It's so unprofessional, wanking over Harry Potter.
But Draco has seen him completely naked now, and that image just - it cannot be unseen . This is how Draco justifies it to himself as he brings himself off once - sometimes twice - a day imagining that beautiful cock and who it’s attached to.
The image of Harry Potter naked. Naked for him. On his knees for him. Fucking into him, hard and deep and toe-curlingly delicious.
Draco has wanked over it. A lot.
He quickly decides that the blame for his Potter-centric wankathon over the past week undoubtedly lies solely with the mastermind behind Sexy Aurors of the DMLE. The charity calendar couldn’t very well exclude the Saviour of the Wizarding World now could they? Sexy or not (though he is, Draco thinks, delectably so).
But then of course there’s the person who’s seen Draco’s freelance work for The Quibbler and suggested him as a photographer (Luna. It’s definitely, definitely Luna). And while he’s at it he can also blame Ivy, his assistant, for being so proficient at setting up that Draco has no choice but to help sort out the ‘models’ – chat to them, get them to loosen up a bit and take this for what it’s supposed to be: a laugh, a silly afternoon, all for a good fucking cause.
The last portion of blame goes to a man named Kettering, who Draco has never actually met. Waiting for his turn to be photographed, Weasley confides to Draco - because apparently a grown-up Weasley is also an exorbitantly chatty Weasley - that Potter initially declined the invitation to take part in the charity calendar. Hates having his picture taken, had to be convinced - Kettering guilted him into it, the prick (Weasley’s words).
Draco feels a hot flare of anger at this. He doesn’t like being photographed either - these days he prefers looking out at everyone else rather than the other way around - and feels a strangely protective urge to refuse to take Potter’s picture at all. He squashes it back down when the man himself emerges from the hair and make-up room wearing nothing but a towel and a wicked little smirk.
“Where do you want me, Malfoy?
Oh dear sweet fucking Merlin, Morgana and Mordred.
He’s gorgeous, of course. Dark stubble covers a sharp, masculine jaw and Draco’s eyes follow it to his mouth, lips dusky pink and a little shiny as if Potter has just licked them. He’s broad-chested, a light smattering of curly dark hair spread neatly across his torso and down hard, perfect abs to the edge of the towel, held teasingly loose at his waist. The rest of him is well muscled; arms sinewy and defined and looking more than perfectly capable of throwing Draco wherever he pleases.
Potter’s eyes are the same as they’d always been really, disarmingly bright and beautiful. Draco finds he can’t look at them too long lest he give himself away. At least Potter’s hair has always been a chaotic disaster, perhaps a small comfort can be found there.
In the end though, Draco has to add the hair team from the photoshoot for the copious wanking because clearly they have performed some sort of dark magic to make Potter’s hair look...to make him look...fuckable. And like he’s just been fucked.
There’s safety in it. The wanking.
Draco tells himself that he finds Potter attractive in the same way that probably most people do, he certainly can’t be alone in his thoughts about him. And he’s honest enough with himself these days that he can say - unequivocally - that he’s harboured this attraction for a little while.
There was a ministry social event - Draco can’t even remember what for, but he was there in a professional capacity only anyway. And if anyone recognised him as Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater then it was only for the quickest of moments before they seemed to get over it once they’d spotted his camera. Bellies sharply sucked in, hair fluffed up as they posed for him, smiled demurely at him. Winked at him. Squeezed his arm a bit too long before he moved away on to the next crowd.
It was just a job, and he had a list of people he needed to make sure he photographed - but there were three names on that list that left him feeling faintly sick. Of course the golden trio were gracious about it, but the shot was awful - too posed, too stiff, too resigned. The one he actually submitted for the editorial was a candid he got much later, much more Draco’s style. The three of them laughing, in their own little world, oblivious to his presence.
Granger requested additional prints and sent a thank-you card in return.
It was different after that; civility turned into friendly small talk which in turn grew into something not altogether unpleasant. Granger was a brilliant conversationalist and Weasley was a bit of a hilarious gossip once he was on his second glass of champagne. And Potter…confused him.
Outwardly he appeared friendly enough, but was always a little bit aloof when the others were there. And that was the thing: Draco started to get the feeling that Potter kept trying to get him alone.
Which was absurd of course.
But the more Benefits and Galas and Banquets and Charity Balls there were that brought them together, the less absurd Draco thought it was until he finally figured it out: Draco was simply Potter’s escape from the near-constant demand for his attention.
“Thank fuck you’re here,” he’d said one night, sidling up to Draco as he stood changing the lenses on his camera.
Draco raised an imperious eyebrow. “Twenty minutes? That has to be a new record. You usually don’t come and find me for at least an hour.”
Potter huffed out a laugh but his cheeks pinked up a bit anyway.
Draco smiled in commiseration and gave him a quick once-over. “You look nice by the way.”
Nice was putting it mildly. Potter was dressed in very, very form-fitting midnight blue robes with a fine brocade woven in that you’d miss if you weren’t looking.
Draco was looking.
“Thanks, Malfoy.” Potter started adjusting the cuffs, as if his little outfit wasn’t tailored within an inch to fit him like a dream. Potter gestured at the camera. “Who’s on your hit list tonight?”
“Usual suspects.” Draco shrugged. “The minister, obviously. Benefactors. A few celebrities. You.”
Potter rolled his eyes when Draco started to lift his camera teasingly. “Don’t you dare.”
“Sorry Potter, you’re on my list.” But Draco set his camera down anyway. “Don’t worry. When I get you, you won’t even know I’m there.”
Potter hummed thoughtfully and leaned in close, lowering his voice. “Is that because you know all the good hiding places, Malfoy?”
Draco offered a coy smile. “Maybe.”
“Do you want to –”
“Ah! Auror Potter!”
Neither of them looked up at the interruption, though Potter’s frustration was clear in the way he’d set his jaw. Draco’s brain was flitting wildly between ‘What? Do I want to what?’ and ‘Yes. Whatever it is. Yes, I want to’.
“Duty calls,” Potter murmured, stepping away.
The rest of the night went as expected; Draco got his photos, treated himself to approximately one glass of champagne and caught up on the latest scandals with Weasley. True to Draco’s prediction, Potter didn’t notice when his photo was taken. He also didn’t notice when Draco left, camera bag hoisted over his shoulder, sparing the smallest glance out on the dancefloor as Potter moved gracefully in the arms of someone else, his robes flaring out beautifully behind him.
So, fine. He finds Potter attractive. What Draco is less honest with himself about is how deeply rooted that attraction is, and how it has unfurled and taken hold around his heart.
It’s deeply gratifying when Potter’s easy confidence falters as Draco gets him into position. A pink tongue darts out and licks an upper lip, a blush creeps into stubbly cheeks; Potter shuffles awkwardly, clutching the towel.
“Try to relax.” Draco plasters on his blandest smile. “I just need to get you into a good light and we can go from there.”
“Right. Light. Of course. Photographers need good light.”
Potter’s nerves calm Draco’s own, and he finds it easier then, easier to set up the first few test shots with Potter standing still. They even chat . Draco gives him a few ideas about what they could do for the photo, Potter asks what Weasley was like.
“Surprisingly enthusiastic,” Draco says, feeling oddly warm all over when Potter laughs.
There’s a shared smile that lingers a bit too long to perhaps be considered friendly but Draco knows he’d be playing a silly game with himself if he let his mind try to unravel that, so in the end he just holds his hand out for Potter’s towel.
And then he’s naked.
Just. Fucking. Naked.
Potter’s photo isn’t anything spectacular and privately Draco actually thinks the photo of Weasley has turned out objectively better: his hair had photographed incredibly well, contrasting perfectly with icy blue of his eyes as he stared directly into the camera, unsmiling. It’s intense and moody, the swirls of a scar stark against freckled skin, tendrils of damaged tissue winding up his arm and snaking over his shoulder. He looks fierce and wild and dangerous, and Draco feels a lovely twist of pride at how it’s come out. He’s not quite sure what the creative team of Sexy Aurors of the DMLE will make of it but decides he really doesn’t give a shit.
Potter’s photo is more in keeping with what the calendar people probably had in mind. He’s got one arm pulled back, his hand cupping the back of his head in that slightly self-conscious hair-ruffling way that Draco has become achingly familiar with. He’s grinning at something off-camera in a way that looks both shy and teasing.
Or maybe Draco just wants him to look that way because he knows that Potter was looking at him.
Draco submits the photos and doesn’t think about what that look could mean.
He just needs to get Potter out of his system. That’s all. Because it’s just the nakedness, and therefore a temporary, fleeting...thing. It would pass.
And if it didn’t then Draco would just need to hex his cock off before he went blind from all the deeply unprofessional wanking.
Of course the interviews fuck everything up.
Word somehow gets around what a ‘laugh’ the photoshoot was, and how at ease Draco made them all feel. The brilliant minds behind the calendar decide they want a mini-interview conducted with each ‘month’ and that Draco should be the one to do it.
“You’ve got to,” says Ivy, her tone coming out less like a commiserating friend and more like a strict mother admonishing a naughty child.
“You fucking do it. You’re my assistant. I’m delegating this to you.”
She just snorts, amused. Petulant little witch. “They asked for you. They want you.”
Draco frowns. “Well who is this ‘they’ anyway?”
Ivy ignores him.
So, Draco and his notebook and quill are set up at a little table in the DMLE break room and each Auror he has photographed sits with him, blushing like proverbial virgins when it dawns on each and every one that Draco has seen them utterly starkers. They all leave happy enough though, grinning with both a touch of embarrassment and pride, which Draco thinks is quite sweet actually. They’re alright, the Aurors.
Potter arrives last. Unlike the others, he’s not wearing his Auror robes but a plain grey t-shirt and faded jeans that sit a little too low in the hip to be decent.
Potter doesn’t sit. “The coffee in here is terrible. Let’s do this somewhere else.”
Draco knows he should point out that Potter doesn’t actually have to drink the coffee at all, that this needn’t be anything more than a five-minute chat so he can write something banal and impersonal that no one will actually read. But he can’t stop looking at Potter’s hands. They’re gripping the back of the chair that he’s supposed to be sitting in while Draco interviews him. They’re just so... large and manly. Like they’re very adept at manhandling.
A shiver runs up his spine when Potter extends one of those hands to him, a cheeky glint in his eye. “Come on Malfoy, run away with me?”
This is a colossally bad idea, thinks Draco, lifting his hand to Potter’s in what can only be referred to as a spectacularly embarrassing display of surrender.