pile of clothing, then magicked away all their mess. He dressed himself with another wave of his wand, so rushed and hurried that his shirt went on backward, before he stumbled into Potter’s floo, and disappeared without a word.