There are few aspects of his job that Draco loathes more than meetings. He would rather fill out a stack of paperwork as high as the Atrium ceiling, listing all the ingredients in an Everlasting Elixir alphabetically and then by order of importance, than sit through an interminable half hour listening to his department head Ainsley (or whoever called the meeting) going on about quotas, expenditures, procedure, and field reports.
Yet, with his particular area of expertise, he always gets called up for the joint task forces, which is flattering, but results in endless hours wasted as Aurors and Unspeakables and various other Ministry officials bicker about whose responsibility it is to do what and when. And which forms are required. In triplicate.
As if Draco wasn't miserable enough at the prospect of yet another afternoon squandered in a windowless conference room, the only seat available around the narrow table when he walks in is across from the very last person he wants to see this morning.
Harry bloody Potter.
On Potter's left, The Weasel scowls down at a folded map, his slumped posture wrinkling a surprisingly fashionable set of deep cobalt blue robes.
Unlike his best friend, Potter hasn't bothered to wear robes. Instead, a faded black t-shirt with the words 'The Hinky Punks' slashed across it in a particularly offensive shade of yellow-green stretches across his chest and shoulders. The sleeves cling to his muscled biceps as he gestures expansively to the Auror on his right—the new one, Jenkins or Jefferson. There's a shadow of dark stubble on Potter's jaw and cheeks, as if he hasn't been home in a day or two. As always, his black hair appears to have been styled by a bad-tempered windstorm.
Draco can't see the rest of Potter's "ensemble" thanks to the smooth wooden surface of the table, but he has no doubt Potter has completed it with a pair of frayed blue jeans and that ratty pair of trainers with the neon yellow laces.
He's had more than one fantasy about setting them on fire. Sometimes with Potter still in them at the time.
No one else at the Ministry dresses like that. Granted, there is no official dress code, but those of their colleagues who don't wear robes at least manage to wear suitably professional attire. Slacks, button downs, even suits.
Draco can never decide if Potter is trying to stand out or just has that little care for fashion.
At the back of the room, Gawain Robards clears his throat, the lines around the corners of his mouth deepening as he presses his thin lips together. The low murmur of conversation drifts into silence and twenty-five heads—eleven Auror teams, one pair of Unspeakable partners, and Draco—turn in his direction.
Not that Draco pays much attention to the Head Auror as he rattles on about the potions ring they're investigating.
He is too aware of Potter's bare elbow resting on the table only six inches from the edge of the list Ainsley handed him on his way out of her office. The paper is bright white compared to the tawny shine of the table and the rich brown of Potter's skin. A single dark freckle dots the space between his elbow and the edge of his sleeve.
It reminds him of the freckle on Potter's hip, down near the crease of his leg.
Draco grits his teeth, trying not to think about touching his tongue to that spot, or the way his hand looks—fingers long and white—when he wraps it around Potter's cock. The contrast between his pale skin and that flushed, dusky flesh makes his heart trip every time.
This has got to stop.
He repeats the mental admonition over and over, as he has a hundred thousand times in the last four months. Yet, he still finds himself making excuses to stay late at work, and then reasons to wander past the Auror office in the small hours. And if Potter happens to be there, alone, at his desk…
Every time, Draco swears it will be the last time. They haven't done much more than fool around a bit. Hurried handjobs or a quick blow pressed against Potter's desk. It's not even that satisfying. (That's a lie. The pleasure is bone deep and all consuming when Potter touches him. It irks him no end.)
Still, he can walk away any time. It doesn't mean anything.
He watches Potter from the corner of his eye, hoping that the lust bubbling beneath his skin will finally dissipate for good. Drift back into the ether from whence it came.
Of course, it doesn't. It simmers in his blood, where it has lived since the moment in that alley when he made the mistake of pressing his lips to Potter's.
Sometimes, when he's had a few too many fingers of whisky with Blaise and Theo, Draco thinks perhaps it was there long before that day. Dormant. Waiting. But that's utterly ridiculous. It's a demon with the smoky voice of good scotch.
The only thing he felt for Potter before that moment was jealousy, anger, contempt, pity… and maybe a dash of reluctant gratitude after the trials.
It's all he feels for him now, still. It's only the lust that's new.
Jefferson leans back in his chair, head inclined toward Potter. His wavy hair is a dull shade of dishwater blond. He whispers something that makes Potter's mouth quirk to the side. Behind the lenses of his ridiculous glasses, his green eyes twinkle. He bites his lower lip, obviously swallowing a laugh.
Draco bites his tongue, annoyance a sharp needle under his ribs. If those two morons distract the already ponderous Robards, this meeting will take even longer.
He shifts in his chair, stretching his long legs out to find a more comfortable position. When his foot knocks against someone else's, Potter glances up. His black brows pull downwards. He shakes his head, the movement small and precise.
Draco narrows his eyes and presses his toes against the top of Potter's foot. He knows the hard sole of his Oxford is more than a match for the soft material of the trainers.
Potter kicks him away and shifts his attention back to Robards, his stubborn chin jutting upwards in dismissal. Heat swamps Draco's throat. His fingers tighten around his quill. He inhales and exhales slowly through his nose, forcing his own gaze to the Head Auror.
Robards points at a chart depicting some sort of work schedule, hours divided up between teams. Draco's name floats in amongst them, a third wheel. Though his official title this time is 'Special Consultant'.
Absently, Draco jots down the information.
Potter licks his lips, scraping his teeth over the bottom one as he scrawls his own notes. His handwriting is atrocious. Barely legible. Draco attempts to concentrate on that instead of the memory of Potter's mouth; lips parted, kiss-swollen, open on a shuddering breath, trembling. The sound he makes in the back of his throat when Draco runs the tip of his tongue over the little dip on the underside of his cockhead. The way his eyes widen when Draco swallows his thick length.
Like his cock, Potter's chest, throat, and cheeks flush dark red when Draco sucks him. His hands tremble. He grips the edge of the desk, white-knuckled, but never grabs Draco's hair or head. His thighs tense under Draco's palms but he doesn't thrust into his mouth. Always holding back. Fighting his own reactions.
The full, firm curve of his buttocks clench when Draco grips them, pulling him deeper. At the brush of a single fingertip against his hole, circling, teasing the fine, soft scattering of hair that grows there, his whole body shudders.
When Draco slides a finger inside him, Potter whimpers and presses himself down on the intruding digit. His hips twitch. He pants. His whole body tenses like a bowstring. He bites his lower lip hard, refuses to ask… but when Draco presses in another finger, then a third, he exhales a shakily grateful breath. And he rides them, head thrown back, throat rippling with suppressed cries.
On the other side of the table, Jefferson snickers, yanking Draco's attention back to the present.
His heart knocks swiftly against his ribs and he shifts in his seat. His prick is embarrassingly, uncomfortably hard. Jefferson murmurs to Potter, no longer even pretending to face Robards. The Head Auror clears his throat again, pointedly, and then reiterates his last point (about inter departmental cooperation) louder and slower. Potter nudges Jefferson and nods toward their boss.
Draco wishes intensely he was better at non-verbal magic. Maybe a little Stinging Hex…? Or a Bat-Bogey. Potter's ginger ex-girlfriend was famous for them, back in school. He still doesn't know what happened between them, but damned if he'll betray enough curiosity to ask.
It's not as if he and Potter ever talk much, anyway. Mostly it's muttered imprecations and wordless moans. Every once in awhile, Draco might offer a, "Yes, just like that, Potter. Perfect."
For his part, Potter always considerately stutters, "Malfoy! I'm gonna… Oh, fuck, Draco!" He grunts when he comes; this soft, almost surprised, nearly inaudible, little plosive "guh".
Draco will never admit how deeply it pleases him to see Potter unravel like that. To know it's him that's the cause of it. He refuses to let himself think about whether or not he is the only one. He doesn't care if he isn't. This thing they're doing, it isn't that. It isn't a relationship. It's a few stolen moments in an empty office late at night.
It's a strange, molten lust that will burn itself out eventually.
For years, they antagonized each other. And if it hadn't been for Voldemort and the damn War, that would have continued to be the case well into their dotage, he's sure.
It's only by virtue of a shared enemy (because by the end, the Dark Lord was very much Draco's enemy) and now a common employer that makes them anything more than old rivals.
If only Draco hadn't kissed him…
All he can imagine now is that he had been trying so hard to stifle his normal instinct to fight with Potter that his ire found another avenue of escape. If he couldn't fuck with Potter, he would just… fuck Potter. It's the only explanation for the intensity and persistence of the desire Draco feels for the bloody Boy Who Lived.
He keeps expecting it to fizzle out. To stop being so all-consuming. So exquisitely pleasurable.
It hasn't yet.
Even the faint scent of him—warm skin, light sweat, and plain soap—is annoyingly arousing. Draco can smell it in the close room, tinged with an edge of… butterscotch? He swallows, suddenly aware that Potter is speaking, gesticulating, swinging his hand around to demonstrate some sort of strategy.
It would be easy for Draco to reach out and slap his fingers away. Or pull them closer and press them against his mouth. Taste his skin. Salty and rough with calluses. He remembers the bowl of soft candies on Potter's desk then and imagines tasting the sweet, buttery treat on his fingers.
For a moment, the impression is so strong his mouth floods with saliva and he is sure he has actually done it.
Draco blinks rapidly, clearing his vision, a strangled noise slipping past his lips.
He has not, in fact, grabbed Potter's hand and begun fellating it in front of all their coworkers. Thank Merlin.
But several people, Potter included, stare at him. Potter frowns, a deep fold appearing between his brows and his mouth turning down at the corners. Heart fluttering in his chest, Draco realizes they've all taken the embarrassing sound he's made as dissent. Weasley leans forward on his elbows, expression dour.
"Got something to say, Fe— er, Malfoy?"
Draco scans the gathering, scrambling desperately for a response. He was barely paying attention to Potter's words, too caught up in his infernal wanting. And Potter just watches him, head tilted slightly to the side.
Jefferson turns sideways in his chair, surreptitiously nudging Potter.
"That particular potion," Draco bites out, nodding toward the list of black market potions the suspects are believed to be brewing, "is highly volatile during all but the very initial stages of its creation. If you go in wands blazing, you're likely to set off a catastrophic explosion."
"How catastrophic are we talking, exactly?" Jefferson's American accent grates on Draco's eardrums. Potter's lips twitch with amusement. Or perhaps approval. Clearly, this new Auror has a similar approach to the job; throw caution to the wind and run headlong into trouble. Damn the consequences.
Draco leans back in his chair, brows lifting. He glances at the list Ainsley provided him with and does the calculations quickly in his head, fingers tapping on the table.
"Based on the amount of dragon root we believe they've imported? It would take out most of London. At the very least. And that's a conservative estimate."
The other Unspeakables scribble on their parchment, nodding in agreement with Draco when Robards turns a stern eye on them. The other Aurors murmur. Jefferson's lip curls mulishly. Weasley curses. But Potter only sighs.
"Right then. Guess we'll have to come up with something else."
"But Harry," Jefferson begins, his tone incredibly familiar. He even touches Potter's arm. Draco presses his fingers against his knee to resist the urge to kick the punter in his crass American bollocks.
Potter shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest. Their gazes lock for a brief second, green on silver, before Potter's mouth twists. He turns away and addresses Robards, but his words are clearly for Jefferson.
"If Malfoy says the risk is too high, then we don't go in."
Draco feels a tiny electric shock in his chest at Potter's words. The Weasel doesn't look happy about it, but he nods his assent as well. "Yeah. I don't fancy getting blown to bits before my wedding day." He pinkens a little and ducks his head.
Jefferson clearly wants to argue, but swallows his words behind a rigid jaw. Draco feels the smug smile curving his lips and doesn't bother trying to hide it. Under the table, a foot slides against his ankle in warning. He doesn't have to look to know it's a ratty trainer with eye-gougingly bright laces.
His colleagues—Bailey and Norine—bend their heads together to consult their paperwork. Draco's specialty is potions, but there are Unspeakables with a vast array of skill sets. Some are versed in arcana. Others in magical history. Then there are those like Bailey and Norine, whose talents no one discusses even privately, but who get called in on all the most difficult cases.
When they straighten, they both shuffle their papers back into order in unison. The brunette, Anna, shares another quick glance with her partner and nods.
The blonde, Tanya, says, "Perhaps a sting. To lure them to a safer secondary location."
This launches another round of discussion. Once again, Draco drifts, only tossing out the occasional comment about potions ingredients as needed. He wishes he was back in his workroom. He's midway through a very delicate draught and he would prefer to be monitoring its progress instead of listening to this lot debate the merits of an undercover operation.
He examines his nails. His cuticles are stained faintly red from grinding miracle berry seeds. This sends a little curl of pleasure unfurling in his chest.
Though he'd rather do without the meetings, Draco loves his job. Especially the well-stocked gardens and greenhouses available to him, and the pristine workroom he has all to himself on Level Nine.
Around him, Aurors argue, but Draco ignores them.
Whatever happens, Draco will only be called in after the fact, to supervise the handling of whatever products they find. He doesn't do fieldwork. He is strictly Research & Development. When Ainsley first recruited him, she had other plans, of course. Plans that involved a lot more of his past than he cares to dwell on.
He wonders suddenly if Granger would be shocked to learn that the post-War Ministry is so very interested in Dark Magic.
Potter's foot slides against his again, slower this time. Not a warning, a tease.
Draco feels a startled pulse of desire in his belly for a moment before he frowns. The shoe brushing his calf is too smooth and heavy to be one of Potter's. It feels like a boot. Like the hideous crocodile leather boots Jefferson likes to brag about.
The git's still facing Robards, but his body is angled towards Potter. As Draco watches, he sneaks a sly gaze in Potter's direction. The leg currently pressing and rubbing against Draco's is clearly Jefferson's.
He can't fathom how the American has mistaken his own long limb for Potter's, especially given the fact that it's facing the opposite way. Perhaps he's not all that observant. Or maybe he's so caught up in his flirtation with Potter, the prospect of pressing thigh to thigh and braiding their legs together has made him daft.
Draco's leg jerks, the pointed toe of his polished (and understatedly elegant) Oxford jabbing into Jefferson's shin.
Jefferson winces, straightening in his chair and shooting Draco a narrow-eyed look. Again, Draco doesn't bother to hide the upwards curve of his lips. When Potter leans in to murmur something in Jefferson's ear, Draco stretches his right leg out until he touches the cushioned seat of Potter's chair.
He knows the exact moment Potter feels the brush of Draco's toe on his inner thigh.
Potter goes completely still, his lips parting. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes slip closed. Draco's heart gallops in his chest. His nerves zing with electricity. It's a struggle to keep the rest of his body still as he slowly, carefully drags his smooth sole nearer Potter's cock.
He focuses on his papers, fighting to keep a smile off his lips, watching Potter through his lashes.
Warm, rough fingers slide under the hem of his slacks and tug down his sock. They circle his ankle and squeeze. Potter's thumb rubs the thin skin stretched over the curved bone. Draco's breath freezes in his lungs as Potter pulls him closer, pressing the toe of Draco's shoe more firmly against his growing erection. Then, he shoves Draco's foot to the floor, red staining the upper curves of his cheeks.
A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he doesn't cast so much as a glance Draco's way.
"Absolutely not."
Potter's words come out sharper than he probably intended. The Weasel shoots him a startled glance. Jefferson leans a little away from him.
Draco wasn't paying attention to the argument, so he doesn't know what Potter is disagreeing with. But, as always, the fierce delight he feels at getting under the other man's skin spreads through him. He can't control the curve of his mouth this time. He feels the expression slide across his face and knows he looks smug, but he doesn't care.
Not even when Anna catches his eye and lifts a single brow. He stares at her, unwilling to look away first. He's not sure how he feels about the knowing glance she exchanges with her partner, though. They both shake their heads.
"Anyone else have anything to add, then?"
Robards directs this at the Unspeakables. Apparently, the Aurors have come to some kind of decision. Draco is surprised at the swiftness. Surely they've only been there for three quarters of an hour, at most. Usually, they'd just be getting started bickering. He wonders what he missed whilst antagonizing Potter, but only briefly.
Beside him, Bailey and Norine engage in another wordless palaver consisting entirely of weighted looks and then turn to the Head Auror. They are unnervingly in sync.
"No, sir," they reply, in unison.
"Draco?" Robards smiles at him. It always throws him off a bit when the older man addresses him so familiarly. The Head Auror is a good sort, though. He always listens to what Draco has to say, and considers it with the same care as he does everything else. The same cannot be said for all of the Ministry officials. Some of them can't forget his last name.
Instead of a sharp retort, Draco merely shakes his head. "Not at present."
Potter is still pointedly not looking in his direction. Draco feels equal parts triumph and annoyance, both hot and sharp in his belly.
When Robards dismisses them, Draco is the first out the door. The corridor beyond is thick with people discussing lunch plans and hurrying towards the lifts. Food is the last thing on Draco's mind; his stomach is still a knot of need and tension.
He slips impatiently through the crowd, side-stepping a witch who pauses to pat her pockets for something.
Just before the lift doors come into view, Draco makes a quick decision and darts to the left, down a narrow side corridor that contains the offices of a few clerks for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts division and several store rooms.
Draco's heart thumps hard against his sternum.
He should step back into the throng and go find himself something to eat. He should go back to his workroom and check in on his draught. He should prepare the list of known exporters of rare and dangerous plants that he promised the Aurors.
There are a number of things he should do instead of standing in this corridor. Waiting for Potter.
He's not going to do any of them.
Instead, he leans against the wall and watches the people passing the end of the hall on their way to lunch. He smoothes a hand down over his sage-green waistcoat and plucks non-existent lint from his ebony slacks.
A moment later, his fellow Unspeakables herd the Aurors past him. Tanya's hand rests on Jefferson's shoulder. She appears to be steering his taller form before her. Anna is telling them about a place she knows with "divine kebabs." Potter is not with the group.
Electric anticipation shivers through Draco's veins.
One minute stretches to two, then three. Four. The crowd in the main hall thins, and there's still no sign of Potter. Restless, Draco tries the knob of the nearest door. It turns easily in his hand. He peeks inside.
The small room is full of shadows, but in the light from the hall he can see several shelves stacked with reams of blank parchment and bundles of quills. He can't see the pots of ink, but he can smell them, sharp and mineral.
Draco's heart beats faster as he closes the door and turns his gaze back to the end of the hall.
He's beginning to wonder if he's missed Potter, or the contrary git has gone another way, when he hears a steady, heavy tread. Potter hums a tune Draco can't place but seems vaguely familiar. There's no one else within sight now, but the lights still seem too bright as he steps to the end of the hall and slides his fingers around Potter's warm biceps. The muscle tenses under his grasp.
"What—?"
"Shh!"
Draco slaps his free hand over Potter's mouth, blood heating at the warm satin feel of Potter's lips under his fingers. He yanks Potter further down the hall, pulls open the storeroom door, and shoves him inside.
Once they're alone in the iron-and-vanilla scented dark, Draco removes his hand and replaces it with his mouth.
He presses close, tongue flicking out to demand entrance.
Potter moans, mumbles, "Malfoy, what…mmmm!" His hands slide into Draco's hair and his lips soften, part, let Draco in. The kiss is hot and hungry, a sucking, biting, carnivorous thing.
Draco grips Potter's hip in one hand, walking him backwards, and shoves the other up under the damned t-shirt. Potter's skin is warm and rough with hair. The curls tickle his palm as he combs his fingers through it, searching for the tight peaks of Potter's nipples.
He dances his tongue around Potter's mouth, echoing the teasing motions with his fingers before taking one stiff bud between thumb and pointer and rolling it. Potter shudders and moans into Draco's mouth.
Beneath his hand, Draco can feel the ragged rise and fall of Potter's muscled chest, the rapid thump of his heart. He trails his mouth along Potter's jaw, the faint stubble abrading his lips and making them tingle. When he reaches Potter's throat, he licks along the corded muscle there. Potter's hands tighten in his hair, pulling him closer into the warm flesh of his neck.
"Malfoy," he moans. "We can't— It's mid-day— I'm supposed to— fuck!"
His words dissolve into an incoherent groan as Draco sucks at his skin, tasting salt and soap. Draco chuckles, pressing Potter back, back, until he collides with one of the shelves with a soft 'umph.' Something rattles and falls over, but Draco doesn't care. He closes his teeth over Potter's earlobe and tugs.
"That sounds like an excellent idea, Auror Potter," he murmurs.
"W-what? No, I meant…" Again, he trails off, breath catching as Draco kisses his way down his throat. When Draco latches back on to the same sensitive spot, Potter tenses, sucking air in a hiss through his teeth.
His hips buck, pressing the rigid length of his erection against Draco's thigh. A hot, sweet bubble of triumph and pleasure wells in Draco's belly. Potter's hands skim down Draco's back, kneading the muscles beneath his shirt and waistcoat.
Potter presses both palms to the small of Draco's back, urging him closer. He moves restlessly, rubbing against Draco, his mouth skimming Draco's cheek. Warm puffs of breath rifle the hair at Draco's temple.
"I was going to meet the others for lunch," Potter says, though his words lack the conviction of the grip he's got on Draco's arse. "They'll wonder where I am."
When Draco runs his tongue along Potter's lower lip, Potter leans into the kiss. Draco shoves his t-shirt up to his armpits with both hands. He imagines Jefferson asking Potter where he got to and feels the smile curling his mouth.
"Better think of a good explanation then."
It's the last thing he says before bending to curl his tongue around one small, stiff nipple. Potter groans, his head falling back against the shelf with a thunk. Draco moves from one side of Potter's chest to the other, teasing and worrying the sensitive nubs until Potter is panting and moaning and writhing against him.
His own cock is iron hard and aching for release from the confines of his pants. But it's not enough. He doesn't just want Potter eager. Draco wants—needs—him absolutely wrecked.
Draco slides to his knees, heedless of the hard floor, and kisses the quivering muscles of Potter's belly. Potter's well fit from training and the ridges of his abdomen are a tantalizing delight for Draco's tongue to explore.
He drops teasing, barely there kisses all along the edge of Potter's damned jeans as his hands stroke Potter's thighs. The material is soft under his palms, and he can feel several frayed patches.
Maybe it's the lush, warm darkness or the unexpected thrill of doing this in the middle of the day, but Potter's hands slip back into Draco's hair. The sensation of fingers scratching gently along his scalp sends a lance of sharp pleasure down Draco's spine. He moans against Potter's stomach.
He can barely make out the trail of dark hair that disappears into Potter's jeans. Draco rubs the tip of his nose along it as his hands make short work of the button and zip. Potter doesn't protest. He's still, trembling, his hands gentle on Draco's head. He exhales a loud huff when Draco tugs the zipper down and spreads the plackets open. Draco nuzzles into the warm space revealed, feeling the throbbing bulge of Potter's cock against his lips through the cotton. The salt scent of his skin in stronger there.
Draco curls his fingers over the waistband of both jeans and pants and slowly, carefully, draws them down Potter's thighs. He pushes them further, over his knees, to his ankles, leaving him as bare as he can be without undressing. He runs his fingers lightly over Potter's muscled calves.
His eyes have adjusted to the gloom. He stares up the length of Potter's body, his own heart pounding at the sight. Potter's cock, thick and veined, stands out from the patch of dark hair at his groin. The broad head peeks from beneath his foreskin, glistening with pre-come in the faint light spilling under the door.
Watching Potter's flushed face, Draco runs the flat of his tongue over it, salivary glands cramping at the first taste, flooding his mouth with saliva.
Potter stares back at him, eyes wide. His glasses have fallen off, or perhaps he removed them. Draco doesn't know, but he finds himself strangely pleased that he can see Potter's unadorned expression. Draco keeps his gaze locked on Potter as he slides the first few inches of Potter's cock between his lips.
He's rewarded with a low, deep groan. It's accompanied by the slightest tightening of Potter's fingers in his hair.
He slips the tip of his tongue under Potter's foreskin to curl around the ridge of his cockhead. The crown is wide, smooth, and heavy in his mouth as he sucks it. He draws softly at first, then harder, sliding his lips further down the throbbing shaft. Further. Swallowing, easing Potter's girth into his throat.
It aches to do this. Tears sting his eyes. Air stutters in and out through his nostrils, ruffling the dense curls of Potter's pubic hair, making them tickle Draco's nose. But Draco loves the stretch of his jaw and tingle of apprehension that zings through him with each thin breath. And the look on Potter's face every time he takes him this deep… he's never seen anything like it.
Potter doesn't thrust, though Draco can tell from the tautness of his muscles that he wants to. He cups the back of Draco's head and stares down at him, lashes fluttering. His eyes drift closed and immediately snap back open.
Draco pulls back slowly, savoring every inch of throbbing flesh between his lips, and wraps his fingers tightly around the base of Potter's cock. It's hot and hard, slippery with his saliva and Potter's pre-come.
"Malfoy."
Potter says nothing else, just his name, but the tone is clear. All those years Draco hated him, he never could have imagined how sweet it was to hear Potter beg.
He dives back down, working his hand and mouth in concert. Potter cries out. Draco probably should have thought to do more than merely lock the door, but he's much too focused on the delicious length of flesh between his lips to care now.
Draco swallows Potter again, opening his mouth wide as he withdraws, letting saliva pool and drip down between Potter's thighs. It wets the hand he curls around Potter's bollocks, warm and slippery. He smoothes the slickness back, wriggling his fingers into the cleft of Potter's arse.
The shelf creaks under Potter's weight as he leans back against it, trying to spread his thighs. Draco would smile if his mouth wasn't so full.
He draws back to trace the thick veins on Potter's shaft with his tongue, pumping his fist. A soft thunk startles him, making him pause and glance at the door. Or try to. Potter's hands still hold his head.
Potter's leg jiggles. "Little help, Malfoy?"
His voice is a dark rasp, so sexy it sends an echo of pleasure through Draco. It takes him a minute to realize what Potter's asking. He's toed out of his shoe somehow and is attempting to shake his socked foot free of his trouser leg.
Draco grips the hem and yanks. Potter lets out a breath of triumph as he kicks free.
The skin of Potter's inner thigh is hot and silky as Draco lifts it to hook Potter's knee over his shoulder. Potter's nostrils flare wide and a groan rumbles from his chest as Draco bends back to his task.
He sucks Potter deep, the wet sounds loud in the small room.
Blood pounds in Draco's ears and groin. He releases his hold on Potter briefly to undo his slacks and free his own aching cock. He strokes it briefly, moaning in the back of his throat as pleasure pulses through him.
Above him, Potter gasps and moans and bucks. He's finally given in to Draco. Each time Draco pulls back, Potter thrusts forwards, fucking his prick between Draco's tingling lips. His blunt fingernails scratch lightly at Draco's scalp as he draws him back.
When Draco nudges the tip of his finger against the tight furl of Potter's hole, he pulls a hand free of Draco's hair to fumble at his pocket. A second later, Draco sees the smudge of his wand in his hand and feels the tingle of magic before warm lube slicks his questing fingers.
Breathless, Potter fires another spell at the closed door.
It's all the encouragement Draco needs. He sucks Potter's thick cock back into his throat as he presses his long middle finger deep into the tight clutch of Potter's passage. Potter cries out, his heel digging into Draco's shoulder blade.
Draco curls his finger, searching for that sensitive spot within Potter.
Something rolls across one of the shelves and drops to the floor as Potter pumps into Draco's mouth. Every retreat impales him on Draco's thrusting finger.
Potter's breathing is broken, his voice choked. "Oh… gah… Malf...uuuuck! Fuck! Ah! Yes!"
He groans when Draco adds a second finger, his pace stuttering. The room is warm from their breath and the heat of their bodies; the scent of ink grows stronger, mingling with the musk of sex. Sweat dampens Draco's hair and trickles down the back of his neck.
Draco slides a third finger deep into Potter, grazing his prostate, making him buck.
When he scissors his fingers, stretching that tight ring of muscle wide, Potter whimpers and quakes. Draco tastes the flood of pre-come on his tongue. He knows Potter is close, can feel it in the tension of his muscles, the tightness of his bollocks. He can hear it in every sobbing breath.
Draco doesn't plan on letting him come. Not yet.
Out in the hall, footsteps drift past the door. Neither of them pay the sound any heed. Potter's hands fist in Draco's hair, guiding him desperately up and down his throbbing shaft. Draco obeys the wordless command, speeding up until his mouth is almost a blur on Potter's cock.
Potter chants Draco's name, his throat rippling as he swallows.
Draco stills suddenly, nose buried against Potter's pubis. Then he pulls slowly off. Potter tries to draw him back, but there's no real strength in his grip.
"Malfoy?"
Draco nips Potter's thigh, making him gasp. "Not yet, Potter."
"What—" He hisses as Draco pulls his fingers free and stands. Draco crushes his mouth, feeling how wet and swollen Potter's lower lip is. He's been chewing it while Draco sucked him.
Once he's ravaged Potter's mouth, he attacks his throat again with lips and teeth and tongue. His slippery fingers pull and twist Potter's nipples, drawing whimpers of pleasure.
"Malfoy, what…?"
Potter, too, is slick with sweat. He's flushed and wide-eyed and achingly hard. He tries to press against Draco, but Draco takes a single step back. He curls his hand around his own shaft and strokes, slowly, sliding his thumb over the sensitive tip. His fingers are slick with saliva and lube and he smears it along his cock.
Draco smiles as Potter's gaze drops to watch him leisurely wank himself. The sight of Potter licking his lips makes Draco moan. He clamps his hand on the base of his cock, already so aroused it won't take much to tip him over the edge.
In between these encounters, Draco always convinces himself his memory must be faulty. Nothing can possibly feel this incredible. Especially nothing having to do with Potter.
But it does. It lights up every single nerve ending with shimmering crystalline pleasure. And the power of it...
Potter steps forward, his knees bending, but Draco catches his arm. He squeezes, enjoying the give of Potter's muscled flesh. Potter frowns, dark brows pulling down over his nose. Draco shakes his head and pushes him back against the shelves.
He can feel the smile stretching his cheeks as he nudges the toe of his shoe against Potter's ankle, much as he did in the conference room during the meeting.
"Spread your legs."
Still frowning, Potter does as commanded. He braces his hands on the shelf and spreads his legs wide, his eyes on Draco's face. The immediate, easy acquiescence swirls through Draco, leaving him light-headed as he takes up position between Potter's parted thighs.
He doesn't bother with his wand. Instead, he lays his hand on Potter's thigh and murmurs, "Surgocorpus."
Potter gasps and shivers as the magic washes over him. Draco chuckles, knowing how that particular spell feels, like thousands of tiny, warm champagne bubbles rushing over your skin. When he curls his fingers into the damp hollow of Potter's knees and lifts, his weight is negligible.
Or, rather, it is there but not a hindrance.
Draco doesn't want to take the chance of dropping Potter on his very fine backside in the middle of things.
Potter's fingers curl around the edge of the shelf. His eyes are wide and glitter in the dark.
"W-what are you doing, Malfoy?"
Draco grins as Potter hooks his ankles together at the small of Draco's back. Their cocks slide against each other, making them both gasp.
"What does it look like, Potter?"
He grips the back of Potter's neck, drawing him into another kiss, and thrusts against him. It's not enough friction, just a tease, but it feels wonderful. Draco shivers and moans into Potter's mouth. He snakes his other hand between them to grasp his shaft. Potter stills a moment later when Draco rubs the sensitive head of his cock against his warm, slick entrance.
"Draco?"
His name on Potter's tongue, so rough and breathy, sends a shiver down Draco's spine. His cock throbs. He brushes his mouth over Potter's.
"Shall I stop?"
There is a long, heavy moment of silence. They've never done this before. Never discussed it. (Not that they really discuss anything.) Draco doesn't even know if Potter has ever enjoyed this particular act with anyone before. That thought makes his heart drop into his belly and then leap into his throat. He wants so badly to thrust forward, to bury himself in the slick, tight heat of Potter's body… but he waits.
He swallows and repeats his question.
"Harry? Shall I stop?"
He feels the muscles in Potter's neck tense under his palm. Hair tickles his cheek as Potter shakes his head. Draco's heart thumps fast.
"I need to hear you say it."
Potter's breath puffs against his chin. He feels rather than sees the other man lick his lips. The words, when they finally come, are ragged.
"Don't stop." He lets go of the shelf with one hand and reaches up to slide his fingers back into Draco's hair. "Do it."
Draco shifts his hips, pressing a little harder. They both moan as the crinkled ring begins to give. But Draco still wants more. He ghosts his lips along Potter's jaw until he reaches his ear.
"Do what, Potter?" His tongue traces delicate patterns on Potter's lobe. Potter shudders. His fingers dig into the back of Draco's neck. He arches, rubbing himself against Draco.
"Fuck me."
His thighs tighten around Draco's hips. Draco teases his hole with the head of his cock, toying with them both. Delicious heat coils in Draco's belly.
"Is this where you want me, Potter?"
He nods, but Draco grips a handful of unruly dark hair and tips his head back. Potter's eyes look black in the dim closet. He nips Potter's chin.
"Tell me. You want my cock? Tell me where. Ask nicely."
Even Draco can hear the smirk in his words. For a second, yellow panic flares in Draco's chest, thinking he's pushed the other man too far. But Potter bites his lower lip, licks it, shakes his head. His eyes are glassy with pleasure.
"Please, Draco," he breathes, grinding his arse down onto Draco's cock. "I want your cock in my arse. Fuck me."
He doesn't have to encourage Potter any further. As Draco slides slowly, carefully into him, Potter babbles. He presses his forehead hard against Draco's shoulder, his breath uneven.
"Yes, god, I didn't know— feels so good! Fuck, Draco, you're stretching me— your cock… yes, oh god, deeper! Draco! Yes, there! Please! Draco, please! I need—oh god fucking— fuck! Give me— ahhhhh!"
Draco has never heard the Gryffindor curse so much before. Some other time, he'd be amazed. Now, the man writhing on his cock and the sweet, slick satin heat rippling along his shaft has his full attention.
Between them, Potter's prick jerks against the bunched muscles of his stomach. A strand of pre-come stretches from the plump head to a spot just below Potter's navel, glimmering in the faint light. Draco stares at the enticing sight as he slides deeper into Potter.
His head swims.
There is something dream-like about this moment—the dark room, the warmth, the scent of ink and Potter's skin, his breathy murmuring, the exquisite perfection of the pleasure burning through Draco's veins. It must be a dream, because there's no way it could be real.
He is buried to the bollocks in Harry Potter's arse and Potter is begging to be fucked. For Draco to fuck him.
Draco gives himself up to it.
With one hand gripping the nape of Potter's neck and the other curled around his bare thigh, Draco uses the weight of his body to pin Potter back against the shelves. When he pulls back, Potter's arse clutches at him, tearing a guttural groan from Draco's lips.
Potter gasps against Draco's neck.
Need claws down Draco's spine. He is barely holding onto his mind. All he can think about is Potter. Fucking Potter.
He snaps his hips forwards, driving his cock into Potter, making him cry out. Draco falters, but Potter's arm around his shoulders tightens. His blunt fingernails scratch at Draco's scalp.
"Yessssss! Oh god, Merlin, yes! Just like that!"
Draco can't be slow. It's too much. He thrusts deep again, again, again. His lips tingle. He wants to crush Potter's mouth under his, but doesn't want to stem the tide of filthy praise and entreaties tumbling from his tongue.
Each "yes", each "please, Draco", fires his blood and twists the coil of pleasure within him tighter.
Here, in the dark, things are simple.
Draco doesn't think about what it means that he seems to crave Potter all the time now, that he dreams of his mouth and his touch, how there is a hollow, hungry place inside him that only seems sated when he is with Potter like this, or how the sight of Jefferson's hand on Potter's arm made him seethe. He doesn't think at all. He only feels.
Potter's hot, uneven breath on his cheek. Potter's fingers in his hair. The soft weight of Potter's bollocks just above his pubis. The powerful grip of Potter's legs around his waist. The perfect, tight clench of Potter's arse.
Draco grabs the shelf just behind Potter's head, his fingernails digging into the wood as he plunges in and out. The shelves bang back against the wall, their contents rattling, tipping. Distantly, he is aware of the crash of breaking glass. The sharp tang of iron fills the room.
"More," Potter begs. "Deeper, Draco. Harder! Ahh, fuck! Yes. More!"
Draco gives him more. Harder. He gives him everything, driving himself home until sweat drips down his face and throat. His muscles burn with the effort, but it's nothing compared to the sensation of pure, ecstatic pleasure each twisting thrust sends pouring through him.
He licks along Potter's jaw, teasing the spot below his ear with his mouth. He slides his hand over Potter's sweat-damp hip, brushes his slick belly, and wraps his fingers around the hard, hot, throbbing thickness of his cock. Strokes it from base to tip in time with his thrusts.
There is no soft, surprised noise this time. Potter throws his head back so hard it thwacks against Draco's knuckles as his body arches in orgasm. Instead of the little 'guh', he gives a full-throated, "Gahhhh!"
His inner muscles clench and ripple along Draco's shaft. Pleasure swamps him, hot and sweet, radiating throughout his entire body. Draco's voice is strained, whispering things into the velvet hollow of Potter's throat. He's not even sure what he's saying, and the blood is ringing in his ears too loudly for him to make out his own words.
He rides out the tide of sensation, pumping himself deep into Potter. Some dark, primitive part of Draco thrills at the thought of his come inside the other man; a part of him left behind. Perhaps Potter feels the same, because his prick throbs in Draco's hand, spilling thick, silky fluid over his already slippery fingers.
Slowly, slowly, like a wind-up toy ramping down, their movements taper off. Stutter. Stop.
In the dark, they lean into each other, panting, sweaty, replete.
Draco's heart is thunder in his chest.
Potter smoothes Draco's hair back from his face with shaking hands. Then, a soft mouth presses against his. Potter's lips are warm and sweet. He kisses Draco like he's sipping him; tiny, brief flutters of his tongue.
After the way they crashed together, raw and rough with passion, it is the exact right amount of connection.
They remain that way for another minute, two, sharing breath, before Draco pulls back. Potter lowers his legs carefully while Draco continues to brace his weight.
Neither speaks or turns on the light as they set themselves to rights.
Draco murmurs a cleaning spell, flicking his wand in Potter's direction. Part of him wishes there was more light, so he could see the mess of Potter's come on his chest and belly and know he'd done that to him.
But the dark is better for now.
Something has shifted between them, Draco can feel it, and he's not ready to look into Potter's eyes and see the knowledge of that reflected back at him.
Redressing doesn't take Draco long, since it's merely a matter of fixing his trousers and straightening his shirt and waistcoat. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, smoothing it as best he can. He'll need to pop into the loo to be sure, but he should be presentable enough.
He watches as Potter tugs his jeans and pants back up his legs, his brow deeply furrowed, and refuses to find anything endearing about the sight of him with one ratty trainer on and the other off.
Potter's sock is white, with little golden snitches.
Turning abruptly, Draco searches the gloom for Potter's other shoe. It takes a minute before he finds it beneath a scattered pile of parchment. Draco toes the stack aside and lifts the trainer, grimacing at the vibrant yellow laces. Even in the dim room, they scream.
"I hate these shoes. They're hideous."
Potter snorts, fastens the last button on his jeans, and extends his hand for the shoe. "Good thing you don't have to wear them, then."
Draco turns the trainer side to side, though the light is too low for him to really examine it.
"You ought to get a new pair. Or wear something more professional."
"What, like yours? I like my trainers. They're comfortable."
"My shoes are perfectly comfortable, thank you. Unlike some people, I prefer footwear that excels at both form and function."
Potter shoves a hand through his hair, which (unbelievably) makes the state of it worse. "Why are we standing in the dark arguing about my shoes?"
He's right, Draco realizes. This is absurd. He tosses the worn trainer to Potter with a sniff.
"I'm not arguing about anything. It was merely an observation."
Draco can hear the eyeroll, though he can't see it as Potter bends over to slide his foot into his shoe.
"An observation about how much you hate my shoes and think I should get new ones."
"Exactly."
Potter chuckles. "Draco—"
They both still. There is no sound in the room but their soft breaths.
The moment zings and crackles with energy.
Draco can't stand it. He can hear Potter taking in air, getting ready to say something stupid. Something that will change everything. Behind his ribs, his lungs lock tighter than a Gringotts vault.
He slaps his palm against the center of Potter's chest and shoves, slamming him back against the storage room door. Potter exhales a startled, "Oof!"
It's the only sound he manages before Draco crushes his mouth in a kiss.
Potter makes the noise in the back of his throat, the one usually reserved for when he comes, as he opens to Draco's onslaught. Draco pins him against the door and ravages his mouth, nipping his lips, sucking his tongue, licking deep into him, until Potter is clinging to him and shaking and no longer thinking about saying anything irrevocable.
Draco pulls back, clears his throat, and pats Potter's chest.
"Thanks for the fuck. You'd better get back. Jefferson will no doubt be wondering where you are."
This close, Draco can see the length of Potter's lashes as he blinks.
"Who?"
That causes a starburst of delight to detonate in Draco's gut. He skims his lips over Potter's again.
"American chap. Dreadful taste in boots. Boorish in the extreme?"
"Oh." Potter nods, though Draco is pleased to see he still looks a bit dazed from the kiss. "Right."
Draco presses closer, reaching past Potter to turn the doorknob. He kisses him again, pushing his tongue in to curl around Potter's before shoving him out into the hall.
"Off you go then."
Potter's flushed face contorts into a confused scowl. "Damn it, Malfoy."
He glances around the thankfully empty hallway, runs a hand down his hopelessly wrinkled t-shirt, and shoots a narrow-eyed glare in Draco's direction. He fumbles his glasses out of a back pocket and settles them back on his nose.
"We will be discussing a few things later."
Draco lets the smile tugging at his lips out and waves.
"No, we won't."
He leans against the doorframe, wondering if Potter is going to argue with him here in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts division. There aren't many offices in this particular hall, but some of their occupants will likely be returning soon, if they haven't already. He lets his gaze drift down towards the end of the hall. Potter is clearly thinking along the same lines, because he merely shakes his head, his jaw tight, and stalks off.
Or attempts to. His step falters slightly and a deep red flush spreads up his throat. He pauses for a moment, adjusting his stance, and Draco realizes he's feeling a bit tender after what they've just done. His heart turns over in his chest at the thought.
Draco opens his mouth, not sure what foolishness is about to come out, but before he can speak Potter straightens his spine and continues down the hall at a more sedate pace.
He doesn't look back.
Draco swallows whatever silly, possibly tender words leapt to his tongue and watches him go. When the hallway is empty, Draco turns back to the storeroom and studies the disarray.
Parchment, quills, and ink have spilled everywhere. It only takes a few flicks of his wrist to neaten the stacks of paper and the bundles of quills. It's easy enough to Vanish the sparkling bits of broken glass, but there are several large splotches staining the wood floor and the shelves. Black. Green. Vibrant red. A splash of bright yellow.
If one were to look very closely, they might notice a brilliant purple sock print that has somehow managed to retain the pattern of snitches, or the smudged mark of a smooth-soled Oxford in intense blue. Here, the curve of Draco's heel like a stamp in azure, dark at first and then lighter. There, a swoop the shade of lemon sherbet left behind by Potter's hand sliding along the edge of the shelf. Among the drips of chartreuse trailing down from the fourth shelf to the floor is a row of perfectly round dollops of color that no doubt bear Draco's fingerprints.
A particularly observant person might even glimpse the truth of what had transpired there in the smears and dabs of ink.
Draco contemplates it for several moments before a small smile tugs at his mouth. He murmurs a spell to seal the ink fast, and closes the door.