Here’s the thing:
Harry had been prepared for just about every eventuality. He was ready for shouting matches, hexes, bitter sarcasm, the dredging up of painful memories – but the one thing he could not have possibly been ready for was the sight of Draco Malfoy in six-inch stilettos.
All things considered, the heels weren’t even the most unusual thing about the scene, but it was the only thing Harry could focus on, because, well, really?
They were glossy black patent leather, well-kept, expensive-looking, pointy and elegant, and quite nice as heels went if Harry was going to be honest, but the fact remained that they were quite decidedly on Draco Malfoy’s feet, accentuating the curves of his calves and Jesus Christ did Malfoy’s legs ever actually end—?
“Vous devriez rester là,” Malfoy said suddenly, pulling Harry quite abruptly out of his thoughts. His back was to Harry, his limbs akimbo, studying the ground. “C’est trop dangereux.”
Harry had waved off his translation charm the moment he’d seen Malfoy, and had no idea what he’d just said. “Malfoy.”
The name seemed to catch his attention. Malfoy turned around and holy shit—
The first term that entered Harry’s head was sex on legs, and it stubbornly stayed there, even as Harry tried to talk it into leaving because this was Draco Malfoy.
Still, there was no denying that he looked like something out of a fuck fantasy that Harry didn’t even know he had. First, there was the fact that he wasn’t wearing trousers, but leggings – black, opaque, form-fitting leggings that revealed every curve the heels brought out. He had a long white button-up, untucked, under a silvery pinstripe vest, accentuated by a tie that looked like an oil slick. On top of it all was a black leather bolero jacket with long sleeves, and it looked completely impractical and it did an excellent job of elongating his torso. His white-blonde hair was tousled and he had a pair of small, rectangular glasses that glinted in the light.
Malfoy had to peer at him over said spectacles before he seemed to recognize him.
“Oh,” he said, voice drawl. “Potter. Wotcher.”
And then he turned back around.
Harry was silent a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts and regain his dignity.
“You really shouldn’t get closer though,” Malfoy said after a moment, crouching down and oh, God, the curve of his arse— “Not that you aren’t a competent wizard on your own right or anything, but there’s a pretty powerful curse here that will rip your organs out through your mouth, and I don’t want to get any blood on me. This waistcoat is Yves St-Laurent.”
Of course it was.
Harry cleared his throat in a way that was, with any luck, not at all revealing of Harry’s lechery.
“We need to talk,” Harry said in his best very-important-Auror-business voice. “I’m here on behalf of the DMLE.”
“I know,” Malfoy said, producing his wand from the sleeve of his jacket.
Harry frowned. “You do?”
“Well, you certainly wouldn’t be here on a social call. Doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes, does it?”
Harry wanted to ask how Malfoy knew about a Muggle thing like Sherlock Holmes, but before he could, Malfoy was casting a complicated counter-curse, whispering long lines of Latin into the darkness.
Abruptly, something occurred to him: “There’s a powerful curse here? Isn’t this a Muggle tourist trap?”
Malfoy didn’t answer immediately; he was still muttering Latin. When he finished, a soft white mist settled into the stone floor and he stood up again.
“It was accidentally activated by a woman who ducked under a ‘keep out’ sign,” he answered. “And as Muggle tourist traps go, this is one of the more magically volatile.”
Oh, right, this was the Parisian Catacombs. Harry had been so caught up in Malfoy’s – well, his everything – that he’d almost completely forgotten.
He took a moment and studied the skulls piled high toward the ceiling, rows and rows of skulls, all of them staring out at him with their empty eye sockets.
Somehow, they were still less distracting than Malfoy’s bloody fucking stilettos.
“Am I to assume that I’m being called back to jolly old England?” he asked, walking back towards Harry, his heels click-click-clicking on the stone. Harry used all his willpower not to look at them as he moved.
“We need you as a consult on a case,” Harry said. “Our own cursebreakers are having no luck with it. Shacklebolt wanted to call you in personally. It plays to your…”
Harry looked briefly down at Malfoy’s forearm. The sleeves of his leather jacket hid it, but he knew it was there.
“… knowledge,” he finished.
Malfoy smirked, and the term sex on legs appeared in Harry’s mind. Again.
“We shouldn’t talk here,” he said. “That counter-curse needs a few hours to settle, anyway. I’ll come back and check on how it’s progressing. Ever had Parisian coffee?”
Harry shook his head.
Malfoy started past him, and Harry followed, decidedly not staring at Malfoy’s arse, or his legs, or the click-click-clicking stilettos, or the sway of his hair. He was a professional and Malfoy was a professional and Harry really shouldn’t comment and he definitely shouldn’t stare.
Harry had known for a while that he preferred blokes, of course – the initial clue came during his first disastrous attempt to have sex with Ginny – but there’d never really been a chance to do anything about it. By the time he’d sorted himself out, he was knee-deep in Auror training and way too busy for any sort of sex life beyond wanking. It had been fine, though; Harry was comfortable, settled, with a direction and a plan.
Or at least he was, until Malfoy happened, and suddenly he felt uncomfortable, restless, directionless. Bastard. Who did he think he was, getting under Harry’s skin like they were both still sixteen? Why was he even dressed like that? It had to be bloody impractical, being a cursebreaker and wearing that sort of get-up, and Harry couldn’t imagine why he’d dress in this sort of outfit for any reason other than to draw attention.
No, actually, Harry was going to comment, just to make a point.
“Nice shoes,” he said with as much venom as he could muster, as they exited the catacombs onto the sunny, summery streets of Paris.
“Thanks,” Malfoy answered lightly, “they’re Prada.”
Even Paris in May, beautiful as it was, couldn’t really take the edge off. He knew taking this assignment was a bad idea. He’d really tried hard to talk Shacklebolt out of sending him.
Down the street and past an intersection, there was a little café crushed between two much large buildings. Without the translation charm, Harry couldn’t be sure what the sign over it said, but Malfoy breezed right inside.
It smelled like pastries and coffee and, this late in the afternoon, was almost empty. Malfoy threw himself into the chair of the nearest table like he owned the place, smug bastard, and put one way-too-long leg over the other, bobbing his foot.
Harry sat down stiffly.
“All right, Potter?” he asked, and his foot was still bobbing, and Harry was not staring at it. “You look like something crawled up your arse.”
Harry took the magically shrunken file out from the inside of his robes and enlarged it with a wordless, wandless spell. He handed it to Malfoy, who arched one perfectly blonde eyebrow and took off his glasses to read it, and of course Malfoy didn’t actually need the glasses, he’d never worn glasses, they were probably just a bloody fashion statement.
“Hm,” Malfoy said as he read.
“We’re pretty sure it’s one of Voldemort’s half-finished projects,” Harry said, biting back a comment about the useless fashion statement glasses. “Something he was planning on using but didn’t get to see through. We’ve been trying to investigate it, but the whole building is white-hot with Dark Magic. We can’t even get a good look at it.”
“That was his modus operandi,” Malfoy agreed, and of course the bastard didn’t flinch, he didn’t even have the common decency to look guilty. “So you want me to break through it and get to whatever’s inside.”
“And dismantle it, if necessary.”
“Hm,” Malfoy said again, tossing the folder back to Harry. “Sorry, can’t.”
Anger rose in the back of Harry’s throat and his eyes narrowed. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because people are getting their organs ripped out through their mouths,” Malfoy answered idly, languidly, with that absolutely insufferable unrufflable voice of his. “I think it’s safe to say that this case takes precedence to a fifteen-year-old something in a house under Auror protection.”
“Whatever it is, it’s bloody dangerous!” Harry reminded him angrily.
“And it hasn’t done anything in fifteen years. I have every confidence that the DMLE can handle something that’s not doing anything.”
“God, Malfoy,” Harry said, “I suppose it was too much to hope for that you’d grow out of being such an enormous dickhead.”
Malfoy raised his eyebrow again. His foot stopped bobbing, which was fine because Harry hadn’t been staring at it anyway.
“Bit combative, aren’t we, Potter?”
“It’s not like I’m asking you for a kidney. We just need you for a bloody consult. You’re the only ex-Death Eater left alive who’s sane enough to help and smart enough to do it anything close to well.”
Malfoy ran his tongue across his teeth in thought and Harry did not stare at it and did not think about all the varied and numerous things that tongue could do.
The waiter came over and asked something in French. Harry had been too busy not staring at Malfoy’s tongue to notice and jumped in his seat.
Malfoy answered his question, also in French, and the waiter nodded and returned to the kitchen.
“Got you a coffee,” he said.
Harry grit his teeth.
“I can’t just go now,” Malfoy continued after a moment. “I am in the middle of a job, and it would be in bad form to leave before it’s done. But if you’re that desperate—”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“—for my help, I can come back to England once I’m done here.”
“And how long will that be?”
Malfoy shrugged elegantly. “Hard to say at this juncture. Could be a few days, could be a few weeks. The curse has spiderwebbed through the catacombs. I’ve been making good progress, but with magic as old as this, it can be tricky.”
Harry frowned. “That’s the sort of answer I’d give if I wanted to avoid keeping my word.”
“If you’re that concerned, then why don’t you hang around and help me wrap it up?”
That hadn’t been the response Harry was expecting. “What?”
“You’re not a cursebreaker, but you’re certainly not incompetent. An extra pair of hands will make it go faster.”
“I—” Harry said haltingly, “—I don’t…”
“I’ll even give you a share of the fee,” he continued. “Fair’s fair.”
Harry wasn’t quite sure what to say and so he stayed quiet.
The waiter returned a moment later with a small tray. There were two cups of coffee in plain white saucers, which he set down on their table. Malfoy nodded and offered a quick merci, then lifted his cup to blow across the surface.
And Harry did not think about the shape his lips made when he blew, and definitely did not think about them wrapping around his cock.
“This isn’t some trick, is it?” Harry asked.
“I think we’ve both outgrown our petty school-age rivalry, Potter, don’t you think?” was Malfoy’s cool answer, and he followed it up with a sip of coffee.
Harry did not believe for a second that Malfoy’s intentions were pure. But then, what’s the worst he could do to him, really? Harry was and always had been more than capable of defending himself, especially against Malfoy.
“I’ll need to owl Shacklebolt,” Harry said.
Malfoy smirked and Harry wanted to slap it right off his pretty, pale, pointed face.
“Tell you what,” he said, setting his cup of coffee back down. “Why don’t you go and find a hotel and get settled. Then meet me back at the catacombs around seven. That should give you ample time to send him an owl or give him a fire-call.”
This was more than a little bit dicey. But Harry knew he could hold his own.
The smirk broadened. Malfoy finished off most of his coffee and Harry didn’t stare at the lines of his throat. When he set it back down it was almost empty. He reached into his stupid and impractical bolero jacket and produced a few Euros, which he tucked under the saucer to pay for the coffee.
“Good to hear,” he said. “I’ll see you at seven.”
He rose to his feet and walked out from whence he came, those fucking Prada heels click-click-clicking all the way.
Harry grit his teeth again and took a sip of coffee.
To his surprise, it was absolutely delicious.
Harry had expected – or hoped, perhaps – that Shacklebolt would have said no to Harry’s request, but as it turned out the DMLE was a little too desperate.
“Whatever he wants,” Shacklebolt had said in the fire-call. “There’s a lot of pressure to wrap this from the community. They don’t like having the Dark Lord’s handiwork in their town.”
Which was fucking great.
At seven, Harry left the hotel and headed back for the catacombs. The woman he’d spoken to earlier that day recognized him and told him to go right in. Through the lobby and down the steps into the catacombs, and Harry could already hear the fucking heels.
“Careful where you walk, Potter,” Malfoy’s voice came as he made it to the first set of halls. “The first few feet should be all right, but it’s still tetchy.”
Harry slowed down. Sensing ambient magical energy wasn’t his forte, but with a bit of focus, he could tell that there were indeed some pretty heavy curses spiderwebbing into the shadows of the catacombs. To his left, Malfoy was—
Click-click, he gave the heel of his shoe two very deliberate taps. Then he did it again a few inches ahead – click-click. Harry grit his teeth. Click-click.
“Why are you wearing those?” Harry asked before he could rein the question in.
Malfoy looked back at him. He was wearing the useless glasses again.
“Those shoes. The whole outfit.”
“What’s wrong with my outfit?”
Harry soured. “It’s so – feminine.”
“And what’s so offensive about femininity?”
“Nothing! That’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s just that you are a bloke, Malfoy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Well-spotted,” he replied, before turning back again. Click-click, several inches to the right. Harry suppressed the urge to punch him. “Your veiled sexism is duly noted, however.”
“What? Oh, come off it, Malfoy, I’m not sexist.”
“Not overtly, maybe.” Click-click, about a foot away. “But I have a sneaking suspicion that if I were a woman wearing a three-piece suit, you wouldn’t be so huffy about it. If a woman wears men’s clothes, no one bats an eye – but if a man wears heels, society fucking crumbles. Why would a man want to be more like a woman, after all?”
Harry opened his mouth to reply, but shut it quite abruptly.
Click-click, a few more feet away.
“There’s nothing wrong with being feminine because there’s nothing wrong with being a woman,” Malfoy continued, though most of his attention was now on the floor, where he was click-clicking. “I like the way I dress. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t dress this way.” Click-click. “Ah. Potter, come take a look at this.”
Harry walked over, glad for the distraction, because he was pretty sure that if he thought about it any more he’d start to agree with Malfoy, and he wouldn’t stand for that.
Malfoy was crouching again (and Harry was not staring at his arse again), and he uselessly adjusted the useless glasses on the end of nose.
“Can you sense it?” he asked.
Harry tried. It took him a moment, but he could feel it – an invisible, pulsing artery of Dark Magic, right in front of them on the floor.
“That’s what a trigger-curse feels like,” Malfoy said. “We wouldn’t have been able to sense it like this before I took the veil off a few hours ago. If someone was unlucky enough to step into the trigger—”
“Organs out the mouth,” Harry supplied.
Malfoy nodded. “The counter-curse is finite umbriosis, but be careful because they might snap back. We should split up and search for the rest. Don’t step anywhere unless you’re absolutely sure it’s not a trigger.”
“Sensing ambient magic isn’t really my forte. Is there some other tactic I could use with it?”
Malfoy didn’t answer immediately. After a moment, he smirked.
“Well,” he said, “Dark Magic alters the resonance of what it settles into. So if you tap on it with something hard, it’ll make a slightly different sound than it should. You could go around on your hands and knees and use a wand – or you could get a pair of Prada heels.”
Click-click went Malfoy deliberately, and Harry groaned. Of course the heels had a practical application.
“Could you get the same effect with hard-soled shoes?” Harry asked.
“Sure, I suppose,” he answered, and Harry cast a quick spell to transfigure the heels of his own shoes from rubber to plastic. “I prefer heels, though. They make my arse look fantastic.”
“Yeah,” Harry agreed before he could stop himself, and then immediately realized what he’d said. He looked down at Malfoy, who was still crouching in front of the trigger-curse and staring up at him in surprise.
The surprise, however, quickly filtered into a smirk.
“Glad you agree,” he said.
“I’m going to go look for trigger-curses,” Harry said shortly, averting his eyes.
“Stare at my arse a lot, do you?”
“Fuck off, Malfoy.”
“I’ve been told they also do wonders for my legs.”
Harry would have very much liked to storm off, but considering that would almost certainly end in his organs being pulled out of his mouth, he decided against it and started his own series of click-clicking on the floor.
Malfoy, thank God, chuckled but didn’t bring it up again.
They worked into the evening. It was a painstaking process for Harry, who wasn’t used to sensing ambient magic and detecting subtle differences in resonance, but Malfoy breezed through it. Still, between the two of them, they managed to clear out most of the trigger-curses.
They were mostly quiet, but every now and then Harry would catch a glimpse of Malfoy across a pile of bones, and over the course of the evening, he noticed a few things:
First, the useless glasses weren’t useless. Whenever Malfoy came to a trigger-curse, he’d adjust them and bend down to study it, and Harry belatedly realized that the glasses must have been charmed to detect ambient magic.
Second, the stupid and impractical long-sleeved leather bolero jacket that so excellently accentuated the length of his torso was, in fact, magic-resistant, and was neither stupid nor impractical. Every now and then one of the trigger-curses would snap back at Malfoy’s attempt to dispel it, but it always bounced off the leather, giving him the opportunity to cast the counter-curse again. Harry would have killed for a jacket like that on the field.
Third, Malfoy was good at his job. Really good. Harry knew from the cursebreakers employed by the DMLE that the profession was not an easy one – it required a lot of finesse, magical control, and a huge wealth of knowledge on Dark Magic. Malfoy had all of that in spades, and as much as Harry hated to admit it, he was impressed.
He was still a smug bastard though, and Harry still didn’t like him.
Even worse, he was still a walking, talking fuck fantasy.
Harry had sort of been hoping that once the initial shock of what the fuck is Draco Malfoy doing in six-inch stilettos wore off, he’d be able to move past it. No such luck. Every time Harry caught a glimpse of him, he was bent over a trigger-curse with his perfect heart-shaped arse in the air, or he was chewing thoughtfully on the end of his wand, or he was licking those gorgeous pink lips of his. Harry was in a perpetual state of aggravating, overwhelming arousal and it was unacceptable.
Around nine-thirty, Malfoy called it off, which was for the best because Harry had reached the end of his hallway and had gotten the last of the trigger-curses. As he made his way back towards the lobby, he could tell that the thick aura of Dark Magic had receded significantly, and was, if nothing else, pleased at a job well done.
Malfoy was speaking to the woman in the lobby in fast, languid French. Harry didn’t know what he was saying but he had a suspicion it was a promise to come back in the morning and give it another once-over.
Harry went outside because it was taking too much effort to not stare at his arse as he was bent forward over the counter.
By then, nighttime had settled quite comfortably over the city. On the horizon, there was still the soft yellow-gold glow that fought away the darkness, and all along the avenue pools of lamplight stood in defiance of the night. The buzz of the day had settled down into a muted rumble – cars and music and voices that were somewhere else, an indistinct and ignorable backdrop.
Paris really was a beautiful city. Harry ought to come back.
He turned just in time to see Malfoy sauntering out onto the pavement, his goddamn fucking Prada heels clicking all the way. He was wearing a smirk that made Harry want to do violent things.
“Dinner?” he asked.
Harry frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”
“Dinner,” Malfoy repeated, stopping a few feet across from him. “Want some?”
“I ate before I came,” Harry said suspiciously.
“I know,” Malfoy answered, and there was a sort of predatory look on his face that Harry either hated or really, really liked. He couldn’t tell which, and it was distressing.
“What’s the point of going out to dinner if I’ve already eaten?”
Malfoy was close. God, when had Malfoy gotten this close? Harry was overcome by the scent of some sort of minty shampoo Malfoy used, and all he wanted to do was bury his face in his hair to smell it better.
“Good question,” was Malfoy’s breathy answer, and oh. He wasn’t actually talking about dinner. Fuck.
“How could I resist? Big, strong, self-assured wet dream of an Auror comes back into my life after all these years, and he likes my arse in heels?”
Harry clenched his jaw so tightly that it hurt. His thoughts were turning to static.
“I’ll be honest, I’ve sort of wanted to get you into bed since fifth year when you were hit by the puberty train,” Malfoy said, and Harry’s head suddenly filled with nothing but static, “so I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t—”
Harry grabbed Malfoy by both arms and pushed him quite abruptly into the lamppost on the verge. Malfoy took in a sharp breath of surprise and Harry kissed him with as much force as he could muster.
Malfoy groaned against his mouth and Harry felt his fingernails scraping down his shoulders. He was kissing him back with just as much vigor, and Harry pressed forward against him.
“Malfoy,” he growled savagely into his lips, his hands splaying, moving down his arms, “fucking hell, Malfoy, you have no idea.”
“I’m starting to,” Malfoy answered. Harry felt him buck his hips, and the friction of it set his nerves on fire. Blood was swiftly abandoning his brain in favor of his cock, and he ground right back down against him and the mirroring swell of flesh through Malfoy’s stupid form-fitting leggings.
“Could barely fucking think with you walking around dressed like this—”
Malfoy moaned again, his head falling back. Harry took the opportunity to bite down, gnashing his teeth over those stupid lovely lines of his throat.
“—spent the entire fucking day turned-on, wanting to rip those fucking clothes off you—”
“Oh, Merlin,” Malfoy whined. His voice was high, throaty, strained. “Potter.”
“—need to hold you down and fuck you into the floor—”
“Yes,” Malfoy said sharply, his fingernails digging crescents into the skin of Harry’s arms. “Fuck. Yes, let’s do that. Let’s do that right now.”
Malfoy had barely finished the sentence before Harry gathered what was left of his self-control and Disapparated with a crack. When they reappeared, the lamplight was gone, replaced by hazy silver moonlight filtering in through the window of his hotel room.
Malfoy stumbled slightly and fell back onto the bed, and Jesus he looked so good that Harry wanted to just devour him, all flushed skin and rumpled hair and trembling coltish limbs. Harry ripped off his jacket and kicked off his shoes and went right back to assaulting Malfoy with his mouth, Malfoy and his stupid gorgeous legs and his ridiculous effeminate fashion sense and his impossibly aggravating blonde hair—
Harry was as rough as possible as he ripped off his stupid Yves St-Laurent waistcoat and those fucking Prada stilettos, wrestling off the leggings and Malfoy tore at his white button-up.
And of course, of fucking course Malfoy’s cock was as impossibly, obnoxiously gorgeous as the rest of him, of course it was thin and pale and lovely and delectable and utterly suckable, that was just Harry’s luck. He bent down and gnashed his teeth against the skin of Malfoy’s freshly-exposed stomach, and he keened and jerked underneath him.
“Potter,” he moaned, throwing his head back.
“Why does everything on your body have to be so fucking perfect,” Harry snarled into the sharp curve of Malfoy’s hipbone. “Are you trying to make me crazy?”
“My clever plot is unveiled,” Malfoy panted, his fingers fisting in the comforter over the bed. “Oh, God, Potter – please—”
“There should be a fucking law forbidding you from being this perfect,” Harry said before closing his mouth around the head of Malfoy’s cock. It drew a sharp, hoarse shout of pleasure, and Harry fumbled for his wand to cast a silencing charm around the room. He did not want this interrupted.
Malfoy’s hands were tangling in Harry’s hair as he started to suck, and Malfoy’s skin was salty-sweet and smelled oh-so-subtly of soap and was velvety smooth and God damn it.
He pulled off and curled a hand around the saliva-slicked shaft. Harry gave Malfoy’s hips a tug and Malfoy responded eagerly, arching off the bed and giving Harry just the right angle to bury his face against the taut ring of muscle as he tugged firmly on his cock. He wanted to fuck Malfoy now, he wanted to fuck him ten minutes ago, he wanted to fuck him until he wasn’t this aggravatingly perfect and sexy and ridiculous, and the faster he could get Malfoy ready, the better.
Malfoy, some distant part of Harry’s mind recognized, was still shouting himself hoarse, twisting and trembling on the bed as Harry fucked him open with his tongue. Harry was pleased, in a very dark and visceral way. Good. Let Malfoy be driven mad with wanting. Serves him right, after a full day of making Harry out of his mind with desire.
“Potter,” Malfoy stammered. “Oh, God. Potter. I can’t – I can’t hold on – M-Merlin, it’s so good, I’m going to come—”
Harry abruptly pulled off, his lips and chin slick with saliva, and Malfoy collapsed, his entire body taut as a bowstring, shaking from near-climax. Harry was once again overwhelmed with the desire to devour him.
Harry took off what was left of his clothes, slowly and deliberately, letting Malfoy get a hold of himself again. When he’d gotten off his trousers, he very carefully leaned down over him. Malfoy was still shaking with want, lost for breath.
“I am going to fuck you,” Harry whispered, “until you cannot see straight.”
Malfoy all but fell apart underneath him.
“On your front.”
Gathering his strength, Malfoy twisted around. Hands fisted in the pillow, he bucked his hips up against Harry’s and Jesus Christ, Harry became extremely aware, all over again, of how achingly, painfully, desperately hard he was.
“I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to talk,” Harry said, louder, grabbing his wand from the side of the bed and muttering a lubrication spell that made Malfoy whimper. “Until you’re an absolute mess.”
“Oh, God,” Malfoy rasped.
Harry slid back down Malfoy’s body, down the little ridges of his spine, the lean muscles of his lower back, to the impossibly perfect heart-shaped curve of his arse, slick and open and waiting.
Harry grabbed his hip firmly with one hand and lined himself up.
“Oh, God,” Malfoy said again, louder, when the swollen head of Harry’s cock pressed into the loosened ring of muscle.
Harry’s free hand knotted in Malfoy’s hair and he sank in.
It was as absolutely fucking perfect as everything else about him.
Harry actually had to still for a moment and keep himself together, because if he didn’t, there was a better than decent chance he’d do some permanent damage to Malfoy in the process of fucking him. Underneath him, Malfoy was trembling, face buried in the pillow, half-wheezing and half-moaning, managing scraps of sentences with words like so good and oh God.
The hand in Malfoy’s hair provided good leverage when Harry slowly started rocking his hips. His body was like a hot, wet, satiny vise, gripping him so tightly it felt like he was trying to pull his soul out through his cock.
The static was back in Harry’s head, buzzing and raw and drowning out everything. He sped up, and Malfoy responded in kind, rocking his hips back up against him and shouting his name.
“Harry – oh, Merlin, Harry, so good, fuck me—!”
Harry was not sure if the little knot that formed in his stomach was one of anger, surprise, or lust, but it twisted into existence the moment he heard Malfoy use his given name. He couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever called him Harry.
It made him fuck him even faster, more brutally.
Malfoy was coming undone underneath him and sweat was beading on Harry’s back and chest. He wanted Malfoy more than just delirious, he wanted him absolutely inarticulate from pleasure, he wanted him to fall apart, to ruin him for any other lover.
Based on the sounds Malfoy was making, he was doing a pretty good job of it so far.
Climax was approaching inexorably, like a law of nature, and Harry could not have hoped to hold himself back. He bent down and sank his teeth into Malfoy’s shoulder, the hot pulsing in his stomach rising to a fever pitch until—
—there was absolutely nothing except that perfect moment of blinding, thought-destroying pleasure. He emptied into Malfoy, his entire body shuddering, mind full of static, wave after wave of climax wrung out of him.
Somewhere between twenty seconds and ten years later, Harry pulled out of him and collapsed on the bed next to him.
Malfoy shifted on the bed so he was on his back. Harry could hear him panting, and for a few seconds silence stretched between them.
“To think,” Malfoy said after a moment, “all those years we spent at each other’s throats, we could have been doing that instead.”
“There is absolutely no way that would have happened,” Harry muttered.
“At the risk of stroking your ego,” Malfoy continued, “that was fucking incredible. I’m going to be feeling that one for a while. Merlin.”
“Good,” Harry said, letting his eyes fall shut.
“I’ll go back to England tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll have to give the catacombs another once-over but I think most of the work is done. Would have taken another day at least without your help. Thank you, Harry.”
Despite himself, Harry opened his eyes again and looked over at him. “When did you start calling me Harry?”
Malfoy laughed. “Well, you did just put your cock in me. I think that sort of puts us on a first-name basis, don’t you?”
“Well, we’re not exactly friends.”
“We could be.”
Malfoy rolled over suddenly, and he was on top of Harry, straddling his lap with his hands on his chest and smirking in that infuriating, distinctly Malfoy way. Sleepy and sex-sated as he was, it still made Harry want to do violent things.
“What do you say? It would certainly give us an excuse to fuck on a regular basis; that can’t be a bad thing. And it might be good to let bygones be bygones.”
Bygones. The word was hateful. Was that what Malfoy thought they were? Stupid, gorgeous, infuriating Malfoy with his too-long legs and his aggravating smirk and his salty-sweet flawless skin, had all that death and loss and pain distilled into something so vague and forgettable?
“They aren’t bygones,” Harry hissed.
Malfoy withdrew his hands from Harry’s chest, frowning.
“I appreciate what you did for me back during the War, Malfoy, and that’s why I testified on your behalf. But you’re absolutely mad if you think that anything that happened between us is just bygones.”
“That’s not what I was trying to imply,” Malfoy said, and his voice was suddenly restrained and defensive. “It’s just common parlance.”
“Well, maybe I don’t like how dismissive you are about it all.”
“I’m not being dismissive!”
Harry grabbed Malfoy’s forearm. Naked as they were, the Dark Mark was plainly visible, even in the low light of the hotel room. Immediately, Malfoy wrenched his arm out of Harry’s grip, recoiling as though he’d been slapped.
“Just because you’ve forgotten doesn’t mean I have, Malfoy.”
“I haven’t forgotten a damn thing!” Malfoy cried, and he climbed off Harry’s lap and onto the floor. There was no restraint anymore; he was angry. “Who the fuck are you to be so presumptuous?”
Harry sat upright. If Malfoy was going to get angry, so was he. “I’m the one who had to die to get rid of the mass-murdering psychopath you spent six years worshipping!”
Malfoy’s mouth was open. There was a strange expression on his face. He seemed, more than anything, wounded, and Harry wasn’t quite sure how to react to that.
“That was ten years ago,” Malfoy said, sounding almost desperate. “I’ve spent every moment since—!”
Abruptly, Malfoy turned away. His wand snapped into his palm with a silent accio and he used several spells to dress himself – soon he was back in those aggravatingly form-fitting leggings and that ridiculous Yves St-Laurent waistcoat and the stupid impractical long-sleeved bolero jacket and those fucking Prada heels.
“Fuck you, Potter,” he hissed. “To think I’d thought you’d grown out of your petty fucking prejudices.”
“I’m prejudiced? That’s rich, coming from a fucking Death Eater—!”
But there was a crack, and Malfoy was gone.
Still seething and shaking with rage, Harry climbed off the bed and stormed into the ensuite to take a shower.
He made the water too hot and he scrubbed too hard, determined to work the scent of Malfoy out of his skin. And he did not think about the look of hurt on his face, and he did not feel guilty.
“You’re sure he’s coming?”
“Yes,” Harry said, but he meant no, because at this point he really wasn’t sure.
Shacklebolt had to squint to get a good look at him. The early summer sun was particularly, obnoxiously bright, especially as it bounced off the slate on the roof of Wellington Place.
“Hopefully he’s just late,” Shacklebolt said, like he didn’t quite believe Harry, and he turned back toward the aurors circling the building and casting careful diagnostic charms.
Really, apart from the brightness of the day, it looked like something out of Scooby Doo. After ten years of abandonment, it was falling apart: broken windows, weather-beaten siding, a partially collapsed roof, and all of it encircled by a dilapidated porch that had all but rotted away. Harry had to admit that it definitely seemed like a place that Voldemort would have used.
Harry sighed and checked his watch. Right as he did, there was a crack, and they both turned around and well, fuck.
There he was, coming up the flagstone path like sex on legs, looking gorgeous and severe in all black – his magic-resistant black bolero jacket, a black silk cowl-neck shirt, a wide black-with-silver leather belt, fitted black straight-leg trousers and—
—and those fucking Prada heels again.
Harry was so angry he almost didn’t hear Shacklebolt’s sigh of relief.
“Mr. Malfoy,” he said, and as he approached, he offered a hand, which Malfoy took in a firm grip.
“Mr. Shacklebolt,” he returned. “Sorry I’m late.”
“We’re just glad to have you,” Shacklebolt said. “There’s no way we’re getting in there without someone of your expertise.”
“It’s warded, among other things, against people who don’t have the Dark Mark,” Harry interjected, just because he could.
Malfoy’s gray eyes swiveled and landed on Harry, then narrowed.
“Well, then, isn’t it just ducky you managed to persuade me into helping?”
Shacklebolt cleared his throat loudly. “The wards can only be removed from the inside, of course,” he said, and Malfoy looked back at him, “and we’re sure it’s also crawling with curses that need breaking. We’d like for you to render it safe, and then help us figure out whatever’s inside.”
Malfoy nodded and produced his not-useless glasses from his jacket, slipping them onto his nose. They flashed in the sunlight and he studied the house in silence for a few seconds.
Suddenly, Shacklebolt said, “Nice shoes,” and to Harry’s absolute dismay, it sounded like a genuine compliment.
“Thank you,” Malfoy returned.
“Are those Prada?”
He looked back at Shacklebolt, smiling so brightly that Harry felt the beginnings of a headache thrumming in his temples. “They are, indeed! From their 2003 autumn collection.”
Harry briefly considered killing himself to get away from the conversation.
“I’m more an Alexander McQueen man, myself, but there’s no sense in ignoring quality.”
“You have good taste, Mr. Shacklebolt.”
“Please, call me Kingsley.”
“Then I insist you call me Draco.”
“Malfoy, would you just get to work?” Harry snapped, a bit more forcefully than he would have liked.
“Keep your pants on, Potter. I’m going.” He produced his wand from his sleeve. “I’ll head in for a preliminary look. If it takes me longer than a half-hour, something’s gone wrong.”
Shacklebolt nodded somberly and Malfoy click-click-clicked the rest of the way down the flagstone path leading up to the run-down porch. He pressed through the outer wards, which shivered and let him through with a ripple of Dark Magic.
“Pillock,” Harry muttered.
“You could at least try not to be actively combative,” Shacklebolt said.
“I warned you about this when you assigned it to me,” Harry said, glaring. “We don’t like each other. We never have.”
“I sort of assumed you two would be able to leave that whole rivalry of yours in the past.”
Harry bristled. Were they in on this together? “Of course not! You remember what he did!”
“I’m not defending him, but it was ten years ago. He seems to have moved on well enough. What did he even do to get you so worked up?”
Harry opened his mouth to answer, because boy did he ever have a thing or two to say about what Draco fucking Malfoy did to work him up—
But then, what exactly had he done? He’d smirked a lot, which was annoying but not really bad – and now that Harry thought about it, Malfoy hadn’t actually said anything snide or obnoxious or holier-than-thou. Really, he hadn’t even been that awful at all.
“Granted, I didn’t know him that well,” Shacklebolt conceded, “but here he is decked out in Muggle clothing and helping the DMLE take down one of Voldemort’s old hideaways. He seems all right.”
“I’m not talking about this,” Harry decided. “Call me when he can actually get us inside.”
Harry Disapparated with a crack, absolutely sure, despite whatever evidence presented itself, that he was not wrong about Draco Malfoy.
Three days later, Harry was beginning to suspect that he was wrong about Draco Malfoy.
It had started with Shacklebolt’s casual question that Harry couldn’t quite answer – what did he even do to get you so worked up? – and grew from there like a painful spider web in his chest.
As Malfoy broke through the wards surrounding Wellington Place and began to disarm all the nasty defensive curses, Harry painstakingly went through every interaction he’d had with him since first seeing him in Paris the week before. Harry had been frustrated at first, then worried, and then horrified, to find that Malfoy hadn’t done anything at all to make Harry as angry as he was.
In fact, Harry slowly realized with the terrible clarity of hindsight, Malfoy had actually been very polite and forthcoming the entire time, and Harry had been so caught up in his own preconceptions and frustrating attraction that he hadn’t even noticed. And yes, since coming back to England, Malfoy had been a bit testy and snappish, but he had a suspicion that was because Harry had slept with him and then flat-out refused his friendship immediately afterwards.
Harry felt like the biggest fuck-up on the planet.
He spent most of the third day trying to pull Malfoy aside and apologize, but he kept Harry at bay with sharply worded ripostes like Fuck you, Potter, I’m working and I have nothing to say to you, dickhead.
By the end of that intensely painful day, Malfoy had completely cleared Wellington Place of unfriendly curses and had found what they were guarding, under a drop cloth in the cold, dark, dusty cellar.
“A chest?” Shacklebolt said in surprise.
That was exactly what it was: a fairly plain-looking, nondescript, heavy cedar chest. It had iron hinges and no obvious lock, but it seemed perfectly ordinary.
Malfoy frowned and crouched down in front of it. Harry tried not to let on that he was staring at his arse.
He pulled experimentally on the lid, but it didn’t open.
“Magically sealed,” Malfoy said. “It’s not a curse, though, just a spell…”
“Veronica’s really good with locking spells,” Harry said to Shacklebolt. “If we bring it to her, she might be able to work it open.”
“On maternity leave,” Shacklebolt reminded him. “Besides, I’d rather have someone with some knowledge of Dark Magic open it.”
Those were both fair points, Harry decided. “Well, Draco?” he asked. “Any ideas?”
Draco looked over his shoulder at him. He was wearing a look of surprise, and Harry smiled, hoping the use of his first name would be interpreted as a request for a cease-fire.
After a moment, Draco looked back at the chest, his expression having gone unchanged. “I know how to open it,” he said.
“You do?” Shacklebolt asked, surprised. “Why didn’t you say so before?”
“Because I really don’t want to do it,” he answered.
“How do you mean?” Harry asked with a frown.
“Voldemort only had one way of unlocking anything,” he replied, standing up and shrugging off his jacket, then handing it off to Shacklebolt. “You might want to stand back.”
Harry did not like where this was going, but every auror in the room dutifully took several steps back.
Draco pushed up the sleeve of his deep blue Versace cardigan, revealing his Dark Mark, and at once, Harry was filled with dread.
“Draco,” he said before he could stop himself.
But Draco wasn’t listening. He took a deep breath and gripped his wand tightly in his opposite hand, then pressed the tip of it into his Mark.
“Morsmordre,” Draco said, and there was a dreadful hissing sound. At once, he cried out in pain and fell to his knees; Harry scrambled forward and grabbed him by both shoulders to keep him from completely collapsing.
There was a rush of air and a crack like thunder, and above the chest, the Dark Mark appeared, grim and terrible, twisting as though alive. The snake squirmed and writhed and snapped its jaws.
The chest opened. The Dark Mark vanished. The room quieted.
“Fuck,” someone in the back of the room said, and really, there wasn’t anything else one could say to something like that.
“You opened it,” Harry said, and when he looked down at Draco, he saw that he was trembling. “Draco?”
He made a small, wet sound, and Harry’s chest squeezed itself when he realized he was crying, softly and brokenly.
“Get him out of here,” Shacklebolt said quietly to Harry. “Let him get some air.”
Harry nodded and carefully folded him into his arms. “Come on, Draco,” he said gently, “up you get.”
It took him a moment to stumble to his feet, and Harry guided him quickly out of the cellar, down the hall, and back into the sun.
The trees surrounding Wellington Place were hissing and twisting, caught mid-breeze, and the sky was a clear and vibrant blue. Harry hoped that it would cheer Draco up as they sat down together on the last step leading off the porch.
“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered after a moment. He was gripping his forearm tightly.
“It’s all right,” Harry assured him.
“I didn’t – it’s just been so long – the pain…”
Harry looked briefly at the tip of the Dark Mark, just visible beneath Draco’s hand, but was a lot more interested in his face. Draco’s eyes were bloodshot, his brow knit, the lines of his face drawn in crushing remorse.
“The War was hard on all of us,” Harry said. “You as much as anyone. Moreso, maybe.”
Draco swallowed and pulled down the sleeve of his cardigan.
“You called me Draco.”
Harry smiled weakly. “It is your name, isn’t it?” Harry wanted to ask if Draco was going to be all right, but he thought it was probably a good idea to just let the subject drop. He knew from experience that no good came from dwelling on painful memories.
“I suppose I just assumed that I’d be ‘Malfoy’ forever.”
“Well, I did put my cock in you,” Harry offered, “I think that puts us on a first-name basis.”
Draco laughed. It was weak and a bit thin, but it was real. He rubbed at his cheeks with his sleeves.
“I wanted to apologize,” Harry said. “That’s why I kept trying to pull you away today. I wanted to say that I… you were right. About not getting over my prejudices. I didn’t really mean what I said, I just – I hadn’t seen you in ten years, and then suddenly you’re back in my life and looking like something out of a fuck fantasy and the combination wasn’t very good for thinking clearly. So I’m sorry, Draco. I really am.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. When he did, it was with a smirk. “‘Something out of a fuck fantasy,’ Harry? Really? I see you haven’t gotten any more eloquent since Hogwarts.”
“Not even a little bit,” Harry readily admitted, and Draco laughed again, this time with a bit more strength. Harry wouldn’t have minded making him laugh like that every day for the rest of his life.
“Well, you can make it up to me.”
Draco looked at him and offered a small smile. “You can take me out to dinner.”
Something lovely-painful twisted in Harry’s stomach, and he smiled back. “Like a date?”
“Sure,” Draco said. “Like a date.”
A date with Draco Malfoy. Things really had changed.
Harry Apparated into Draco’s hotel around seven to pick him up for their dinner date, and the concierge told him that he was in room 328. When he knocked, he heard a distracted shout of Come on in, Harry!
He pushed his way inside. Draco was sitting at the desk by the window – the hotel was quite posh, with a nice view of London – studying what looked like an immense black jewel that glittered in the light. Harry crossed the room and leaned against the desk.
“Is that what was inside the chest?” Harry asked as he shut the door.
Draco hummed in confirmation. “I don’t think it’s actually cursed,” he said, “though it’s definitely a powerful artifact and it’s definitely Dark. It seems to be some kind of weapon, though not the usual variety.”
He was wearing those lovely glasses to study it, Harry noticed, and his eyes trailed down the lines of his throat toward his chest.
“It has quite a bit of magical energy attached to it, and it seems as though it’s thirsty for more. Whatever Voldemort was doing with it, it was assuredly something big.”
“Hm,” Harry said, though he wasn’t paying as much attention as he should because he was caught up in studying the way Draco’s shirt folded and stretched across his stomach.
“I suppose if properly activated, it could release some sort of massive wave of energy… it very well may be some sort of bomb, now that I think about it – a magical bomb. That does sound right up his street.”
He was still wearing those Prada heels, Harry noticed, and he was tapping one heel quickly against the floor as he spoke. Harry quite liked the sound of it. He couldn’t imagine why he’d found it so bothersome back in Paris.
“Depending how much energy this thing can hold, I’d say it could destroy anything from a house to a large city.” Draco put it back on the desk. “My advice to the DMLE would be to drop this thing in a volcano somewhere. Weapons this powerful really shouldn’t exist.”
“Just curious,” Harry said, “but how long have you been dressing in Muggle clothes?”
Draco seemed a bit surprised by the change of subject. “Uh, quite some time now. It started not that long after the War, I think. I wanted a way to rebel against my repressive upbringing, and Muggle fashion seemed a good way to do it. Why do you ask?”
“I just quite like it on you, is all.”
Draco smirked and leaned back in his chair. He put his feet up on the desk, and oh, yes, all that leg. Harry always did like them leggy. The fitted leather trousers (Dolce & Gabbana, Harry recalled) did nothing to hide their shape.
“You’ve got a bit of a thing for the heels, don’t you?” Draco asked.
“I do,” Harry confessed.
“I could sort of tell. You kept staring at them, back in Paris.”
“And here I thought I’d done such a good job of being subtle,” Harry said, lightly reaching out and ghosting his hand up Draco’s calf. Draco took in a slow, deep breath and bit his lower lip.
“You know,” Draco said, “you’re supposed to try to seduce me after we’ve had dinner.”
Harry didn’t answer. He let his hand mover further up, across his knee, up his thigh, then around. Draco hissed and his hips bucked when Harry’s hand made it to crotch.
“We can order room service,” Draco said, voice taut.
“That is a fantastic idea,” Harry decided.
As much as Harry liked Draco in Muggle clothes, he found that he much preferred him when he wasn’t wearing anything at all. It was the highest of crimes that a body as gorgeous as his wasn’t walking around naked at all hours, and Harry made quick work of his cardigan and shirt. He used a spell, however, to remove the trousers, because—
“Heels stay on,” Harry muttered, tangling his fingers in Draco’s hair.
“You kinky bastard.”
Harry pulled him into a kiss and they went toppling onto the bed. He felt Draco’s fingernails scrape down his sides as Draco rolled on top of him, eagerly pulling at his auror robes.
“You have no idea how much I regretted not sucking you off back in Paris,” Draco muttered, and the words went straight past Harry’s brain and into his cock, dragging a heavy moan out of him. “Especially once I thought I might never get the chance.”
“You can have every chance you want,” Harry assured him, and Draco grabbed the hem of his trousers and pulled sharply – just enough to let Harry’s cock, half-hard and getting harder with every beat of his heart – spring free.
“By the way,” Draco said as he stared at it hungrily, “I don’t think I ever said – congratulations; this is one hell of a specimen.”
Harry laughed, but it turned into a shuddering groan when he felt Draco’s mouth close around the head. Harry shut his eyes and grit his teeth and Draco started bobbing, and God that mouth was perfect, hot and satiny and deliciously wet, everything about Draco was perfect and Harry could not get enough of it.
He knotted his hands in Draco’s hair in a silent plea for more. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Draco, Jesus.”
Encouraged, Draco ducked lower and fucking hell, that was the back of his throat, was he honestly going to—?
“Fuck! Draco, holy—!”
Yes, he was, he absolutely was; with a bit of shifting, Harry’s cock was suddenly fucking the tight vise of Draco’s throat, and it took all of Harry’s self-restraint not to use his grip in Draco’s hair to start pounding into it with abandon.
“Christ – Draco – you sh-should not have let me know you could do that,” Harry panted, his hips bucking off the bed on their own accord. “There is no way I will ever get enough of this…”
He looked down, which was an enormous mistake, because Draco was looking back up at him as Harry fucked his throat, and he looked so fucking incredible that Harry nearly came right then.
“I—” Harry stammered, “—Draco, I’m not…”
Draco pulled off him and there was precome on his lower lip, which he licked off languidly. Harry shuddered.
“Not just yet,” Draco whispered, and not unlike a cat, he crawled up Harry’s body. “I’ve never come so hard in my life as when you were fucking me. I’d like a repeat of that, if you don’t mind.”
Harry yanked Draco down by the hair into a savage, hungry kiss, and he flipped him over onto the bed. Draco whimpered and Harry let his kisses stray, down his jaw and neck, across his chest and stomach. His wand flew into his hand.
“Like it rough, do you?” Harry asked before casting a quick lubrication spell.
Draco yelped. “Hnn. Yes,” he answered, voice throaty and almost whining.
“Get off on a good, thorough fucking?” Harry neatly speared two fingers into him, and took tremendous satisfaction in the sharp whimper he got in response.
“Y-yes,” Draco managed.
“Little bit of pain with the pleasure?” Harry started fucking him, deeply and deliberately, with his fingers, and Draco writhed.
“Merlin,” he gasped. “Yes. Yes.”
“Mm,” Harry said, smiling, scissoring his fingers inside Draco and taking in every twist and arc of his body. “Good.” That meant he didn’t have to wait.
He grabbed one of Draco’s thighs and pushed it back against his torso, then rocked his hips forward and slammed into him.
Draco’s back bowed upward off the bed and he screamed, and Harry had to cast a quick, wandless silencing charm.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” Harry said, wasting no time in setting a quick, brutal rhythm. “You laughed, but you really are a fuck fantasy. Sex on legs. Long—” (he dropped a gnashing kiss against Draco’s calf) “—gorgeous—” (and another) “—legs—” (another) “—that look fucking fantastic in heels—”
“Harry,” Draco groaned, digging his fingernails into his back, and it only made Harry want to speed up, thrust faster and deeper, wring out every gorgeous little moan and whimper out of him. “G-God, I can’t take it—”
Sweat as beading on Harry’s back, and the heel of one of those gorgeous, wonderful Prada heels was scraping against Harry’s hip in time to thrusts. Draco was tensing up around his cock as he fucked him, body shaking and tight – he was close, Harry could tell.
He took Draco’s cock in one hand and fisted it roughly. Draco screamed again and his back bowed and his body clamped down around Harry and he came in perfect, pearly white stripes on his stomach and Harry’s world went slightly sideways as he picked up the pace, rutting into him until he couldn’t see anything behind the fireworks in his vision or hear anything past the sound of his heart beating in his ear and he was coming so hard that for a moment the universe stopped existing.
The one arm Harry was using to hold himself up was shaking, some part of him realized. Weakly, he pulled out of Draco and collapsed like a ton of bricks next to him.
“Fuck,” Draco said as he caught his breath. “That was… fuck.”
Harry would have made some comment about Draco being even less eloquent than Harry, but his mind couldn’t quite configure a sentence.
Draco rolled slightly. His hair was streaked with sweat but he was smiling, and he closed the distance between them with a kiss – gentle, easy, lingering. Harry retuned it, and it was the best kiss he’d ever had in his life.
“I’d like to state for the record,” Draco said against Harry’s mouth, “that as soon as the opportunity presents itself, I’d like to stake an exclusive claim on you and everything about you, and especially your cock.”
Harry laughed exhaustedly. He snaked his arms around the small of Draco’s back and yanked him closer, kissed him again. “You’ve got a pretty good chance of getting it.”
He could feel Draco’s smile. “Dinner?”
And he was – for so very many things.