Potter looked every inch the picture of the war hero that the Ministry loved to trot out for events like this, and nothing like he had on the day he actually did end the war. A decade of rising through the Auror ranks and hunting down dark Wizards, with all of the efficacy and subtlety of a natural disaster, had turned a skinny boy with knobbly knees into a strong, self-assured man who fairly commanded the room. He was resplendent in wine-dark robes, gold buttons and epaulettes, and a profusion of medals; a world away from the exhaustion, grime, and worn out jeans he wore during the Battle of Hogwarts.
Draco, for one, approved of the changes. He still had the height advantage over the new Head Auror he had so enjoyed during their school days. But he appreciated the way Potter had filled out across the shoulders and chest, the way his jaw had firmed into the angles promised in youth, dark with stubble and currently clenched with frustration as the Minister for International Magical Cooperation fawned. Draco appreciated all of it.
Initially that appreciation had been entirely aesthetic, and indulged in from a safe distance. The Department of Mysteries might have been eager to take advantage of his knowledge of less-than-ethical magical experimentation and historic curses as their newest hire, but the most golden of golden boys had taken longer to warm up to him.
Thankfully, Draco had been assigned as an adjunct specialist on a particularly nasty case Potter had been leading; it was a grim series of crimes, and all of the victims had been children. To Draco’s great surprise, Potter had finally seemed to soften towards him after watching him use a barely-legal hex on the perpetrator, after three days of working without sleep. Draco had always known that Potter wasn’t quite as pure as the wizarding world at large liked to think he was. Seeing the fact of it glittering rage-dark in those green eyes as they rounded up the rest of the gang had woken up something deep and prowling in Draco’s chest. Something hungry, but patient in the way of the hunter, content to wait for satiation.
He hadn’t needed to wait long. Another case, this time taking them to Norway on their chase, meant almost a month of uninterrupted contact. It was Potter who had made the first move. A celebratory night with their colleagues from the Pan-Scandinavian Auror force started with akvavit and ended with heat and friction and panting desperation in the hallway of their hotel. After that it was simply a case of counting the days until one of them cracked and sought out the other.
Three months now, they had been enjoying that little dance. Neither of them willing to put a name to it. That suited Draco just fine. He had waited to come back to Britain after the war, served his time learning under unsavoury old wizards who had never achieved the veneer of acceptability people like Dumbledore had enjoyed. He had waited for the Unspeakables to hear about his talents and make contact with him, deigning to accept their offer only once they had sufficiently flattered him. He had waited for Harry Potter to be the one to reach out and shake his hand, to crack first and kiss him as fierce as a fight. He could wait for Potter to realise this was fast turning into more than a quick fuck every few days.
But he couldn’t wait any longer tonight. Two hours of interminable speeches, bad food, vulgar fashion choices, and social climbing as brazen and bawdy as a Knockturn Alley harlot had eroded his tolerance. Conveniently enough, judging by the twitching muscle in his cheek, it looked like Potter had reached his own tipping point too. Draco drained the last of his drink and left the glass on a passing waiter’s tray as he moved across the room.
“Excuse me Minister Quibblebottom, I need to borrow Head Auror Potter for some essential case-related conversation.” Draco smiled insincerely as he took Potter’s arm in an iron grip, quietly hoping the idiot cooperated.
“Er,” Potter had looked surprised at first, but recovered quickly. “Yes—um—Unspeakable M and I are working on a top-priority case at the moment. Must go. Have a good night.”
Draco didn’t wait to hear the undoubtedly obsequious reply, he had already turned and was dragging Potter along with him to the far end of the hall. Potter, of course, was muttering some nonsense about ‘being rude’ and ‘what will people think’ and ‘we don’t even have a case on right now’. Draco ignored all of that, more focused on the feel of the muscle of Potter’s bicep under his fingers, on the prospect of the antechamber he knew lay ahead of them. Not quite as private as his own heavily warded office deep in the Department of Mysteries, but much closer, and at least more discreet than the middle of the function hall.
“Malfoy, what the hell is this about?” Potter was flushed with indignance and confusion.
Draco snorted, cast a hasty Notice-me-not charm on the doorway, and turned to face him.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, you idiot. You should be thanking me for saving you, old Quibblebottom would have been kissing your boots if I hadn’t taken you away.”
He advanced on Potter, pleased at the way his body remained open, his hands relaxed at his sides. How far they had come from that first case they had worked together - Potter had broken his nose during their first team meeting. Draco hadn’t pushed the issue - turnabout being fair play and all that - and graciously refrained from hurling Sectumsempra in return. Even their first night together as lovers, in Norway, had been as furious and rough as any fight. But lately there had been a delicate thread of softness in their touches. Draco was happy to wait for that Potter to find his way though that particular labyrinth on his own, since any prompting was sure to be disastrous.
“Oh,” Potter breathed, as Draco drew closer still. “Somehow I don’t think your social saviour routine was quite as benevolent as you present it.”
Draco hummed, pleased, as he hooked his fingers into Potters belt-loops. “It’s like you know me,” he whispered as he leant in to bring their mouths together.
Every time he kissed Potter it felt like a victory. Like catching the snitch, like solving a mystery, like the hot rush of winning a duel. It didn’t feel like anything so mundane as luck. It felt like outclassing everyone in the room. He still wasn’t quite sure if that made Potter the opponent, or the prize, but that faded into inconsequence at the hot touch of their tongues.
Potter melted under his kisses, and Draco relished it every time. Broad hands grasped at Draco’s chest, as Potter made a valiant effort to undo the tiny buttons of his formal Unspeakable uniform.
“Fuckin’ love this stupid jacket on you,” Potter mumbled into the kiss, apparently unwilling to part in order to talk. “Look so pristine and buttoned-up. Malfoy the prissy Unspeakable. Such bollocks.”
Draco grinned into the kiss. It was always nice to know how mutual this mess between them was, and he knew he looked good; the severe black of his robes made his fair colouring all the more startling. He pulled their hips together as he deepened the kiss, grinding their cocks together through frustratingly thick layers of fabric, dipping his tongue into Potter’s mouth.
“I could say the same for you. Looking like someone who follows rules, someone who behaves themselves.” He nipped, sharp, at Potter’s bottom lip. “I think we both know that’s about as believable as me being philanthropic, hmm?”
Draco abandoned Potter’s mouth to trail hot kisses along his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck until he reached the barrier of the sharp collar of his uniform. Frustration boiled hot and sudden in Draco’s blood. He just wanted unrestricted access to the tender pulse-point in the hollow of Potter’s throat, was that so much to ask?
For a moment he considered dragging Potter back out into the function hall to get to the Floo gates, taking him home and laying him out across silk bed sheets, and devouring him. But that would require a level of gladhanding and polite excuses on the way out that he simply didn’t have the inclination or capacity for at this point.
No. Now he had started, Draco had no intention of stopping. Not until he had revelled in dismantling the guise of mythical heroism Potter had been wrapped in for display. Not until he had stripped it all away to reveal what really lay beneath those crimson robes; a lingering preference for justice over law, a streak of righteous rage, loyalty that could crack the earth. Harry Potter was a wild bolt of lightning masquerading as the Ministry’s right hand. And Draco was the one who got to grasp that electricity every time they met.
Potter threw his head back, granting access to the soft skin under his jaw, and Draco laid kisses and bites in equal measure, his ire subsiding in the face of Potter’s gasps. He backed them towards the wall, out of view from the doorway they came through, the desire to pin Potter to something solid overwhelming his ideas of taking them somewhere more appropriate. Hands in Draco’s hair directed his face back up to meet Potter’s waiting mouth, open, inviting, as challenging as ever.
Even from his position against the wall, crowded in by Draco’s height and fervour, Potter managed to roll his hips and hook his leg around Draco’s thigh—dragging him even closer. Draco angled his head to deepen the kiss, the slide of Potter’s tongue against his own as tantalising as the glancing pressure on his cock as their hips aligned, and ran his hand up Potter’s thigh where it pressed against his own hip. As his fingers found the leather wand holster there, tight around the strong muscle of Potter’s thigh, Draco made up his mind.
Still kissing Potter, Draco reached for his wand, careful not to telegraph his movements, and with a lazy gesture he had Vanished Potter’s trousers and underwear. The response was immediate and angry, just as he’d thought it would be.
Potter gripped roughly at his hair while simultaneously pushing his chest away with his other hand. Draco knew the grin on his face was shark-like, even as his head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. “What the fuck—”
“Come on, Potter,” Draco interrupted, taunting. He looked down deliberately, eyeing the unflagging erection now bared to the room, and nudged his thigh higher, pressing against Potter’s cock and breathing in the shuddering gasp it provoked. “Don’t pretend you don’t want this.”
He toyed with the leather holster on Potter’s thigh, stroking the tender skin there, pulling the straps tight and watching as green eyes fluttered helplessly. Already the tight grip Potter had on his hair was loosening, the hand pressed against his chest there merely to ground him, rather than making any effort to push Draco away.
Draco leaned in, running his teeth along Potter’s jaw, and gloried in the scratch of stubble, the way Potter couldn’t help but ride his thigh, desperate for friction on his aching cock despite the hall full of dignitaries and colleagues just beyond Draco’s minimal privacy charm. Draco’s own arousal was threatening to overtake every single part of his awareness; the temptation to simply rut, hot and hard and frenzied, against Potter until they both reached their peak was almost irresistible. But resist it he did. He was a master of waiting, these days.
A whisper, so close to Potter’s ear his lips touched it. “Turn around.”
“I— here? Now?” Potter voice was harsh, his eyes flashed, there was colour high on his cheeks. But Draco now knew the subtleties of his expressions better than he had even during their school days. That was the sound of exhilaration, of want, of daring, not anger.
Draco licked his lips, anticipation rushing through him. “Yes. Here. Now.” He unclasped the ceremonial robe from Potter’s shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. It left him looking half ridiculous, half like every wet dream Draco had ever had. Pristine Auror dress robes gone but for his shirt and jacket, naked below the waist except for leather boots and that damned thigh holster. “Turn around, Potter, and remember to be quiet - I only used a Notice-Me-Not.”
To Draco’s intense pleasure, Potter did what he was told, for once. Who knew that the secret all these years was simply to ply him with orgasms and Potter would behave like a reasonable person? Draco’s reward for this discovery was sights like the one he found before him. Harry Potter leaning against a wall, legs planted wide, back arched, and his perfect arse presented like a fucking gift. He took a moment to simply admire the view, running his hands from broad shoulders to narrow hips, the contrast of Potter’s clothed upper half and his naked lower body a delicious sensation against Draco’s fingertips.
Harry looked over his shoulder, the glint in his eye now edging into dangerous territory. “Get a bloody move on, or give me back my trousers, you wanker.”
Draco didn’t deign to respond. Instead, he gestured with his wand. Once to undo the dozens of ridiculous buttons of his own jacket, and again to cast a gentle but thorough personal cleansing charm on Potter. Potter shuddered at the sensation, but pushed his hips back toward Draco simultaneously, a pavlovian response to the spell that Draco knew he shared when he was on the receiving end.
Draco reached out and stroked his fingers down the plump swell of Potter’s arse, pressing the heel of his other hand against his own straining erection to stave off the sudden and overwhelming desire to simply strip off and ream him. Potter shifted, impatient, and Draco could tell another sharp demand would be sent his way soon. Discretion might be the better part of valour, but the element of surprise was the core of cunning, so Draco dropped to his knees with no explanation or warning.
“What are you—” Potter broke off with a shocked inhalation as Draco leaned in and laid an open mouthed kiss at the sensitive crease where thigh met cheek. “You’re not—here?”
Draco snorted as he ran his hands up Potter’s legs, the tickle of his leg hair against his palms the perfect counterpoint to the hard ground under his knees. “I think we’ve had this conversation already, haven’t we?” He dropped kisses in the twin dimples at the base of Potter’s back, and groped his cheeks. The contrast of his own pale hands against the rich brown of Potter’s skin was enough to pull a groan from Draco.
They had done this before, though not often, and Draco knew that Potter was still a little unsure of it. Not because he thought it was wrong, or dirty, he certainly had no qualms about eating Draco out with gusto both before and after he’d fucked him. But Potter seemed to be nervous about just how much he loved to be taken like this, how he crumbled beneath the pleasure of it, how Draco could reduce him to a quivering mess with nothing more than his tongue.
Draco loved it, loved every part of the act, and loved everything it did to Potter. He dipped his thumbs into Potter’s crack, pulling his cheeks apart to reveal his hole, and breathed hotly against the sensitive skin there. Potter shivered, and arched his back further, pushing himself towards Draco’s face, a wordless plea for more. Draco paused for a moment, admiring the view. Potter’s balls hung, heavy and full, between his legs, and his hole twitched in anticipation. The not-so-distant murmur of conversation just outside the doorway added an extra frisson of excitement, but Draco truly couldn’t care less if they were found, and he knew Potter would barely even notice an interruption once Draco got his mouth on him. Draco’s cock throbbed, trapped in his trousers and aching for attention, but he ruthlessly tamped down on his own rising need to focus on the body spread out like a feast for him.
He leaned forward that final inch, and licked a broad stripe from Potter’s perineum to his tailbone. Potter’s whole body twitched in response, and Draco settled into place, trailing his tongue around Potter’s hole. Circling, circling, circling, already Potter’s breathing was heavy and fast, already Draco could feel the muscles in Potter’s cheeks clenching against the pleasure. Draco felt the tightly furled muscle of Potter’s ring relaxing under his ministrations, and swept a broad lick across his hole before dipping his tongue just inside, teasing the sensitive nerve endings there.
Potter let out an inarticulate murmur and reached down to grab at Draco’s hair, tangling his fingers in the fine strands and pulling Draco’s face closer still. Draco looked up to see Potter’s green eyes, half-closed and catlike as he looked over his shoulder down at Draco. That green was a thin ring around pupils blown wide with pleasure, and there was a hot blush high on Potter’s cheekbones. His mouth was wet and open, panting.
Draco drank in the sight of him, all that pride and strength unfurling into wanton desire, before closing his eyes and burying his face in Potter’s arse. He slipped one hand between Potter’s thighs to fondle his balls, while the other drifted inevitably to the leather straps of the wand holster around his thigh. The image of Potter with a harness in that same black leather, but across his chest, sprang fully formed into Draco’s mind. But he filed it away for future reference as the fingers in his hair tightened, and Potter’s hole relaxed a fraction more, enough now for him to wriggle his tongue inside.
“Fffuck—” Potter snarl was muffled as he buried his face in the crook of his own elbow against the wall.
Draco simply hummed in response, wicked satisfaction curling through him at the way it made Potter’s knees go weak, the way he gasped wetly above him as the vibration of Draco’s voice rocketed through his body. With one last lingering stroke, Draco left Potter’s balls, and gripped instead at his hip. Best to have some kind of hold on him in case his knees really did give out. Which, from prior experience, was entirely possible.
Draco had never been with anyone who gave themselves over to pleasure with quite the abandon that Potter did. He had never chased a partner’s orgasm as fiercely as his own, not until he’d watched Potter writhe on that hotel bed in Norway for the first time. Since then Potter’s orgasm had become his own personal snitch, and he was willing to play as dirty as necessary to catch it.
Potter’s thighs were trembling now, a subtle shake that had begun about the time that Draco opened his mouth and indulged in a deep, wet, open-mouthed kiss against Potter’s hole. Above him, Potter was letting out a steady stream of filthy swearing and begging into his own arm, muffled but no less sweet to Draco’s ears. Draco ignored the saliva dripping down his own chin as he greedily ate him out, his own arousal spiralling higher and higher as he wrung out ever more desperate moans from Potter.
He pulled back for a moment, surveying his work, pleased with the wet shine of Potter’s whole cleft, the flushed pink softness of his rim, the visible tremor in his muscled thighs. He sucked one finger into his own mouth, slicking it up with saliva, and looked up at Potter’s face as he eased it into him. The way Potter’s eyes rolled up at that first solid penetration was enough to make Draco’s bollocks draw high and tight, the surge of heat pooling in his groin shocking in its intensity. Better still was the sight of his pale finger, siding in and out of Potter’s body, the delicate skin of his rim clinging to Draco’s knuckles as they pressed in, pulled out, pressed in again.
Draco dropped open-mouthed kisses and bites across Potter’s cheeks and thighs as he slowly thrust his finger into him. “Fuck, Potter, you’re so wet, look at you,” he groaned against the warmth of Potter’s skin. “I could eat you for days.”
Potter whined above him, pushing his hips back against the movement of Draco’s hand, seeking more, seeking deeper.
“Please—” it was barely a whisper, but Potter’s voice was deep and husky with arousal, and Draco was dangerously aware he might have done just about anything Potter asked if it was delivered in that tone of voice.
Draco held Potter open, to better see the mess he’d made of him. His hole quivered around Draco’s finger, and Draco couldn’t help but dart back in and lick around his knuckles, to feel the way Potter’s body clung to him, to taste it. Drawing back slightly, Draco spat directly onto the top of Potter’s cleft, and watched as his saliva trickled down to where his finger dragged at Potter’s hole, slicking it enough that he could slide a second in alongside it.
Draco watched the way Potter’s rim stretched to accommodate the intrusion, mesmerised by the movement of his own fingers and the way Potter rolled his hips, riding his hand, graceless in his want. Draco closed his eyes and buried his face back into Potter’s crack, licking once more around his fingers, suckling and nibbling at Potter’s tender rim while gently curling his fingers inside him. Potter was hot inside, hot and tight and perfect around his fingers as Draco carefully probed for that smooth nub that would make him fall apart.
A low guttural moan broke out of Potter, his whole body shuddered, and Draco knew he had found the spot. Potter’s legs shook, and Draco tightened the grip he had on his hip, holding him up against the wall before ruthlessly focusing his attention on his prostate. He was done with teasing now, finished with delicacy. Fierce elation rushed through him as Potter’s knees buckled under the stimulation, his grip in Draco’s hair tightened to the point of pain, and his hips bucked wildly, one moment arching to get more of Draco’s fingers, the next shying away from the rough thrusts.
“Malf—nghh,” Potter grunted at a particularly mean jab to his prostate.
Draco grinned, nipping at his arse cheek, nuzzling against the soft skin as he continued his relentless assault on Potter’s senses. Potter’s legs were trembling uncontrollably now, the muscles of his thighs clenching, his knees finally locked. He was close. Draco reached around to tug on Potter’s cock, give him that last push over the edge, but was stopped before he could get a grip by Potters hand grabbing at his wrist and shoving it away.
“No-no I don’t need— fuck, Draco, I don’t think I need—”
Draco groaned. “Just my fingers?”
“Yes, yes, yesss—”
Thatwas new. Draco wasn’t sure which was sending him into a wilder tailspin of arousal, the idea of Potter coming on his fingers, untouched, or Potter saying his name for the first time in that breathy, pleading, moan. His arm was aching now, but he had no intention of stopping until Potter was begging for respite. Above him, Potter’s chanted ‘oh my god oh my god’ devolved into broken sobs and moans as Draco crooked and twisted his fingers within him.
And then, silence. Potter’s whole body went rigid with the onset of his orgasm, but for the spasmodic jerk of his hips, the fluttering clench of his passage around Draco’s fingers, as he came and came against the dark wood panelling of the wall. Draco gentled his hand, slowed his movements until finally, he too stilled. He was panting, the prickle of sweat in his hairline and the aching hardness of his cock suddenly intruded through the mist of his determination to take Potter apart now that he had achieved his goal.
He kissed again at the base of Potter’s spine, licking at the salt-sweat-heat there, before carefully withdrawing his fingers from his hole. It gaped, tiny, briefly, before tightening, and Draco couldn’t help but duck down to leave one last, sucking kiss there before standing. He stayed close enough to feel the heat of him, pleased when Potter leaned bodily against him, trusting Draco to hold him up.
“Mmmm, delicious,” Draco nipped at Potter’s earlobe. “And you even managed to be quiet, consider me impressed.”
“Do you need?” Potter murmured, his voice slurred in the afterglow. “Let me—”
The temptation to take him up on it was delicious. He could undo his trousers and rut into Potter’s still-slick cleft until he came all over that perfect arse. He could let Potter take him in hand, enjoy everything those clever fingers could do while kissing him. He could put Potter onto his knees, fuck into his open mouth and watch him swallow greedily. He ground his hips into Potter’s plush arse for one blissful moment as his mind filled with all of the potential, before gathering every speck of his self-restraint and casting a gentle Scourgify on all the spunk over Potter and the wall, then restored Potter’s trousers.
He turned Potter around, trailed his fingers along that jawline, down his neck, before leaning in for one more kiss. “Not now, Harry, this was just for you.” He lingered as Potter held him close, indulging him with languid kisses, all breath and tongue and heat.
“C’mon,” Harry urged.
“Mmmm, not tonight.” Draco nipped at his bottom lip. “But tomorrow is Saturday, and I’m going to fuck you for hours, so get some rest.”
He pulled himself away, and marched out of the antechamber, a quick charm buttoning his jacket and hiding the frankly outrageous bulge in his trousers. He looked back once, as he navigated deftly through the gathered Ministry staff, and saw Potter watching him intently across the hall. Good. Draco was happy to be patient, the growling hunger in his chest was sated for now, but he knew Potter had realised that Draco was chasing him with intent now. Potter wasn’t a prize, wasn’t prey. He was the only person Draco had ever known who he thought might just be a partner. A contrasting counterpoint who made Draco more himself than he ever had been. And he would have him.