For the first few weeks, Harry sniggers along with everyone else, looking on as Malfoy is tripped up, as his robes are spelled to stick to the floor, as the sugar bowl is charmed to fill with salt just as he’s helping himself.
Harry doesn’t think twice about it as he snorts under his breath and looks away, refusing to watch on and note how Malfoy reacts.
Or rather, doesn’t react.
Malfoy remains impassive, quickly catching himself when he stumbles over a leg stuck out across his path; quietly mends his robes when they give away at the seams and rip along one side; splutters soundlessly into his salty tea before calmly dumping it down the sink.
He holds his head up high, sweeping away in an infuriatingly dignified manner, and barely seems to hear the cruel snickering that follows him.
Harry hates that Malfoy doesn’t whip his wand out and threaten to hex everybody’s eyeballs out of their sockets. He hates that he doesn’t throw murderous glares over his narrow shoulders. He wishes Malfoy would show some semblance of the utter arsehole Harry tells himself he is.
Harry hates that now, he has to force out a laugh as he watches Malfoy’s quill spurt long jets of green ink into his pale face, the grey eyes squeezing shut, the pink lips pressing together in a grimace to avoid letting in some of the ink.
Harry, eventually, stops joining in altogether, merely looking away or pretending to be immersed in his notes as Malfoy’s hair is spelled pink, or his seat hit with Prickling Jinxes.
In their last term, they finally start practising in the simulated training arenas and Harry notes with grudging admiration that Malfoy is incredibly nifty; he’s lightning quick on his feet, is nearly robotically calm in the face of hexes and curses thrown his way and is unbelievably skilled at casting multiple spells with a single strike of his wand.
Head Auror Robards is generous with his praise for Malfoy and Harry can’t even bring himself to resent it. He and Malfoy rank among the top five and, unfathomably enough, he’s almost as happy for Malfoy as he is thrilled with himself.
Until he notices that the commendation received by Malfoy only seems to make matters worse for him. The others pick on him worse than ever and Harry finds himself covertly throwing hexes off of Malfoy’s belongings while the others are waiting around for him to set them off, quietly blocking jinxes; furtively Vanishing the vial of Babbling Potion that Trent Gibbons carries to slip into Malfoy’s tea, silently replacing the notes that Carla Walters steals from Malfoy’s bag.
During their final exam, Harry doesn’t notice when one of the numerous, charmed mannequins, dressed in flowing black robes with black masks across their inanimate faces, lifts its arm stiffly and shoots what would have been a severely painful Scalding Hex at him.
He drops and rolls instantly, but the scarlet jet of light heads right at him before bouncing off of a sudden Shield Charm that bubbles around him out of nowhere. Jumping up to his feet, Harry Reductos the mannequin to smithereens before he dives back down behind a low brick wall and peers over it, just in time to see a flash of platinum blond hair disappearing around one of the thick, artificial trees.
He wants to be furious with Malfoy – wants to yell into his stupid pointy face asking him how he dared to think that Harry needed his help, especially during their fucking final exam; which self respecting Slytherin does that?!
Instead, he simply throws out the prank shampoo that Gibbons replaces Malfoy’s shampoo with and watches everybody’s disappointment with deep satisfaction when Malfoy emerges from the showers, towelling his gold hair into an artfully tousled mess, totally unaware that he’d nearly been rendered temporarily bald.
On the day they’re all officially named Aurors, Harry is surprised to find Malfoy hanging back with the rest of their loudly celebrating peers, talking softly with Amanda West, a shy, quiet girl who’d sat next to Malfoy through all their theory classes.
He watches as Malfoy gallantly takes Amanda’s empty glass from her, walking over to the long table in the corner for a refill, ladling out two glasses of sangria that at least three of their classmates have further spiked with Ogden’s.
Malfoy has just turned around to head back over to Amanda when it happens.
Harry is a split second too late to pull his wand out and he looks on in horror as the enormous bowl of wine rises into the air, and in the blink of an eye, shoots forward and tips its contents onto Malfoy’s fair head.
Harry hears the little gasp that escapes Malfoy as the cold liquid drenches him right through his thin white shirt, staining the material a deep crimson, trickles of it running down his white face, his eyes round with shock, mouth slightly open.
There’s silence for three seconds before there’s raucous laughter and vile hooting filling the room and Harry’s ears are ringing unpleasantly, viscous fury thundering through his veins.
Trent Gibbons dances forward with a fucking camera and approaches Malfoy who’s still rooted to the spot, blinking down at the puddle of wine around his feet. He jerks back when the flash goes off in his face, his nostrils flaring, his lip curling.
He doesn’t remember getting to his feet, but quite suddenly Harry is grabbing Gibbons by his collar, eliciting a yelp from him, and roughly dragging him backwards, jerking him around and yanking the camera out of his hand.
Harry takes fierce pleasure in chucking the device onto the floor with a crunch of breaking lenses, and stomps on it with one booted foot until nothing remained of it but a scattered pile of mullock.
Then he’s hoisting the rat faced twat up by the collar, barely registering the muffled gasps sounding around the room, before slamming him onto the floor, the boy yelling out in pain and unmistakable fear.
“Never again will you go anywhere near him, do you understand me?” Harry’s voice doesn’t sound like his own at all. “You will not rag him, harm him, touch him or anything that belongs to him, ever again. Do you hear me, Gibbons?”
The mousy idiot simply holds his hands up in front of his face and nods fervently, visibly trembling.
Harry stands there, glaring around the room in extended warning for a few seconds too long, and when he turns around, he sees a trail of wine leading to the door and a shiny loafer disappearing around it.
Harry runs out and down the corridor, wondering if Malfoy had learnt how to Apparate in and out of the Ministry wards, because he seems to have simply disappeared.
But then he rounds the corner and finds Malfoy standing in front of the lifts, impatiently jabbing at the button, glancing around at Harry when he bursts into view and then quickly looking away.
He’s still soaked and as Harry approaches him, he can see Malfoy’s round nipples through his shirt, the ridges of several ribs, the shallow dip of his navel.
Throat suddenly dry, he drags his eyes away and back upto his face, across which Malfoy is running a sleeved arm.
He’s just opened his mouth to say something utterly inane when the lift jangles up onto their floor, grilles opening noisily, that cool voice announcing the floor.
Malfoy steps in quickly and the grilles are about to slide shut behind him when Harry stops them and follows him inside.
There’s five deafening beats of silence before, “If you’re waiting for a thank y--”
“Good. I don’t need you to fucking rescue me, Potter.”
“I didn’t need your Shield Charm either.”
Malfoy turns his head and regards him coolly. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The grilles clatter open and Malfoy strides out, heading straight for the Floos.
“Why didn’t you ever give it back to them?”
The question Harry had promised to never ask out loud has rung out across the deserted Atrium before he can stop himself.
Malfoy halts in his tracks, not turning around, his back poker straight.
“If you think, on some stupid, masochistic level, that you deserved all of that--” Harry breaks off when with an angry hiss, Malfoy turns around, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Don’t presume to know me on any level, Potter,” he spits, and bizarrely enough, Harry is delighted to see the man looking like himself after months of aggravating passivity. “I’m not a fucking doormat, but I’m certainly nothing like that foul cretin Gibbons and his fucking posse of blithering idiots. I will not retaliate and thereby stoop to their fetid level.”
He finishes rather abruptly, panting slightly, glaring at Harry for a few seconds before whipping around and hurrying to the nearest Floo, disappearing in a burst of viridian flames.
The next day, Robards, in a show of blatant favouritism that makes Harry uncomfortable in his own skin, summons Harry into his office to ask him if he, only he, Harry, specifically had any preference regarding whom he’d like to be partnered with.
Harry has blurted out Malfoy’s name before Robards has finished speaking and the thickly moustachioed wizard blinks at him.
“Well, alright then.” He seems a little taken aback. “I suppose you’d make a good team; he’s terribly good at tactics and strategies and you’re undeniably the best at combat and duelling." He gives Harry a fond, fatherly smile that makes him cringe the slightest bit.
“Malfoy is pretty darn good at duelling too,” he mumbles, before being waved out with a warm chuckle.
Harry discreetly keeps a close watch on Malfoy when Robards pairs everyone up that evening. He’s expecting, if not an enraged glare, at least a sullen lip-curl thrown his way.
But when Robards calls out their names, Malfoy simply blinks once before stepping forward and accepting his name badge and official robes, completely ignoring Harry, his expression carefully controlled.
Harry doesn’t acknowledge his slight disappointment at the complete lack of a reaction.
Turns out Harry couldn’t have picked a better partner for himself. He’d felt no small amount of regret, and intense trepidation, at his split-second decision, completely sure that Malfoy and he would fuck every single case up and that he’d have to amble back into Robard’s office and shamelessly request to be reassigned.
But fuck, he and Malfoy are flawless together out in the field and Harry feels ridiculously proud of his impulsive decision.
While indoors, they’re... less flawless. They sit in their cramped little office with its adjacent desks, both of which seem to be perennially covered in ridiculous amounts of paper work, and they, well, bicker.
Malfoy glares holes through Harry when he’s late; he hates it when Harry leaves countless mugs of tea, some half finished, all over their office; he gnashes his teeth every time Harry paces restlessly around the tiny space griping about wanting a new case, or suddenly drops into vigorous push-ups to occupy himself, loftily lecturing him on the benefits of cultivating patience; he complains loudly when Harry lags behind on his reports, claiming he would earn the reputation of a lazy lout, and not Harry.
Harry, in turn, hates it that Malfoy doesn’t let him eat at his desk; he grumbles in an incessant stream under his breath every time Malfoy bullies him into staying back late to finish his reports, resenting him even more the next day when he comes in to a smug smirk and the relieving absence of paper work; it irritates him that Malfoy is always perfectly turned out, and that he makes better tea than Harry himself does; it irks him that he finds himself admiring Malfoy’s pouty mouth, long neck, and skilful fingers, and that he’s started featuring in more than an acceptable number of Harry’s dreams, most of them blatantly sexual in nature.
Harry stares at Malfoy every time he thinks he isn’t aware, noting little details about him that he’s sure he can’t pass off as just friendly observation. The way his light hair falls into his eyes and the exact amount of time it takes Malfoy to become aware of it and push his fringe back behind his ear; the way he chews constantly on his lower lip while he makes all of those copious notes on whichever case they’re working on, fastidiously covering every little detail, going over it carefully before grudgingly making Harry a copy; the soft sighs that escape him as he massages the nape of his own neck at the end of the day, grey eyes falling shut, pink mouth slightly open, the sight unfailingly leaving Harry’s cock half hard.
Harry doesn’t spend too long dwelling on the fact that he apparently, quite desperately wants into Malfoy’s pants. He’s bent and has made his peace with that, and Malfoy is one of the most attractive men in the Ministry. It would honestly be weird if Harry didn’t want into Malfoy’s pants.
It’s all good, he tells himself on repeat.
And so when they’re pressed up against each other and leaning around a wall, watching for any signs of the suspected perpetrator exiting the illegal potions lab, Harry doesn’t think twice before surreptitiously breathing in Malfoy’s fresh, sweet scent as deeply as he can.
Then they’re busting the lab and find themselves faced with more numbers than they’d anticipated and by the time Malfoy sends out a Patronus and re-enters the fray, Harry has a sprained ankle and several stinging welts all over him. He’s just sent out a Body-Bind Curse flying out at random when Malfoy rams his shoulder into his chest, sending him flying back, a curse whizzing past them both with a hissing sizzle.
He’s well aware that Malfoy merely did what any responsible partner ought to have done, but that doesn’t stop him from angrily shoving Malfoy against the wall the second the Ministry medic leaves the room after patching him up later that day.
“You think you’re the only competent wizard around here, Malfoy?” he snarls, leaning in a little closer than he ordinarily would have during an argument, haphazardly buttoning his shirt up over his freshly Healed chest.
“I think that curse would have melted the flesh right off your bones had I not pushed you out of the way,” Malfoy answers calmly, propping one foot up against the wall and crossing his arms, cocking an eyebrow at Harry.
“I had it under control.”
“Oh, yes, as was clearly evident,” Malfoy drawls, mouth lifting into a one-sided smirk. “You didn’t look like you needed my help at all, what with all that apish hobbling around you were--”
Harry cuts him off by grabbing him by his pointy chin and sucking his mouth into his own.
Malfoy gasps softly, his hands coming up to press flat against Harry’s chest, first applying gentle pressure as if to push him away, but then, a split second later, curling around the material of his half unbuttoned shirt.
Then he actually presses into Harry, leaning up into the kiss, and Harry feels a triumphant rush not unlike the one he experienced when his hand closed around the Snitch.
Harry coaxes the warm mouth open with his own and carefully pushes his tongue in, stroking and teasing Malfoy’s tongue to join in, delighted when he actually responds further. Malfoy’s tongue twists around his own, and Harry’s breath huffs out of him in an excited burst. He wraps his arms around the thin waist and pulls him even closer, Malfoy’s soft moan making its way straight to his stirring cock.
He nips at the full lips between his own and Malfoy gasps again, immediately nibbling at Harry’s lower lip, slanting his head and deepening the kiss--
--before suddenly jerking away as if stung, breathing heavily through his mouth and staring almost accusingly at Harry, lips wet and dark, face flushed a delicate pink.
“Malf--” Harry has no clue what to say which is probably why he doesn’t stop Malfoy when he firmly pushes Harry away and leaves the room, Harry vaguely wondering if the mild pain potion the medic had given him came with the side effect of inducing terribly vivid hallucinations.
Ones in which Malfoy’s mouth tasted better than treacle tart and which left Harry almost delirious for more.
They don’t talk about it – or acknowledge it in any way at all. And Harry isn’t the least bit surprised.
What Harry is, is flat out obsessed with Malfoy – again.
The fact that he spends nearly every hour of the day right up in Malfoy’s sharp, arrogantly pretty face doesn’t help. Malfoy doesn’t seem upset and isn’t any less annoying than he ordinarily is, but he also shows no indication of wanting to talk about what had happened and Harry is afraid he might tip the scales the wrong way if he initiates The Conversation.
So every time they make casual physical contact, like when their fingers accidentally brush when Malfoy hands him his tea or as Harry passes over files, Malfoy barely even blinks, while Harry instantly starts mentally undressing him. It’s rather maddening, really.
And over two weeks later when Malfoy continues to go about his days like he hadn’t clung to Harry and snogged him back rather skilfully, Harry is nearly completely out of patience. He’s tightly wound up round the clock and finds himself childishly picking a fight every chance he gets only for Malfoy to nearly never take the bait; he’d instead stare impassively back at him before quietly enquiring whether he’d like a cuppa.
Until the day Harry leaps between Malfoy and a stray curse during a raid, gets hit right in the chest, and promptly passes out. He then drifts in and out of consciousness, registering nothing in particular till he hears Malfoy’s angrily gritted, “You fucking dung-brained berk,” right next to his ear, and a warm hand crushing his own.
When he finally comes around, he’s at Mungo’s and Malfoy is glaring down at him looking absolutely livid, bloodless face streaked with grime, his spun gold hair endearingly messy, arms crossed tightly across his thin chest.
“What the fuck did you think you were doing back there?” he spits and Harry grins, pushing himself up, wincing slightly as faint pulses of pain streak through his whole body.
“It’s annoying, isn’t it?” He tilts his head.
“Is everything a joke to you?” Malfoy’s expression darkens further. “You were electrocuted, Potter – they said your heart nearly stopped.”
“Oh, shut up, I’m alright, aren’t I?” Harry coolly breaks the spell cast to monitor his heart rate.
Malfoy takes one long step forward and smacks him up the side of his head – hard.
“OW! Fucking git--”
“Don’t ever do that again!” Malfoy yells into his face, jaw clenched tight, silver eyes wild. “Just cast a fucking Protego! Merlin, Potter, why are you such a fucking idi--”
Harry grabs him by one arm and yanks him down, kissing him silent, and Malfoy responds instantly.
He responds beautifully.
He props one knee on the bed next to Harry, grabs him by the hair with two nimble fingered hands and kisses him hard, biting at his lips and licking into his mouth and growling these fierce little growls that makes Harry yank him forward by the hips and push up further into the kiss.
Despite the murmurs of pain still thrumming through him, his cock starts to fill gleefully and Harry’s hand, quite out of his control, slides down to firmly cup Malfoy’s arse over his robes, making him gasp out of the kiss, his eyes glazed, his mouth already swollen.
“Potter,” he breathes, his forehead pressed to Harry’s, his fists painfully tight in Harry’s hair.
Harry simply pulls him down further and kisses him again, Malfoy yelping into his mouth as he falls half onto his lap. Crushing him to himself, holding him firmly in place, Harry takes his mouth hungrily, lapping and sucking, nipping at his tongue and lips, swallowing his little sighs and moans, brazenly rubbing circles over Malfoy’s round bum.
“Fuck,” Malfoy groans, breaking away once more, closing his eyes and pressing his arse back lightly into Harry’s hand.
Just as he’s about to lean back in to snog him some more, there are voices heard from outside and Malfoy quite literally throws himself out of Harry’s lap, very nearly falling onto his face, stumbling across the room unsteadily.
Harry quickly pulls the covers over his tented groin and slips on his straightest best face while Malfoy turns to the window, leaning his hands into the sill, blinking rapidly, trembling lightly.
He’s given a quick once over, his vitals being noted down carefully, before he’s reluctantly declared fit for discharge. Malfoy silently hands him his outer robes, signs the relevant hospital documents and politely thanks the Healer.
He’s about to sweep out of the room after the nurse when Harry stops him with a crushing grip around one wrist, slams the door shut, pins him against the wall and buries his face into the side of his neck, biting and sucking. Malfoy gasps and tips his head back, bony fingers tangling in Harry’s hair as he whispers inaudible encouragement. Harry’s head spins and he shivers at the feel of Malfoy’s erection against his thigh, groaning a hoarse, “Want to fuck you,” into the hickeys he leaves on the alabaster skin.
“I- I think that can be arranged for,” Malfoy breathes, his whole body lurching as Harry sucks on the fragrant spot under his ear.
Harry Apparates them straight to his bedroom at Grimmauld Place and wastes not even a single second before roughly stripping Malfoy down, pausing to stare in wide-eyed wonder at the stunning stretch of lean, wiry muscles and flawless, milk-white skin once he’s ripped his boxers off him. Malfoy lets himself be pushed back against the pillows, moaning and crying out as Harry touches and tastes him.
As prickly and difficult as he is at work, Malfoy is incredibly pliant in bed.
He doesn’t resist when Harry pushes his thighs apart, nor when he fingers him loose. He arches up into Harry as he pushes into him and shakes violently while he’s fucked, coming hard with a low, tremulous moan.
He’s silent afterwards, panting quietly into the semi darkness for a while before sliding out of bed, gathering his clothes and slipping into the en suite.
Harry leans back against the headboard, charms the lights on and sits there for several agitated minutes wondering if they’d just fucked everything up, when Malfoy emerges, fully dressed, hair neatly in place. He’s Healed the hickeys on his neck, and wears a calm, unruffled expression.
“Right," he walks up to the bed, pulling something out of his robe pocket, “I’m going to nip into work and tell Robards his most prized Auror is okay.” He suddenly grins, eyes twinkling merrily and Harry instantly feels the knot in his chest unclench. “You need to take this after dinner,” Malfoy adds, placing a vial of a pellucid green potion on his bedside table. “You might want to take the day off tomorrow.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, Malfoy.”
“The Healer said to avoid physical strain," he shrugs gracefully, “Something to do with your heart rate and all.”
“And you’re telling me this after sex?” Harry grins, “You mean I could have died with my cock up your arse just now?”
Malfoy’s answering blush is enough to make Harry want to risk dying all over again.
Malfoy is ridiculously strict when it comes to fooling around at work. He scowls darkly every time he catches Harry staring at him; he elbows Harry away when he’s pinned against various surfaces and when Harry tries to cop a feel, he slaps his hands away sharply with a growled, ‘Control yourself, Potter, for fuck’s sake.’
Harry suspects that part of why he grabs Malfoy’s arse several times every day is just so he can see those immensely amusing glares thrown at him. The other reason he is does it is, well, because Malfoy’s superb arse is just there, like all the time, and to be very honest, Harry’s never had much self-control.
Unyielding as he is while at work, Malfoy is putty in Harry’s hands in bed - and if that doesn’t just go straight to Harry’s head. The way he simply melts into the mattress, the way his tiny, pink pucker practically opens itself up for Harry's fingers and cock, the helpless cries he muffles into the pillows or against Harry’s neck – all of it is enough to keep Harry riding a near constant high.
Harry thrills in the bruises he leaves on the white hips, the long thighs and especially the slender, graceful neck; he loves brushing his fingertips over the patches of discoloured skin the next day at work, Malfoy shuddering involuntarily before weakly pushing him away with a hoarsely murmured, ‘Later.’
The look in Malfoy’s eyes in those moments, the naked heat in them for that fraction of a second, is nearly enough to send Harry reeling. Malfoy is shamelessly submissive in bed but at the same time is wildly enthusiastic, giving himself up completely to Harry and readily taking everything Harry gives him, desperately begging for more.
Most evenings, Harry takes Malfoy back to Grimmauld Place to fuck, Malfoy going willingly enough, but never staying too long. He’d slowly catch his breath, let Harry roll him over for another round if he wanted to, and then set about getting dressed.
They don’t cuddle, they don’t talk about their relationship (or lack thereof) and they certainly never fall asleep in each other’s arms. Malfoy never invites Harry over to his place, and never shows any interest in spending time with him outside work or outside his bedroom.
Not for lack of trying on Harry’s part; he finds himself filled with a curious thrill at the thought of waking up next to a warm, sleepy Malfoy; or at the prospect of cooking a meal together or eating straight out of take away boxes on the sofa in front of the telly.
They are strangely delightful, if slightly fuzzy, mental pictures and Harry doesn’t really know how to go about turning them into reality. If and when he ever slung an arm around Malfoy after sex, he would simply sigh softly, push Harry away and hurry out of bed. On the few occasions Harry suggested getting a bite to eat before heading over to his place, Malfoy invariably claimed he had other plans and would rather they get done with the sex so he can get on with them.
At work, Malfoy spoke of nothing but work, and looked rather baffled if ever Harry asked him personal questions.
“What’s your favourite ice cream?” Harry asks one evening as they prepare to leave work. Malfoy, halfway through Vanishing the contents of the wastepaper bin, looks almost startled.
He lifts an eyebrow, putting the bin back down and coming around his desk. “Why?”
Harry shrugs. “Mine’s butter pecan.” Malfoy simply continues to blink at him. “You want to go grab a pint somewhere?”
“No,” Malfoy’s reply is too quick to be genuine, “I mean, I have oth--”
“Other plans, yes," Harry rolls his eyes, “Tell me, what are these other plans?”
Malfoy is instantly annoyed. “Has nobody taught you not to stick your nose in other people’s business?”
“Other people, sure. But you’re not other people; you’re my partner.”
Malfoy splutters softly and his eyes bulge. “I’m your what?!”
Harry frowns and indicates around their shared office. “We’re partners, Malfoy.” Malfoy goes pink and Harry’s stomach flutters at what ‘partner’ could otherwise mean.
“Whatever, Potter. Can we go fuck now?”
Cock stirring at the casually presented question, Harry steps forward and flicks open Malfoy’s outer robes with one hand, his breath catching audibly as Harry prowls closer.
“Not-- not here.” Malfoy’s breath shudders out of him as Harry leans down and licks his way up the side of his neck.
“Just lock the door, Malfoy.”
Harry hears the whoosh of an industrial strength Locking Charm and several different Silencing Charms falling into place and smiles into Malfoy’s collar bones, swiftly getting him out of his clothes.
“Potter," Malfoy’s moan is like warm honey, and Harry bites down gently around one pebbled pink nipple, lifting him onto his desk by the waist, “Let’s... let’s do this properly in a bed, yeah?” he whispers, his hands flying up to grip Harry’s shoulders.
“We always do it in a bed,” Harry breathes, flattening the fine line of downy golden hair leading down from Malfoy’s navel, wetting the thin strands with his tongue and pushing it flat against the flushed skin. “Besides, I’m rather in the mood to eat your arse out right this second.”
Malfoy gasps, bucking slightly. “Potter, oh god, please,” he whimpers as Harry licks the foreskin off the head of his rapidly stiffening cock, pushing the folds down gently. “Potter, this is so in...inappropriate--oh!”
His weak complaints evaporate into nothing as Harry hitches his knees up and prods the tip of his tongue into him. Cupping the underside of his knees, Harry pushes the knobbly joints onto the table on either side of his heaving chest, Malfoy’s arsehole glinting moistly up at him, perfectly displayed just for him.
“Been wanting to do this all fucking day,” Harry growls shortly before sucking wetly on the pink flesh, relentlessly tickling the inside of his rim until Malfoy is screaming into the back of one hand. He licks his way easily into the unresisting, lightly quivering channel, pushing his tongue in as far as he can, opening his mouth wide. Malfoy’s sweaty hands slip over the surface of the desk, smearing streaks across the wood, his neck strained as he throws his head back, his vague cursing about how he’d always known that Harry was going to be the death of him making Harry chuckle.
“Tell me... What do you need, Malfoy?” He licks roughly along the length of his crease, slicking it with spit.
“Get the fuck away from me if you’re not going to fuck me right this instant!” Malfoy thrashes in his grip and Harry grins against his loosened hole.
“So those are my only two options?” he releases his knees and presses a thumb into Malfoy, undoing his fly with his free hand, “Either fuck you, or fuck off?”
Malfoy spreads his legs wide open. “Can you stop being a fucking twat for just two minutes?!” he hisses.
“Already that close, huh?” Harry slicks his cock and lines himself up, laughing and jerking away when Malfoy half-heartedly throws a punch at him.
Harry catches his hand and then looks right into his eyes, pushing past the initial resistance and then sinking into him completely. Malfoy’s fingers lace themselves through his as they both groan out of synch.
“Fuck.” Malfoy’s whole front is flushed right up to his pink cock, and he seems to be having trouble keeping his eyes open. “Fuck, yes... Potter- Potter, move, c’mon.”
Harry slings both arms under his knees and begins a rough, terribly satisfying fuck, pounding into Malfoy at a quick, steady pace. His balls slap crudely against Malfoy's arse, Malfoy emitting incoherent sounds of pleasure as he wanks himself.
“Stop that,” Harry snaps, his hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, his breath coming out in short huffs. Malfoy whimpers pleadingly, his back bowing and straightening in repeated undulations as he bucks up into Harry’s thrusts, shoulders pressing into the table as he arches, his hand not leaving his cock. “Malfoy, I said stop,” Harry growls, hips pausing as he firmly pulls Malfoy’s hand off his cock.
Malfoy squirms. “Let go,” he pants, simultaneously bucking onto Harry’s cock. “Fucking hell - fuck me, dammit!”
Harry pulls out and Malfoy swears loudly. “Turn over,” Harry rasps, not waiting for Malfoy to obey before reaching down and manhandling him so he’s bent over the edge of the desk, arse in the air.
Reaching for his wand, he grabs both his hands and pins them to the small of his back. “Incarcerous,” he murmurs, directing the silver cords until they’re twisted firmly around his wrists.
“Potter, you--” Malfoy’s shoulders flex as he pulls experimentally at the firmly knotted ropes. “You bastard,” he whimpers suddenly, his forehead thumping onto the table, hips moving as he slides his cock over the smooth surface of the desk, desperate for friction.
Harry presses one hand over Malfoy’s bound wrists and slowly plunges back into him, watching the way his cock splits open the dusky rim nestled between the shadowy cleft.
“Fucking love your arse, Malfoy,” he groans, immediately rutting brutally, holding him in place with a punishing grip on his hips. “It’s made for cock, your arse.”
Malfoy cries out as Harry almost accidentally finds his prostate, and a few seconds later he’s coming under him with a shrill, garbled sound, canting his hips out, tightening his arse deliberately around Harry.
“You wanker!” Harry squeezes his eyes shut as the increased pressure shoves him violently over the edge. He comes in several sharp bursts into Malfoy, pulling out to spurt warmly onto the spotless globes of his arse before pushing back in and finishing with a soft grunt.
Straightening up after a few winded seconds, Harry watches his cock slip heavily out of the sticky wet hole, thin trickles of white following it. He collects his come on two fingertips and then pushes the digits into Malfoy, Malfoy gasping and clenching around him, whining out a soft, “Morgana’s tits, Potter.”
Laughing quietly, Harry fingers him with vigorous jabs, watching avidly, biting his lip as his cock twitches feebly at the incredibly erotic sight of Malfoy’s loosened, dripping hole eagerly devouring his digits.
“At least untie me now,” Malfoy pleads, tugging fruitlessly against the bonds.
Harry relents, waving one hand carelessly over the ropes, the gleaming length immediately disappearing. Malfoy pulls his arms over his head, rubbing his wrists lightly, pushing his arse up onto Harry’s fingers with a soft sound when Harry reaches out to rub his come into the spheres of his bottom, pushing it into his skin.
“What plans do you have?” Harry tries again. Malfoy rises onto tip toes, panting softly, ignoring his question completely. Harry pushes his fingers in as deep as he can and curls them downwards, Malfoy’s body twitching wildly as he squeezes his prostate. “Malfoy,” he says, slightly threateningly, now circling the nub lazily but not touching it.
“Fuck you, fuck you,” Malfoy’s blunt nails scrabble across the desk. Harry grazes one fingertip over the tight knot and Malfoy keens loudly, “Drinks, I’m going for drinks!”
Harry’s fingers stop moving altogether. His gut tightens and he stares blankly at the gorgeous white mound of flesh quivering around his fingers.
And, no, he doesn’t want to think about why the mental picture of Malfoy smiling up at a faceless man in a bar somewhere with his eyes sparkling and hair shining bothered him so fucking much. It just fucking did.
“Potter?!” Malfoy sounds beyond irritated. He shifts, Harry’s fingers falling out of him as he turns around and perches on the desk like earlier, his half hard cock bobbing red and glossy against his belly as he pulls Harry forward by the collar with one hand, the other hand tugging his hand back between his legs. “Why do you look like that?” he suddenly stops trying to get Harry’s fingers back inside him, peering into his face with narrowed eyes, “Potter, are you having a fucking stroke?”
“No,” Harry rolls his eyes and unceremoniously shoves the two fingers back into him, making him arch back with a cry, “Who’re you having drinks with?”
“Jesus fucking Christ, shut the fuck up, you tiresome prat!” Malfoy wails and Harry is snorting and pursing his lips over a grin, his fingers steadily stabbing in and out of the velvety grip of Malfoy’s arse.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, leaning forward to run his tongue up his sweat-sticky neck, his cock hardening further against Malfoy’s thigh. “Who’re you having drinks with, Malfoy?”
Malfoy has his mouth slightly open, eyes fluttering shut, only the whites visible through the narrow slit, his pale, unnervingly long lashes brushing his flush stained cheeks. “Potter...” he pulls Harry closer almost involuntarily, “Potter.”
“You’re having drinks with me?”
Malfoy clicks his tongue exasperatedly, but his mouth curves into a tiny, reluctant, truly stunning little smile as he pants. “No!” He wraps his legs firmly around Harry’s hips, ripping his robes and shirt open with shaky hands.
“Who then?” Harry twists his fingers as he bites on a fleshy earlobe, shivering as Malfoy runs soft hands over his bare chest.
“Fuck,” Malfoy is close; Harry can tell, “Fuck, Potter.”
Harry stops moving his hand and Malfoy makes a sound that’s angry and plaintive all at once. “Who?”
“Pansy!” he bursts out fiercely, his bum rising off the table in a wild buck. “Pansy fucking Parkinson; you may know her as the bint who tried to sell you out to the fucking Dark Lord?!”
Relief washes over Harry in such a powerful wave that he’s leaned forward and kissed Malfoy feverishly without further thought. “I remember her.” He pulls his fingers out to grab his erection and spear it into Malfoy in their place.
He fucks him just as hard the second time, firmly holding him with two handfuls of soft, fleshy arse, yanking him onto his cock even as he rams into him. Malfoy doesn’t seem to be able to make any sound and simply wheezes gasps into Harry’s shoulder, trying to press a line of kisses over his skin but shuddering into a loud orgasm within seconds, ending up whimpering with his mouth open against his instead.
“Malfoy,” Harry pants, grabbing his mouth in a hard kiss. “Fucking hell,” he groans up at the ceiling as he comes, this time stilling with his cock as deep as it would go, coming far up inside him. “Christ.”
They pant noisily, fighting for air as their heart rates slow, Harry lazily stroking his hands over Malfoy’s damp skin.
“You’re an evil fucker, you know that?” Malfoy pushes at him, but keeps his legs wrapped tightly around him. He draws back to blink slowly up at him, still looking slightly stunned. “An evil fucking arsehole who uses sex to get his way.”
Harry’s answering grin is the definition of ‘shit eating’ and Malfoy promptly snaps out of his dazed state to glower at him. He shoves him away, hissing as Harry and he are abruptly uncoupled, sliding off the desk and shuffling over to his carelessly scattered pile of clothes.
“You could have just told me the first time I asked.” Harry is still grinning as he leans back against the vacated desk, running his hands through his sweat dampened hair as Malfoy steps into his trousers.
“Fuck you,” Malfoy says grumpily. “I don’t have to tell you shit. Just you try doing that again!” He shrugs his shirt on jerkily.
“Have to do whatever it takes, right?” Harry sniggers, putting his clothes back together. Malfoy is frowning down at his shirt.
“You broke off three buttons!” he hisses. “Jesus, Potter, you’re a fucking uncivilised brute!”
“There exist civilised brutes?”
“I’m this close to breaking your face, Potter,” Malfoy grits, the gap between the fingers he holds up negligible. Then he sighs resignedly. “Might as well just go change first, I need a shower anyway...” he mumbles to himself, gathering his robes up.
“Don’t.” Harry has blurted the word out before he can fully formulate a thought.
“Don’t what?” One dark blond eyebrow lifts as he straightens up.
“Don’t shower.” Harry reaches out, loops one finger through a belt loop and tugs, Malfoy tripping forward with a soft ‘ummff’ into his chest. “Go meet Parkinson with my come still in you,” he deliberately cups his arse with both hands, “Still on you, soaked into your skin.”
Malfoy goes brilliantly pink even as his lips twist into a disdainful sneer. “That’s--” He struggles for words as Harry starts pressing kisses along his jaw. “You’re sick,” he eventually manages, slightly breathless.
“Go drink your drinks,” Harry says softly, licking around the shell of his ear before suddenly landing a sharp smack on his arse, drawing out a lovely gasp of shock from Malfoy, his slight body jolting heavily.
Malfoy stumbles back a step, pupils blown, breath stuttering out of him. Harry grins lewdly, presses a parting kiss to the slightly open mouth and after unlocking the door, breezes out, his mind chock full of Malfoy, but smugly convinced that he, in turn, would be thinking about Harry in return for the rest of his evening too.
A week later, they hit a bit of a snag in what had until then been a relatively smooth sailing affair (no pun intended).
Harry and Draco are enlisted to help a team of Senior Aurors on a Level One case. They’re assigned with basic surveillance but they’re both thrilled at simply being involved in such a high profile case. They’re on stake-out for three nights in a row and on the final night, it proves to be worth the stiff necks and bags under their eyes.
The suspect they’d been observing, believed to simply be the main mule responsible for the distribution of a highly potent hallucinogenic potion that had been on a steady rise in the market, turns out to be the actual supplier, the head of the whole operation, having used several different Polyjuice guises.
Harry had nearly given them away when they saw the kingpin casually strolling out onto the front porch of the dilapidated shack and lighting a cigarette; he’d gasped Malfoy’s name and scrambled noisily for his wand, laying out a quick plan in fervent murmurs.
Right before Malfoy cuts him short and reminds him that they didn’t have the permission, the authority, to make this particular, extremely crucial arrest, causing Harry to simply stare at him as if he’s sprouted a second nose, before roughly telling him that he’s doing it alone if Malfoy is too much of a wuss.
Malfoy glares before promptly grabbing him in a vice like grip and Dispparating.
Harry is nearly blind with fury. He sits rigidly in his seat in Robards’ office, paying no attention to the elaborate scheme being drawn out for the arrest, and the second he and Malfoy are dismissed with a warm, ‘Good job, boys’, he’s bounding out of the chair and storming out of the room.
Malfoy is hot on his heels, talking very fast, going on and on about protocol and regulations, attempting to follow Harry into the lift before Harry shoves him away with a growled, “Leave me the fuck alone,” and ignoring the slightly distraught expression on Malfoy’s face.
When he goes into work the next day, he doesn’t go up to their office, instead idling away his time in the cafeteria, Flooing out early in the afternoon to George’s shop to pay Ron a surprise visit. They chat over shepherd’s pie and beer at the Leaky until Harry, silently worried he’d get into trouble for taking the day off without notice or reason, decides to head back.
He stomps into the cramped office, not bothering to look around or spare a glance for Malfoy as he throws himself into his chair behind his desk. And then he spots the fat yellow tub with its vivid purple lettering ‘Fortescue’s Best’, sitting there under the pale blue cloud of a Stasis.
“Butter pecan, right?” Malfoy's voice is quiet; subdued.
Harry finally looks up, the sudden, inexplicable flare of affection in his belly quickly diluting the anger that had been simmering there all day.
Malfoy is looking over at him rather meekly, his usual air of aggravating self-importance all but completely missing. He bites his lip when Harry meets his gaze and then quickly looks down, pretending to go over his notes.
Harry can hardly believe it when he realises that he is trying to make amends; that Draco Malfoy is actually being apologetic.
“Thanks,” Harry says gruffly, before clearing his throat and adding, “You want some?”
Malfoy’s mouth quirks up in a small smile and Harry notes that he looks rather relieved. “No, thank you,” he answers softly; and then, quite hesitantly, “My favourite is pistachio... Since you asked that day,” he mumbles awkwardly.
Harry Summons a spoon. “Good to know.”
Malfoy takes Harry’s hand for a brief moment in the lift as they leave work that evening, not meeting his eyes and wordlessly following him to the Floo, spilling in through the fireplace at Grimmauld after Harry.
He still doesn’t say a word as they tumble onto Harry’s enormous four poster, but that by itself isn’t really unusual; Malfoy preferred when they silently got right down to it.
What is unusual is that Malfoy, for the first time, takes charge. He strips down to nothing and then pushes Harry’s hands away, undressing him with neat, swift movements; he crawls down Harry’s body in a slow, hot press of warm hands and his wet, teasing mouth; he blows Harry for ages, refusing to let him come, tirelessly working his mouth and hands over his turgid, leaking cock, lips stretched wide and dark around him, his jaw twitching with the strain.
Harry is very nearly in tears with aching need by the time Malfoy finally straddles him, reaches behind to grip Harry’s cock and slide down onto it, inch by tiny inch, until his arse rests on Harry’s pelvis and his breathing is considerably quicker.
He whispers Harry’s name on loop once he starts to move, grinding down hard, twisting his hips around in graceful, nearly hypnotic movements, his palms pressed flat over Harry’s pectorals.
Harry, having been repeatedly driven to the edge, comes in no time at all and his ferocious orgasm nearly knocks him right out. When he finally forces open his eyes, panting heavily, Malfoy is still moving frenziedly over his softened cock, his head thrown back, his thighs trembling, his cock leaking onto Harry’s stomach.
Harry grabs him by the waist, flips them over and rolls Malfoy onto his knees, pulling his arse open and eating him into climax, shoving two, then three, fingers into him, Malfoy sobbing helplessly into his arms, gripping Harry’s tongue and fingers, bucking into his mouth.
He’s silent even as Harry stretches out beside him and throws an arm across his waist, staying in bed for a lot longer than he usually did before gingerly sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge.
“D’you like Chinese?” Harry asks suddenly, reaching out and running a finger lightly down his spine. Malfoy shivers at the touch, looking back over his shoulder with a bewildered expression.
He frowns. “What?”
“Chinese food, Malfoy,” Harry intones very seriously, “Would you like some?”
“Why?” Malfoy doesn’t seem inclined to lie back down next to Harry, but he doesn’t show any signs of proceeding to get dressed either.
“’cause we’re human and we require sustenance,” Harry deadpans. “And sustenance in the form of crispy pork belly and lo mein sounds fucking fantastic right now,” he adds, patting his belly.
Malfoy, to Harry’s total shock (and utter delight), breaks into a sudden, warm grin that crinkles his eyes up at the corners and rounds out some of his pointy angles.
“Sold,” he declares, fishing something up from the floor before throwing Harry’s pants at his head. “Move it, Potter.”
Harry had had no idea he could spend a whole evening simply watching Malfoy eating Chinese. He watches as Malfoy tucks in, eating in quick, neat bites, licking the grease off his shiny lips with sharp flicks of his pink tongue. He lets him talk as they eat, listening to him narrate what he’d learnt about the arrest, and rests his chin on one hand, staring unblinkingly at him.
They stroll leisurely towards no particular destination afterwards, and when it starts to rain, Harry is fully expecting Malfoy to curse irascibly and whip out his wand to cast an Impervius right there in Muggle London.
Instead, Malfoy pauses in his tracks and blinks up as little drops catch on his lashes, unexpectedly letting out a soft chuckle. Harry’s answering laugh is one of pure surprise. He grabs Malfoy’s hand and they run, both of them drenched by the time they leave the bustling sidewalk behind. Harry draws them under the dark stoop of an old building, pulls Malfoy towards him and kisses him deeply.
His kiss is returned at once and just as passionately, Malfoy throwing his arms around his neck and opening his mouth with a soft sound of approval. Harry cradles his damp, warm face and kisses him hungrily, realising for the first time in all these months that he doesn’t kiss Malfoy just as much as he would really like to. Despite the way they’d started out, with those heated, stolen kisses, they didn’t really spend much time kissing before, while or after they fucked.
And Merlin, Harry loves kissing Malfoy. He loves the faint whines and mellow sighs that are breathed into his mouth; he loves the soft fingers that card through and stroke his hair, the firm press of Malfoy’s long body against his own.
He and Malfoy become aware, nearly at the same exact moment, that they’ve been kissing for several long minutes, slow, intense and almost painfully sweet, and that neither is trying to lead it to sex.
Malfoy pulls back with a slight jerk, quickly brushing his fingertips across his swollen mouth before looking away, still standing pressed into Harry and shivering lightly. Harry pants quietly into his hair for a few seconds before he speaks softly. “Go take a hot shower; you’ll catch your death otherwise.”
Malfoy’s mouth twitches and he takes a step back, eyes twinkling as he rolls them. “Don’t baby me around, Potter.” Then he smiles at his shoes. “’night.”
Harry’s murmured reply is lost in the rush of rain against asphalt as he watches Malfoy Disapparate.
The following month, Robards summons Harry to his office again.
“MACUSA*--” he starts without preface, “--has requested assistance – again.” He looks supremely smug and obscenely gleeful. “They’ve been asking for a competent young Auror to be transferred out there for a few months – maybe longer – to help out with a case similar to the one you and Malfoy helped crack. They can’t do anything without us holding their finger, can they?” he adds with a chortle.
Harry isn’t happy with where he believes the conversation is headed.
“And imagine their faces when I tell them I’m sending Harry fucking Potter.” He slaps a hand onto his desktop, guffawing loudly. “That is, if you’d like to go,” he suddenly clarifies, and Harry’s stomach unclenches a little. “I’m sure most of you Juniors would love the opportunity.”
“Would it be...just me?” he has to ask the most important question first, “Or would Malfoy and I both be--”
“Just you,” Robards waves a hand, “Why would they need two agents when they have Harry Potter?” He looks genuinely confused.
“Can I sleep on it?” Harry asks quickly, before Robards sends him off right then and there.
“Sure, sure," his boss shoos him out, nodding vigorously, “Let me know by the end of the week. Make ‘em wait a bit longer,” he adds with a grin.
The thought of being away from Malfoy and his haughty scowls, his endless nagging, his sharp tongue; his warm flesh, his hot mouth, his perfect face – Harry wants to turn right back around and assure Robards that nope, he’s not going anywhere.
He isn’t even going to wait until the end of the week to tell him that. He’d just go over tomorrow and say he isn’t keen.
Fuck being professional and eager to learn.
He responds with a noncommittal shrug when Malfoy asks him why Robards called for him and for once, thankfully, Malfoy doesn’t push it, burying his nose back into the report Harry had filled out, probably correcting every alternate word in it.
Later though, as they’re lounging in Harry’s bed in their boxer shorts, eating sticky rice and egg rolls, Malfoy handling his chopsticks with enviable dexterity, Harry finds himself blurting it out without further thought.
“Robards asked if I’d like to be transferred to MACUSA for a few months." He pokes his chopsticks into his rice, keeping his eyes on his dinner, holding his breath as he waits for a reply.
He doesn’t get one and eventually looks around to find Malfoy staring at him in silence, egg roll held halfway up to his mouth.
“They’ve put in a request, apparently,” Harry lifts a shoulder, “Robards probably thought I’d like the opportunity, you know, for the exposure or whatever,” Harry says, rolling his eyes, waving his chopsticks around.
Malfoy still doesn’t say a word and Harry spends the next several seconds having a mini aneurysm.
“You should go,” comes the cool reply finally, and then Harry feels like his heart has stopped altogether, “It will be good exposure.”
Harry’s mouth is slightly open as he watches Malfoy calmly take a bite of his egg roll, his stomach churning with disappointment.
“I was going to pass up the offer,” he says quietly, placing his box of rice on his bedside table. “I’m not really keen.”
“Why?” Malfoy doesn’t look at him as he manoeuvres a clump of rice into his mouth, “Sounds like a brilliant opportunity." He chews in silence for a few seconds before adding, “I’d have gone.”
“Why don’t you want to go?” Malfoy still isn’t looking around at him and Harry feels the anger beginning to creep in.
“Doesn’t matter,” he answers quietly, looking down at his hands, valiantly trying to keep his temper at bay, knowing he’d end up saying something completely stupid and meaningless if it got the better of him.
“I’m sure you have some specific reason.” Malfoy’s tone is light – careful. Harry feels like Malfoy is waiting for him to say something in particular and so decides to give him the truth.
“I didn’t like the thought of us...not being together for that long.”
Malfoy is silent once more, and each second that goes by without him saying something in return rips into Harry’s gut.
“Potter,” he finally says, putting away his dinner as well, “this is your career we’re discussing. Don’t you feel like you ought to put it before... Don’t you think it ought to come before...”
He doesn’t complete the thought, and Harry’s nostrils flare in irritation.
“What, Malfoy?” he clenches his hands, “You don’t think I should put us first?”
Malfoy looks at him now; actually looks at him, and his face is devoid of any emotion.
“Potter,” he says softly, and Harry thinks he can detect something in his voice. Was it...pity? “There is no ‘us’." He tilts his head slightly and yes, Harry is certain he sees pity in his eyes.
Harry’s hands tremble in his lap and his stomach is like lead; and he feels nothing but pure, all-consuming rage.
“I see,” he repeats. “Thanks for the information,” he says nastily and notes the exact moment Malfoy’s own temper kicks in.
“What, Potter, what did you think we were?” he asks in a low voice. “Surely you didn’t believe we’re boyfriends?”
“Of course not,” Harry says, forcefully airy. “We just shag.”
“You disgust me.”
Malfoy flies out of bed and starts to dress before Harry can draw in his next breath.
“I disgust you?!” he spits. “Why, Potter? What the fuck is it about me that disgusts you?!”
“Did you honestly think we’d just ‘casually fuck’ for the rest of our lives?” Harry gets to his feet as well, “Or did you plan to eventually find someone else and dispose of me?” Harry realises just how incredibly vulnerable he’s making himself sound.
Malfoy lets out a mirthless, derisive laugh. “Are you honestly going to play the victim here?”
“I’m not playing the fucking victim,” Harry grits. “I just assumed you’re a better person than you apparently are; totally my fault there.”
Malfoy buttons up his shirt in silence before looking Harry dead in the eye. “Did you hope that this would eventually turn romantic?”
Despite his wounded ego, Harry goes for the truth again. “Yes.”
“You’re a fucking idiot.” He bundles up his robes and turns to leave.
“Well, you’re a fucking coward,” Harry retorts, and Malfoy pauses. “What exactly are you afraid of, here?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” Malfoy hisses, whipping around. “You think everyone except you is a coward?!”
“I don’t know about everyone; you certainly are one though.”
“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy’s teeth are bared and he looks like he’s angling for his wand, “There’s a difference between cowardice and pragmatism.”
Harry laughs humourlessly. “Is that what you’re being? Pragmatic?”
“Yes, and I invite you to do the same. It’ll save us all this drama.”
“Drama?!” Harry’s eyes bulge slightly, before something just snaps, “Fuck off. Just fuck off, alright?”
“With pleasure.” Malfoy immediately turns back around and sweeps out.
“Oh, and thanks for helping me make my decision. I guess I’m going to the States after all.”
“Good luck, arsehole.”
Robards is exceedingly pleased and immediately sits Harry down to brief him on the case he’d be helping out with. Harry is relieved when, two interminable hours later, he’s handed the files to go through in his own time because he’s barely heard a word Robards has said to him.
He’s barely slept, is exhausted and irritable and wants to yell some more at Malfoy, still holding on to hope that he would ask Harry not to go.
When he enters their office however, it’s Carla Walters who greets him with a high pitched, “Hey there, partner!”
Frozen in place, Harry stares at her in blank silence until the woman shifts uncomfortably in her (Malfoy’s) seat, visibly unnerved.
“Hey,” Harry says quickly, moving over to his desk. “What...What are you doing here?” He aims at sounding airily curious even as his heart sinks to rest somewhere in his boots. Malfoy must have come in early and requested a new partner.
She looks slightly hurt that he isn’t already aware of this. “I- I’ve been reassigned.”
“Oh. Right. Yeah, of course; sorry. I’m only just getting in here today.” Harry rummages noisily in his drawer, looking for nothing, ignoring the distress spreading out steadily from the pit of his stomach. “Who’s Malfoy with now, by the way?”
“Right.” Harry is oddly relieved – Malfoy likes Amanda.
Carla seems almost nervous to be working alongside him and that in turn makes Harry edgy. He spends the day biting down the surges of despondency that regularly creep up and then feels a sick sort of glee that he’d be getting the fuck out of here in three days.
He doesn’t run into Malfoy; not until the day he’s actually leaving.
He’s trying to put together a cup of tea just like the one he’d watched Malfoy make a hundred times, when Malfoy himself walks into the break room, freezing in place at the sight of Harry already there. They stare blankly at each other, Harry’s heart thudding loudly against his ribcage as he stares at the pale, wide eyed face, before Malfoy turns away and stiffly reaches for a mug.
Harry desperately wants to say something - to ask him if he knows that he’s leaving soon, whether he genuinely doesn’t give a fuck. Instead he stirs sugar into his tea and discreetly sniffs at the faint waves of Malfoy’s fruity scent wafting over.
Harry jumps and looks around as Senior Auror Watson breezes in and slaps him on the back. “Hey.”
“You all packed?” the balding man asks, ripping open a fresh packet of biscuits.
“What time’s your Portkey?”
Harry shifts awkwardly on his feet, one eye on Malfoy’s stiff back. “Six,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Well, good luck, son,” he squeezes Harry’s shoulder, “Show ‘em how it’s done." He raises a fist as he walks out.
Harry picks up his mug, waits two beats, and then follows him out in silence.
Amanda West is extremely content with her life.
She has a wonderful fiancé who loves her very much, their pair of incorrigible Kneazles, a rather decent flat and a job that she, on most days, likes.
Auror training had been as trying as she’d known it would be. Still, she’d got through it and actually made Auror because she’d promised herself when her father had died in the War that that she’d honour his memory by following in his footsteps; even if she didn’t spend too many years in the corps afterwards.
She didn’t complain when her cases were dull – she wasn’t particularly fond of drama. She basically just looked forward to filing her daily reports and going home to Carl, old pyjamas, wine and her hyperactive little fuzz buckets.
And so, although she was adequately fond of him, she was a little wary when Draco Malfoy was assigned as her new partner.
That boy has drama written all over him.
She knows about him and Potter – honestly, one had to be blind not to notice how they were around one another, they way their gazes lingered on each other; and apparently everyone else in the department is blind.
Draco walks in now, clutching his mug in a white knuckled grip, his eyes dead, face completely colourless.
She sighs – Potter is leaving today. Of course he looks like he’s about to burst into tears.
“You alright there?” she asks carefully, watching the shutters come down over his handsome face, noting the false, overly bright smile.
“’course,” he answers.
“Have you said goodbye yet?” she asks bluntly.
He looks over at her, nostrils flaring. “What?”
She smiles, and it’s not smug or teasing – she’s too decent for that. “Have you said goodbye to your boyfriend yet?”
“He’s not my-- we’re not talking,” he mumbles, biting his lip.
“Is that why you asked to be reassigned? Because he agreed to go?”
“I told him to go,” he replies sharply, not meeting her gaze. “The idiot wanted to pass it up.”
“Oh,” she straightens her glasses, and then despite knowing better, presses further, “Why?”
“Why?” he sneers, “At least I am concerned about his career. He certainly isn’t.”
“No, I meant--” Amanda purses her lips for a second, “Why’d Potter plan to pass it up?”
Draco opens his mouth, makes an odd, croaking sound, and then abruptly presses his lips together tightly. Then he begins opening random files, feverishly turning pages, his expression slightly crazed.
“It would never work, alright?!” he suddenly snaps and Amanda jumps in her seat. “It’s fucking Potter. And me. It would never fucking work!” He slaps his hand impatiently on the desk, glaring over at her as if she’d been nagging him all along. “It would never work,” he repeats more calmly. “Alright? It would never work... Right?” He blinks at her, looking anguished.
“I mean... It might?” she says carefully, shrugging lightly. “They say opposites att--”
“They don’t know what they’re talking about,” he spits and she falls silent again. He picks up another file and flips through it so roughly that she hears several sheets tearing. “I mean, we were just fucking! It was just sex. Who chooses casual sex over going out and learning something new?! ...Getting exposure, broadening your skill range,” he adds under his breath, throwing the file aside and accidentally knocking his tea over with it. He stares at the mess in horror. “It was just sex,” he tells her weakly, looking up again.
Amanda doesn’t say anything, simply looking over at him in silence, fingers laced in front of her.
“He wanted to stay back for... you?” she eventually asks softly.
Draco lets out a dry sob as he clumsily mops up the spilled tea instead of using magic, his expression pained. “He’s a fucking idiot,” he says to the pile of soaked tissues before trashing them. “A complete... I don’t even like him,” he says harshly. “I don’t like him. He was always one of them; always laughing along with the rest of them.”
Amanda makes a face. “Maybe at first; but he basically made Gibbons shit himself that time when--”
“Potter likes creating a scene,” Draco waves a dismissive hand, “He likes reminding everyone that he’s the Saviour and all.”
Licking her lips slowly, Amanda tries again. “No, even before that; he was always looking out for you... He did it for months before that last incident.”
Draco frowns. “What do you mean?”
“He blocked hexes, found and got rid of prank items, threw off jinxes... that sort of thing,” she shrugs, “I doubt the others were even aware.”
He simply stares, swallowing hard and looking away, shaking his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter, he’s leaving. He has to go.”
“He has to go,” he repeats more vehemently. “It’s too late now-- I can’t-- He has to go.”
“I don’t even like him,” he repeats, his lip curled derisively. “I hate him, really.”
“No, you don’t,” she says quietly.
“No, I don’t,” he whispers miserably, staring into his hands.
“Draco,” Amanda says firmly, “Get the fuck up. His Portkey doesn’t leave for another hour. Go.”
Draco just sits there trembling lightly, his hands clenched now on the desk. “I can’t just--” he starts weakly.
“I said go,” she repeats, a little louder this time, and Draco jumps up as if he’d been hit with a Stinging Hex.
“I don’t know what to say--”
“Just go find him; you’ll know when you see him.”
Draco hurries out, looking terrified, slamming the door after himself.
A second later he pops his head back in. “I-- Thanks,” he says awkwardly and Amanda sighs, rolling her eyes.
“You’re welcome, you drama queen.”
Harry checks his watch – he’s got plenty of time before the Portkey.
He’d left way too early simply because he couldn’t stand being at the Ministry any longer; he’d gotten tired of fighting the temptation to go scream at Malfoy again. And then snog him a little.
And then not go.
He nods as he’s handed his ticket and then rolls his trunk behind him, heading over to security to get his luggage scanned.
He’s only just turned towards the waiting lounge when he hears it; that voice. And his heart nearly leaps up his throat and out his mouth.
“Get out of my way you daft bint, didn’t you hear me when I said I’m an Auror?!”
Harry whips around, almost falling over backwards at the sight of the blond vision elbowing his way past the security witch.
“Sir,” she calls out desperately, and Harry feels slightly sorry for the obviously newly recruited witch. “Sir, please, you need a tick--”
She drifts off as Malfoy simply stalks past with his nose in the air, making a beeline for Harry who’s rooted to the spot with his mouth hanging open.
Malfoy strides right up to him and then just stands there, jaw clenched, round grey eyes boring into his. He looks slightly frantic, but his mouth is held in that characteristic, stubborn moue.
Suddenly he ducks, grabs Harry’s trunk and makes off with it, marching away purposefully.
“Er...” Harry slowly follows him, “Malfoy? I’m kind of going to need that back...?”
“No; no you’re not.”
“Where are you going with that?!”
“I’m getting out of here, I hate Portkey stations!”
“But why are you taking my case with you?!”
“Because you’re not going!” he whips around so abruptly that Harry walks right into him, sending the trunk flying before hastily steadying Malfoy with a firm grip on his arms, “You’re not going,” he repeats, voice slightly higher than normal.
“I’m not?” Harry asks, and he can feel a massive grin fighting to take over, his whole body thrumming with elation, his heart blooming to twice its size.
“No, you’re not.”
“But I thought you said--”
“Since when have you started listening to me?!” Malfoy’s voice rises, his lip trembling slightly as he shoves Harry roughly, “You never listen otherwise!”
“Malfoy,” Harry yanks him forward by the collar, “Get to the point,” he says softly.
“The point is, I don’t hate you,” he blurts out, fighting Harry’s grip on his collar for a second before reaching forward and fisting his hands in Harry’s robes. “I don’t fucking hate you, alright?!” he yells, shaking Harry roughly.
Harry bursts out laughing. “I suppose that’s the closest you’ll come to saying the real thing?”
“What real thing?” Malfoy asks sullenly, and then Harry kisses him.
Right there, in front of dozens of people openly gawking at them, he kisses Malfoy.
Malfoy lets out a little sob and then presses into him, wrapping his arms around him and leaning bodily into the kiss.
Harry gently runs his fingers over his face as he pulls back, moving his mouth to Malfoy’s forehead. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
Malfoy pushes his face into is neck, pressing tiny kisses. “Oh, because you’re such a walk in the park?”
Harry grins, burying his face in his fragrant hair. “If I get fired for this, it’ll be on you.”
“You’ve killed a Dark Lord; nobody will dare to fire you.”
“Shut up, Malfoy.”
They kiss again, licking into each others’ mouths, fiercely clutching at each other, finally breaking away wetly. “You going to carry that for me?” Harry indicates to his poor trunk lying upside down.
“Like fuck I am,” Malfoy huffs snootily before turning around and sweeping away, pausing to add over his shoulder, “Well, come on then. We need to go get you in trouble.”
Later that evening, some cynical little part of Harry refuses to believe that he’s actually got Malfoy under him again, naked, writhing and wonderfully clingy.
He kisses him slowly, doing nothing but that for a very long time, soaking in all of his little breathy sounds. When he draws away, Malfoy tightens his grip on him, pulling him back down, nudging his chin up with his nose, nibbling on his neck.
“Malfoy,” he whispers, dropping kisses onto the angular face, slowly making his way lower. The slender body arches up into his mouth, Malfoy letting out little cries of pleasure as Harry runs his tongue over his peaked nipples, his ticklish sides and his gorgeous, hard cock.
“Potter,” Malfoy bends his legs, digging his feet into the bed as he presses against his touch, “Yes, yes...” he breathes as Harry inches lower, moistening his rim with the very tip of his tongue.
Harry slicks his fingers up, pushes one, then another in quick succession, before idly teasing his prostate with feather light brushes. Malfoy cries out again and bucks up into him, begging in a way that makes Harry’s chest tighten.
He worms in two more digits and scissors them the best he can, feeling the silken walls constrict and throb around him, and he has to bite down on his lip hard at the indescribable feel of it.
“Just fuck me already,” Malfoy keens, hips lifting off the bed, fingers curled around handfuls of the covers beneath them. “Potter, for Merlin’s sake!”
“You’re really pretty,” Harry blabs out unexpectedly, surprising even himself. Malfoy stops squirming at once, opening his eyes and fixing Harry with a slightly incredulous glare as he pants loudly.
“I’m really what?!”
Harry gently pulls his fingers out, lines his cock up and slowly pushes into him, Malfoy’s expression softening into one of blissful ecstasy, his breath huffing out of him warmly, his hands automatically pushing into Harry’s hair as he leans over him.
“Pretty,” Harry says shakily, pressing his mouth to Malfoy’s cheek. “Beautiful.”
“Fuck you, I’m ruggedly handsome,” Malfoy gasps as Harry finds his prostate on his very first thrust, Harry sniggering atop him, “Potter,” he groans, his ankles locking against Harry’s back.
“You fucking drive me crazy, you know that?” Harry breathes into his neck, licking broad stripes, hips snapping forward in firm, hard strokes.
“In a good way?” Malfoy asks hopefully, pulling him even closer.
“In the best way.”
“And you won’t ask to be transferred to MACUSA?” he beseeches, nails digging into Harry’s back.
“I’m not going anywhere, you fucking tosser,” Harry promises tenderly, bumping their noses together.
And then Harry kisses him again, this time not stopping until they’re both seconds away from climax and Malfoy is moaning desperately with his head thrown back.
“Yes,” he whimpers, as Harry grabs and presses his hands above his head, thrusting even deeper. “Fuck me... Harder, please-- Yes!” his fingers tighten around Harry’s as he comes loudly, gasping for air as he thrashes wildly.
Hips pumping almost out of his control, Harry follows, claimed by huge, full-body shudders, sucking fresh bruises onto Malfoy’s neck as he emits faint mewls, clinging tightly to Harry.
Harry doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to pull out; doesn’t want it to end. He’s still reluctant to be the first one to talk about it – this – and despite the fact that Malfoy had made it clear that he wants Harry to stay back for him, for them, Harry is worried that Malfoy would simply revert to how things had been between them.
But when Harry finally does pull out of him and falls heavily beside him, Malfoy instantly turns into his chest, nuzzling his face into his neck, tossing one thin leg around him.
“Pull the covers up, Potter, I’m cold.” Harry does as he’s told, hiding a smile in the blond hair, pressing a kiss into the glossy strands. “God, I always suspected you’d be like this after sex.”
“Like what, Malfoy?”
“You’re the one cuddled up to me.”
“Shall I leave, then?”
“I’ll tie you down, you prat, I swear to god.”
He feels Malfoy grin into his collarbones. “You’d like that wouldn’t you, you kinky bastard?”
“Don’t get me going again already,” Harry groans as his cock twitches, tightening his arms around him. Malfoy laughs softly.
“I’m going to take a nap now and then I want some egg rolls.”
“So, you’re saying you want to stay partnered with West?” Robards looks slightly weary.
“Yes, sir,” Malfoy replies.
“But Potter has requested you bac--”
“Potter doesn’t know what he wants,” he cuts in quickly.
“No, he’s a little dim like that.”
Harry scowls. “I’m literally standing right here.”
Malfoy glances sideways at him, hiding a grin. “Point is, sir, we’d really appreciate it if you just... let things remain as they are.”
“But we--” Harry starts.
“We are in a romantic relationship, Potter,” Malfoy interrupts looking exasperated, “And I’m pretty sure that it’s against regulations to be partnered with your... partner,” he finishes, frowning confusedly. Robards looks stunned.
“I see,” he says, looking slightly bewildered as he turns to a furiously blushing Harry for confirmation. Harry gives him a jerky shrug, nodding awkwardly. “Right,” he looks like he’s struggling to pull himself together, “Okay so... So get out, then,” he says, waving a hand at them vigorously. “Nothing to discuss further, is there?!”
“No, sir.” Malfoy nods smartly and immediately strides out, clicking his tongue impatiently when Harry takes a few extra seconds to follow him, slouching grumpily.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Harry grouches, once outside. “Fucking wank--”
Malfoy steps forward and kisses him firmly. “Do shut up, Potter,” he says warmly. “Now you can grope my arse whenever you like, think about that.” He grins cheekily, presses another swift kiss on him, and saunters away jauntily, leaving Harry to stare after him.
Smirking, Harry follows, deciding that he’d very much like to indulge in some groping right about now.