"It's not like this means anything, right?"
It's not like this means anything, right? I can hear the words as they enter my ears, echo around my skull. I can see his lips moving, forming vowels and consonants—I can almost see the words dripping from his smirking mouth. I just can't seem to get them to make sense. Is he speaking in the wrong order? Am I supposed to decipher his words for their real meaning, like some sort of code? It seems like something he would do, speak in code. Riddles, more like it, seeing as he has yet to give me any sort of straight answer about anything. It's not like this means anything, right?
I would love to be able to answer no honestly. At this point, I think I might be willing to give anything for the answer to that question to be no. When he starts behaving like this, though, it becomes easier to pretend that the answer really could be no. It's times like this that I remember how much I truly hate him.
"Well?" His condescending drawl snaps me out of the thick haze of anger and disbelief his question has shrouded me in. I only stare. "Potter?" His tone is impatient—when is it ever not?
A faint pounding is steadily throbbing behind my eyes—I remove my glasses to rub them and find the darkness of closed eyelids more preferable to the scowl I can all too clearly imagine on his face. For a few seconds I think about attempting to remain behind my eyelids forever, but even I know it's a stupid plan. Even in the dark, his face is still all I see.
Sighing, I run my hands roughly through my hair and open my eyes. The frowning visage before me is exactly as the one projected onto my eyelids; long strands of platinum blond hair framing porcelain skin, grey eyes flashing with impatience, mouth set in an angry twist, jaw clenched as if in effort of keeping back the vitriolic flood of insults and hatred I know he longs to spew my direction. How did I ever get myself into this situation? My fingers are still in my hair and I have to resist the urge to rip out handfuls—it would amuse him far too much to watch me lose control like this, over him. The fucking bastard.
"Potter?" At the change in tone, I glance up. The scowl has softened somewhat and there's something unrecognizable glinting in the deep silver of his eyes. "Are you all right?"
The question startles me. Am I all right? Did Draco Malfoy just ask about my well-being? If I didn't know him any better, I might have mistaken the lilt in his voice as concern. But I know him far too well to make such an error.
"What do you care, Malfoy? After all," I can't seem to keep the biting edge from my intonation, "it's not like any of this means anything."
At my words, his scowl is once again cemented. Sometimes it surprises me that his mouth is capable of forming any other shape. "Good. So we're agreed then." His reply is icy. My hands tighten in my hair and I am forced to take several deep breaths to calm down enough to unclench my fists and lower them to my lap.
"Fine," I grit out. "We're fucking agreed." My attention is returned once again to the files spread before me—a clear dismissal. But of course, nothing is simple with Malfoy. He remains perched on the edge of my desk—more like the edge of my patience—drumming his fingers and waiting for me to ask what's on his mind. "Well, I suppose we both have work to get back to…" I hint, hoping he'll accept it and leave. The sooner he leaves, the sooner I'll be able to finish my paperwork, the sooner I'll be able to Floo home and attempt to achieve an alcohol-induced coma.
Any sight of his angry scowl or patronizing smirk, the only expressions I think I've ever seen him make, are hidden from view as I raise a navy folder and open it, pretending to scan the contents in hopes that he'll have disappeared by the time I lower it. Hopes I already know to be in vain. One long pale finger curls over the top and forces it back to the desk. I consider closing my eyes in an attempt to hide, but it's far too childish and I've tried it far too many times to be successful.
As the silence continues to stretch, I finally look up to meet his gaze. He's watching me evenly, calmly, a tiny smirk playing around his lips as if he knows exactly what I was considering only moments ago. Bastard. "What is it, Malfoy?" My voice sounds exhausted even to me. Was it possible that it was only this morning that I arrived at the Ministry in a good mood? When had the workday turned into this?
Black trouser-clad ankles uncross and his lean body rises fluidly from the wood surface of my desk. For half a second I naively believe that he has finally understood just how stretched I feel and has decided to leave me alone. Instead, he walks around my chair and his long fingers begin to knead the aching muscles of my upper back. I bite back a groan and instead try to shake off his touch—which of course only makes him dig into the flesh harder until it's less of a massage and more of a painful struggle. Eventually, I'm forced to concede defeat and slump forward in my chair, forehead thudding loudly against the desk as I fall onto it. Maybe I'll get lucky and knock myself unconscious—hopefully just long enough for him to disappear from my life forever.
Unfortunately, I'm rarely so lucky. My attempts at losing consciousness only increase the throbbing in my skull that began the moment he walked through the door.
"Easy, Potter," he soothes, bending low to speak directly into my ear. "What's got you so tense then, hmm?" His voice melts over me like warm butter, spreading over the back of my neck and dripping sensuously along my skin. His voice is dangerous.
"What the fuck do you think?"
"I'm sure I don't know." Still that maddeningly low pitch. How is it fair that his voice has such an effect on me? "Perhaps it has something to do with one of these mysterious blue folders you keep attempting to throw me from your office to peruse, hmm?" As he speaks, his fingers dip into the collar of my robes, sliding tantalizingly along the bare skin of my back.
"Well, if I'm being so obvious about trying to get you out of my office, then what the fuck are you still doing in it?" My jaw is sore from grinding my teeth. If I had been hoping for the question to be found offensive enough for him to storm off, I am disappointed. He responds by sliding his hands lower, fingernails scraping pleasantly along my skin.
"Perhaps I'm waiting for you to invite me to stay?" Those words—what the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway?—are accompanied by the tickle of warm breath across the shell of my ear and I fight back a shiver.
"As if you've ever needed an invitation," I spit out. "But if you want one, fine. I invite you, Malfoy. I invite you to get the hell out of my office."
"That's not very polite now, is it?" he tsks. "And here I am, giving you a lovely backrub and keeping you company." I can hear the pout in his voice and resist the urge to turn around, refuse to look at his pouting mouth—those perfect lips look even softer and more plump when pulled into a pout.
My eyes close and I sigh heavily. "Just get to whatever point you're here to make."
The warmth of the fingers against my back disappears as he withdraws his hands and I sit back up, eyes still closed. I can hear him shuffle out from behind me and hear the slight creak of wood as he places his weight once more upon the corner of my desk.
"We need to discuss tomorrow night." At his casual tone, my eyes fly open. Tomorrow night? The night of the Ministry banquet, some celebration in honor of some higher-up who did something worth being celebrated—I couldn't even pretend to care enough to skim the memo.
"What about tomorrow night?" I ask cautiously. He's not going to possibly…ask me, is he? To attend with him? As, like, his date? My fingers twitch and I tell myself not to hope, because I know him. And I know that I will only end up disappointed. Three seconds later, I'm once again proven correct.
"I'll be attending with Pansy." The words slam into my chest, crunching any hope blossoming against my will that he might have considered taking me instead. My head dips forward as I fight the urge to slam it back against the desk. Of course he was taking Pansy. His ex. Maybe not so ex, I'm not actually clear on their relationship. Every time one of these Ministry functions comes up, she is always his plus one. I can only assume that when he's not sleeping with me, he's sleeping with her. And when he's not sleeping with either of us, he's probably working his way through every bed in the Ministry; I'm merely a detour. Does that make Pansy his main attraction? It makes sense for them to be together. They are, after all, both cunts.
"Have a lovely time, then," I bite out before snapping open a different navy folder and disappearing behind it once more. Just like my previous attempt, it's thwarted once again by a single pale finger lowering the folder back to the desk. "What?" I demand. Why won't he just bloody leave already?
"We already have our outfits planned," his voice is calm, but I can see something hooded and inscrutable lurking in the depths of his eyes. "But I'm missing my emerald tie. It must be somewhere at your place."
His tie? His fucking tie? That's what he stormed in seventeen minutes ago to discuss? Some goddamn fucking tie that he wants back so he can look nice for his date? The pounding in my head threatens to boil into molten rage. His eyes never leave my face as I slowly stand and lean over him.
"I haven't seen your fucking tie, Malfoy." As the words leave my mouth, I take a second to be impressed with how icy they are—in complete contrast to the volcanic anger I feel coalescing within me. "I suggest you look for it elsewhere." And with that, I step around him and head for the door. If he's not willing to leave, I'll be more than happy to.
Just as I'm about to pass him, he reaches out one hand and cups me through the crimson robes of my Auror uniform. "Leaving so soon, darling?" he asks coyly.
And that's it.
Unable to take any more, my anger explodes. Before I'm aware of my actions, my desk has been swept empty and Malfoy has been slammed roughly against the surface, my hands clenched tightly in his robes. He's breathless from the force of it and is staring up at me, smirking. I want to scream. Instead, I settle for pulling him up and slamming him into the wood again. This time the smirk is more of a grimace of pain.
"Fuck you, Malfoy," I growl. The skin of my palms feels alarmingly hot, my hands burning as though they would like nothing more than to shake the man trapped in their grasp into a thousand tiny porcelain pieces.
"All right," he breathes. His hands inch down between us to pop the button and work the fly to my jeans, pushing them down mid-thigh and trailing his fingers through the dark curls of my groin. Before he can get a firm grip, I slam him into the desk again.
"Fuck you," I repeat, and in a sudden flurry of movement, I bunch his robes up to his waist and rip his black trousers open, yanking them down to his ankles. His thighs are shoved into his chest and he obligingly bends his knees, panting. He's already hard, erection pointed stiffly toward the ceiling. For a minute I consider leaving him here like this, but he locks eyes with me and smirks. Fucking smirks. The fire sweeps through my veins once more, a white-hot anger being pumped from my heart with every hammering thud.
He raises his wand, most likely to perform the necessary preparation and lubrication spells, but I wrestle it from him and toss it away. I'm not sure of what kind of game he's playing, but I'm not about to make it easier or more enjoyable for him.
"You wanted me angry, right, Malfoy?" I sneer—an expression I seem to have picked up from him—and spit into my hand before stroking my cock. "You wanted to get fucked?" As my mouth snarls the words, I press forward into his tight heat. He inhales sharply and grips the sides of the desk, his knuckles white as I bury myself inside. "Looks like you got your wish." And with that I begin to thrust—fast, furious, slamming into him without mercy. The force of it drives him further and further across the desk until with a growl I drag him back. "Going somewhere?"
His lips twist in a smirk and he opens his mouth to respond, but at the sight of that hated expression, I pull out of him completely and haul him to his feet by the front of his robes. "Hey!" He sounds startled and almost nervous for a second, but I spin him around and slam him onto the desk. Leaning over his back, I pause to slick my cock with a quick spell before shoving back inside and beginning my furious tempo once more, pounding into him with rough, punishing thrusts.
"Fuck—Potter—holy—fuck—yes—" His words sound stilted and odd as the angry thrusts make it difficult for him to speak. His fingers scrabble uselessly against the wood.
"Is this what you wanted, Malfoy?" My voice is just as strained. "Is this why you came in here? To end up bent over my desk?" He's making an odd sort of keening noise and I wonder if he might damage the wood of my desk with how hard he's now gripping it. For a few moments, I worry if I might be hurting him, but we both know that if he wants me to stop, all he has to do is say so.
At the thought of seeing how far I can push this, my pace increases until the violent sounds of our bodies slapping together and his cries and wails are deafening. Thank God I have a private office and my job requires high levels of security—there are always silencing spells set in place.
He comes first. With an almost-shriek, his body tightens up and begins flailing, until finally, the shudders stop. I don't slow my assault, pounding into him roughly until my own orgasm sweeps over me with a grunt and I am once more left with the acidic aftertaste of my own self-loathing deep in my throat.
oOo
The warm presence of his chest against my back disappears before I straighten gingerly. Fuck, I'm going to be sore for a while. Potter has already tucked his cock away and adjusted his robes. The man has also moved several feet from me and is glaring at the floor as if he didn't just have an amazing, intense orgasm only moments ago.
Bending is a mistake, I decide as I flinch and tug my trousers and pants back up and buckle them into place. "Well," I begin, no longer able to take his silent anger. "That was interesting."
The glare that was being directed at the floor swings up to land on me, instead, and I want to sigh. Will I ever see any other expression directed at me?
"And now it's over." His statement is oddly flat in comparison to the anger flashing in his impossibly green eyes. Green eyes framed by shaggy ebony hair—hair that seems to crackle in his fury.
"You say that every time," I smirk. It's always the same: we fuck, he says it's over, I know he's lying, he tries to avoid me, it doesn't work. "Sing me a new song sometime, hmm?"
"I mean it, Malfoy," he states calmly—suspiciously calmly. "This was it. I won't keep doing this. Not with you."
The blood seems to freeze in my veins. For a minute, I almost believed him serious. "Sure, Potter," I scoff. "We both know how long that usually lasts." Ever since this, whatever it is, started between us, the longest we've gone without fucking is thirteen days.
"Get out." The words are controlled, casual almost, but my breath stutters at the look in his eye. His eyes are flat, emotionless, hollow. Have I pushed too far? Demanded too much this time? I had arrived at his door with some flimsy work-related excuse, intending to "convince" him to trade quick blowjobs—there's nothing more erotic than the sight of Harry Potter on his knees for me in his own office. But somehow the matter of our arrangement had been brought up and even though I had been the one to ask the question, it had still stung when Potter had confirmed that no, none of this meant anything.
Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned Pansy. Maybe I shouldn't have brought up the stupid banquet tomorrow night or lied about the missing tie. But the anger rolling off of him had been delicious, enticing. The fact that he used barely any lube and zero preparation had only made me harder, although—with a wince—I might begin regretting it shortly. It already feels as if sitting is going to be extremely painful for quite a while.
"Look, Potter," I sigh, attempting to think of some way to placate the still-furious man in front of me. Apparently some way not involving incredibly hot sex. Which is a shame, when you consider that everything about the man should involve sex. He was practically sex personified, for Merlin's fucking sake. Tall and gorgeous, with untamable midnight hair and flashing green eyes the color of wild grass overgrown in deepest summer, thick bands of muscle wrapping his lean frame in lickable bulges.
He continues to tense under my scrutiny and I can't help it. I smirk.
As soon as the expression flits across my face, he's suddenly directly in front of me, appearing so quickly I worry for a second I might be losing my hearing, convinced that he had just Apparated across the room and the usual loud crack accompanying it was lost to deaf ears.
That apprehension is shattered, however, as he leans over me to speak. "Get. Out." His voice is low, dangerous. It sends an uneasy shiver rattling through my thin frame. It's a tone of voice I've never heard from him before.
"Potter," I murmur, raising one hand to stroke his jaw. Confusion swirls through the emerald pools of his eyes, dissipating the anger somewhat. My gaze drifts to his mouth and I wonder, just for a second, what it would be like to kiss him. Despite all the countless times we've fucked—all the impossible positions and dark kinks explored—we've yet to share a single kiss. Not that he hasn't tried, of course. Once. Just once. Our first time together, which had been dirty and rough, he tried to kiss me afterward, only to be pushed away by my hand and the firm shake of my head. Since then, he hasn't tried again—even though I'm not so sure I would push him away if he were to. It would be so easy to lean forward just the slightest bit and press my lips against his, just a taste.
With a start, I realize I've been staring at his mouth for far too long and flick my gaze back up to his eyes, which is even worse. The expression in his eyes is deep, dark—his eyes are green pits I feel as if I could tumble into if not careful. I forcibly remind myself that that is the reason I cannot kiss him; I will not be ensnared by those eyes. I will not entrap myself in the emotions swirling within them; I will not be cornered into accepting the type of commitment and emotional intimacy that someone such as Potter so clearly desires. I am well aware that it will never be with me he seeks such things.
With more effort than it should take, I wrench my gaze away from his and step around him. "Very well," I say smoothly, stepping nimbly over the scattered parchments and quills, as well as several cracked frames surrounding hordes of waving gingers littering his office floor from when he had swept them from his desk before slamming me into their place.
Once in the doorframe, however, I pause to glance back at him, noting that he has not moved an inch, standing next to his desk and glaring straight at me. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "I'll see you tomorrow, Potter, yes?" Of course the answer is yes. Ministry functions, though never mandatory, tend to frown on absences.
Potter fixes me with a cold smile, one that raises the nearly invisible hairs along my forearms, and replies, "Yes, you will."
Resisting the urge to shudder, I step from the office and shut the door with a soft click.
oOo
The door clicks shut and I have to fight the urge to put a fist through the wall—the solid stone wall that would not hesitate to shatter every bone in my hand, I remind myself. For a moment, just the briefest of seconds, I had really thought Malfoy was going to kiss me. We had been standing so close, neither saying a word; he had been staring into my eyes with an intensity I had never seen on his face. And then, that gaze had dropped to my mouth.
I groan and want to kick myself at the hope that flared within me for just a moment before his swift exit doused it with a bucket of ice-cold reality.
With a heavy sigh, I wave my wand and begin attempting to right my office, repairing shattered picture frames and sweeping the parchments onto a large pile on my desk. As I gaze around the orderly room, I want to sigh again. Straightening up did not take nearly as long as I would have liked.
Flopping into my chair, I give in to the temptation to heave yet another drawn out sigh as I pull the stack of parchment and a quill toward me, knowing that until I finish this paperwork, I am unable to call it a day.
Hours later, my neck is stiff and the words I'm currently writing are blurry and unfocused. The quill is clenched tightly in my grip; even all this time later, my anger has not lessened. Just as hard to let go of are the irritatingly insistent images of Malfoy that have continued to invade my every third thought—the way his blond hair drapes so delicately across his forehead, falling into his eyes with a grace I know is far beyond the capability of my own messy hair; the feel of his lean muscles tensing and twisting beneath me, the sounds he makes…
With a loud groan, I shove my parchments aside and stand, stretching my aching joints. Guilt pools hotly in my gut as I wonder how he's doing. I didn't hurt him, did I? Even though it was what he bloody deserved.
Shaking my head, I make my way to the Atrium and through the Floo back into my mercifully quiet house. Into the company of my mercifully full bottle of whisky.
oOo
"Hurry the fuck up, darling, would you?" Pansy calls sharply.
I continue straightening my tie and adjusting my robes, resisting the urge to point out that it was her fault we were running late. If the bint hadn't jumped me in the shower, we would have been there already.
"There's nothing wrong with making an entrance," I say smoothly, turning around and offering her my arm for Side-Along Apparition.
Rolling her eyes, she slips her wrist through the crook of my elbow and wraps one taloned hand around my limb. Several uncomfortable seconds later, we've arrived, gala in full swing, from the sounds of it. Her fingers remain enclosed over my arm and I fight the urge to shake off the touch, settling instead for strolling through the entrance and glancing around. The banquet is being held in a large hall, complete with centerpieces placed "artfully" around the spacious room, in between the small round tables scattered amongst the chattering employees.
We immediately head to the long table at the front, laden heavily with what I can only describe as a sinful variety of alcoholic beverages. God love free booze, I think smugly as I request a glass of white wine to the wretched soul working the table. Not that I can't afford my own drinks, of course, but there's something so much more satisfying about drinking spirits paid for by the Ministry.
Pansy, the wretched cow, has already procured a large glass of brandy and is now eyeing the poor man who handed it to her, sipping the liquid coquettishly.
"You absolute slag," I murmur fondly as she steps near me. Her only response is to smirk and clink glasses.
Shaking my head, I glance around at the faces in the hall, wondering who still has yet to arrive—and determinedly not scanning for a familiar mop of black hair—when an elbow catches me roughly on the shoulder, nearly spilling my wine. Snarling, I twirl around to immediately eviscerate the fool who had the audacity to dare touch me, only to find myself faced with a familiar brassy shade of copper hair.
"Weasley," I snap, "do try to watch where the fuck you're going, hmm? Bumbling idiot."
"Sorry," he shrugs. "It was an accident." If not for the presence of his significant other, I would never have believed his half-apologetic excuse, but I know Granger would never allow him to behave so callously in her company. I graciously allow the slight to pass.
"So, where's the missing peg of your heroic triangle? Does the Golden Trio no longer travel as such?" Potter will be here, I remind myself. Just because I have yet to spot him does not mean that he is not already in attendance.
"Oh sod off, Malfoy, he'll be here soon," Weasley replies reproachfully, earning a look from Granger. "I think he's still picking up his date."
Date? Did Weasley just say date? Potter is arriving with a date? I tell myself to relax, it's probably nothing. Most likely it will be Ginevra Weasley, a female friend of his whom I know he harbors no romantic feelings toward. She tends to be his usual choice of accompaniment.
"The youngest Weasley keeping the Saviour waiting?" I tsk, hoping to achieve some sort of rise from the man, but he just shakes his head.
"Nah, she's on tour right now with her team, somewhere in Norway, I think."
Norway? She's not even in the country? Then who the fuck is Potter's date? Attempting to adopt a casual air, I take a sip of wine and ask him. "Who will the Saviour be showcasing on his arm this evening, then, if not the littlest ginger?"
Weasley's gaze sharpens. "Why the fuck do you care, Malfoy? What is it to you who he brings?" His girlfriend's gaze is even sharper, piercing straight through my unprotected flesh. Fuck. I forgot how perceptive Granger is. That girl is far too intelligent to have ended up saddled with someone such as Ronald Weasley.
"Mere curiosity," I shrug before turning to Pansy. "Come along, Pans. Let's mingle, shall we? Better company awaits." And ignoring the squawk of indignation from the redheaded oaf, we saunter off in search of that better company.
Two glasses of wine later and still no sign of Potter. Where is he? He said he would be here. I arrogantly wonder for a moment if he might still be upset with me enough to skip the banquet, but know with certainty that I am hardly in his thoughts enough to warrant skipping a work function.
Stifling a yawn, I attempt to return my attention back to the ancient bore standing before me, droning on about some topic I stopped paying attention to several minutes ago, most likely the many vast differences between her historic time period and this one.
"Yes, dear," I interrupt, smiling charmingly so as to soften the rudeness. "But I'm afraid that my date has wandered off and I would so hate to see her forced to socialize alone." The wrinkled shell before me nods and pats my cheek before turning her somewhat staggering powers of tedium onto the unsuspecting man to her right.
Smirking, I saunter slowly back to the bar, knowing that that is most likely where Pansy has ended up. But the thought of her is wiped from my mind at the sight of ebony hair leaning casually across the table, requesting some beverage. I quicken my pace and slide along the table next to him.
"Potter."
At the sound of my voice, I can see the muscles in his jaw clench. "Malfoy," he responds coolly. Still upset, then.
"How is your evening?" I ask politely, perfectly content to wear him down with charm.
"Fine," he answers curtly, accepting the two glasses from the man and turning to stride away, but I step neatly in front of him and halt any progress at escaping.
"Only fine, is it?" I ask coyly. "I wonder what we could do to make it more enjoyable?"
His grip on the glass tightens and I worry they might shatter beneath his aggrieved clenching. "For starters, you could stop speaking to me. That would definitely make it more enjoyable."
"But where's the fun in that for me?" I pout, knowing full well the effect such pouts have on him. His eyes drop to my mouth for half a second before he catches himself.
"Yes," he hisses, "I'm sure that fucking with my head all the time is great fun for you, but I don't want to hear it. I'm not asking you: leave me the fuck alone." He turns once more to leave only to stop short from yet another body blocking his path. This body, however, has wrapped an arm around his neck and accepted one of the glasses clenched so tightly in his grasp.
"Thank you, Harry," Cho Chang smiles.
Chang? Fucking Chang? His date is his ex? For Merlin's fucking sake, they went out nearly ten years ago! I had no idea that they were still on any sort of terms with one another.
Despite the arm slung possessively around those broad shoulders, I can only hope that this is the same sort of platonic arrangement he has with Ginevra. But at the sight of her dress—almost as obscenely tight as Pansy's and with a swooping neckline—I have the sinking feeling that this is far from platonic.
He locks gazes with me almost defiantly, as if daring me to comment. My eyes narrow. "Potter and Chang, hmm? Quite the surprise coupling."
Chang merely laughs a tinkling laugh in agreement and leans forward to press a kiss to the corner of Potter's mouth. At the sight of those lips pressed against a part of Potter I have never tasted, I am forced to take several deep breaths and remind myself that no, it would not be a wise decision to hex a Ministry employee at a business function.
My palms itch, however, and I long for nothing more than to whip out my wand and Crucio the bitch who dare kiss Potter. Not that he's mine or anything, I hurriedly remind myself. Not that I actually want him to belong to me. That is the point of all the secrecy in our—for lack of a better word—relationship. It leaves us both with more freedom. Right? Freedom that Potter has apparently decided to put to good use.
"Would you like to dance?" Potter's deep voice cuts through my thoughts and for one wild moment, I think maybe he's asking me. My mouth opens to respond, but it is Chang's voice that replies in the affirmative. "Well, if you'll excuse us, Malfoy," he says coldly, leading her to the large section of dance floor, upon which are already a dozen or so whirling couples. They set their glasses on a nearby table and I can only watch in burning envy as he twirls her gracefully into the midst of dancers and pulls her into his arms. Arms I long to be in.
I turn back to the bar and order a much stronger drink, anything to quench the molten jealousy swirling through my intestines. Thankfully, I'm distracted by an arm sliding around my waist.
"Shall we show them all how it's done?" Pansy smirks, gesturing to the spinning couples rotating around the dance floor.
"Any excuse to showcase superiority," I respond lightly, tossing back the rest of my drink and leading her to the large square of floor set aside. Dancing with Pansy is so familiar it hardly takes any concentration and soon we're whirling flawlessly around the hapless inbreds struggling to count steps to the simple waltz. I allow Pansy to take the lead—the girl is one hundred percent top—but I gradually begin changing our course, angling toward Chang and Potter, who admittedly is keeping time and executing dance moves much better than I would have ever expected. Although, it has been ten years since I've seen the man dance. He moves with a feline grace unexpected of someone with his build. And Chang, the sodding bitch, is keeping up far too well.
We spin closer and closer, but he has yet to look anywhere beyond Chang's face. Fucking hell though, it's not like she's that attractive. All right, that's a lie, I amend, as they turn and I get a better look at her. Her hair is long and sleek, half of it piled high into an elegant twist; her eyes are dark and almond-shaped, and her mouth is a deep red. She's absolutely gorgeous and that fact makes me want to smash her face into the nearest object until Potter is no longer able to find anything remotely attractive about her features.
I consider twirling straight into them and knocking them off course—hopefully knocking Chang unconscious—but decide a public forum is no place to act out such childish fantasies, especially when those fantasies are the result of envy.
God.
I want to groan. Am I really jealous of Chang? As Potter's grip around her waist tightens and he leans in to whisper something in her ear, the burning in my gut informs me quite strongly that yes, yes I am.
All throughout the next several songs, Potter resolutely ignores me. I want to scream in his face, grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he looks at me, until he notices me. I want to shove Chang out of the way and take her place in his firm hold—I want those strong arms wrapped around me, not some silly twit that he used to have a pathetic crush on in school.
It's too much. The air surrounding the dance floor feels thick and difficult to inhale, almost as if my rage has congealed it somehow into something unbreathable. Taking the lead, I spin us off the floor and back into the safer, more oxygenated parts of the hall.
"Are you all right, Draco?" Pansy asks, the usual smirking edge to her voice replaced with a concern I rarely hear from her mouth.
I straighten and nod, shaking the hair falling into my eyes out of my face and fixing her with a pointed stare. "I think we've been here long enough; done the dutiful employee obligatory shit. Time for one last drink for me, darling, so if you're going to make any sort of move on the poor man behind the bar you've set your sights on, I suggest it be now."
Cocking her head and grinning, she grabs me by the elbow and leads me back to the long table laden with various-sized bottles. A large glass of amber liquid now clutched firmly in my grasp, I bid her goodnight with a kiss on her cheek and leave her to her flirting. At least one of us should pull tonight.
Gulping the drink, I make my way through the large French doors on the other side of the room and into the blessed silence of a garden. Moonlight spills over everything, illuminating the tall hedges and casting the blossoming flower buds in a silver glow. Water trickles gently from a large stone fountain and as I ignore the burning in my throat and continue swallowing the harsh liquid, I take a second to appreciate that it is, at least, a lovely garden.
Glass now empty, I toss it high into the air and point my wand at it, imagining it to be Chang's face, and reduce it to dust. Light and noise spill from the terrace for a moment as someone else steps outside. Stumbling only slightly, I crane my neck, and the sight of the easily recognized raven hair brings the ghost of a smile to my face—a smile only solidified at the realization that Chang is nowhere to be seen. Did he come outside to escape her? Is he hiding from the cow? Not that I blame him. In fact, I encourage it and decide to tell him as much.
"Date not going so well, Potter?" I murmur, and am amused to see him jump as I step from the shadows of the fountain.
"It's going fine, Malfoy. I just came out for some air," he responds tightly.
"And Chang is all right being abandoned, is she? I must admit, I was rather surprised to see her on your arm. I thought all that history between the two of you a decade finished. She is not whom I expected you to ask."
"She asked me," he informs me tersely. "Weeks ago." Weeks? Fucking weeks? How long has he been shagging her without my knowledge? "And we both just needed a break from dancing," he continues.
"Ah, yes. You are quite the surprise, aren't you? I had no idea you could perform just as well on a dance floor." My voice is layered with clear innuendo and he takes a step back.
"I see you found your tie." He nods at my chest.
"Yes," I clear my throat. "Turns out it was at my place after all."
A silence descends over the garden for the span of several heartbeats. "Well, I should go back inside." The words fall from his lips like heavy stones to catch me roughly in the stomach.
"Wait!" I cry, tripping over my clumsy feet as I attempt to near him. Why did Pansy allow me to imbibe so much alcohol? The bitch most likely thought it would be amusing to witness me make a fool of myself in public. I shake my head fondly.
"What is it, Malfoy?" he asks wearily, reaching out automatically to help steady me.
"I…I don't know, just…wait." My ears burn and I feel the urge to smash my head against something hard. The fountain may just work, but to get there I would have to step away from the warm fingers wrapped around my upper arm, holding me steady. I cover those fingers with my own much paler ones, only to watch as he snatches his hand back as though my touch caused him pain.
"Don't," he growls.
Ignoring the warning, I step closer to him, breathing in the intoxicating smell of his cologne—crisp, sharp, masculine, a scent that always drives me wild and I long to beg him to throw me to the ground right here and fuck me. I slide one hand into his thick hair and skim my nose along his jaw, lips just brushing the skin of his throat. "Malfoy…" His voice sounds strained and I press the advantage, trailing fingers along his collarbone and over his chest, feeling the deliciously firm muscles of his abdomen clench beneath the annoying fabric obstructing all views of his perfect body.
"Want you," I breathe, sucking the tender flesh of one earlobe into my mouth. He shivers.
"I can't, please, just…stop," he begs, but he has made no move to step away and I am unable to stop. My fingers grow bolder, quest lower, find him to be in the same aroused state as myself. I tease him for a moment through the fabric, raking my nails across the stiffening bulge. With a snarl, he grasps my collar and nearly hauls me off my feet as he backs me up into a dark corner of hedges and then we're both tearing at the fastenings of our trousers and stroking each other almost violently, bruising knuckles in the limited space.
Swatting his hand away, I line up our cocks and wrap both hands around them, groaning as I build a quick tempo. His head falls onto my shoulder and he whimpers as I speed up the pace. Mere moments later we're both coming, his hand gripping my shoulder painfully as he shudders a release.
For several seconds, neither of us move. Then I turn my head to press a small kiss to the shell of his ear and the moment is over. With a low oath, he shoves me away and I stumble hard into a prickly hedge.
"What the fuck, Potter?" I demand, but the glare being directed me silences any other protests.
"God, you make me hate myself," he discloses in a harsh voice. The sting from those words is immediate and far more painful than I would have expected. Green eyes squeeze shut and he takes several deep breaths. "Just stay away from me, all right? I'm done being fucked around by you."
And with that, he turns and stalks off, leaving me all alone once more in the cold moonlight of the dark, empty garden.
oOo
Faint scuffles echo back to me as my footsteps drag heavy and slow along the corridor. The lift took far too short a time arriving at Level 3 Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. His level.
The offices of the Obliviators are located further in the back of the department and I take as much time as I can strolling toward them. I attempt to adopt a casual walk, as though the impending meeting really is nothing more than work-related, but my insides are squirming with raw nerves.
It's been over a month since the banquet, a month since we last spoke. This is the longest we've gone without sex in the four months since we first began.
At the thought of our beginning, a rough drunken fuck behind a pub in which a large number of Ministry employees had been celebrating the birthday of an office head, I slow my pace and lean back against the wall. It's been a month since I've seen his face and he still has this effect on me. I honestly hadn't expected Maloy to take my demands that he leave me alone seriously, and I still can't decide if I'm more disappointed or relieved.
Sighing, I adjust the folder in my grip and continue to his office, waving away the greetings of several of his co-workers and, not bothering to knock or wait for an invitation, twist the knob and step into the room. His office is small, more of an enlarged cubicle, really. Enough room for a wide desk and two chairs in front of it. It's neat and orderly, everything tucked away and every parchment in its proper place. His desk is devoid of any personal effects, such as pictures of family or friends, only a kettle and a set of teacups beyond the neat stacks of parchment. The walls are bare, no tacked up posters or brackets charting Quidditch matches. It's cold; unfriendly. Far too much like the man himself. He sits with his chair scooted as far back as space will allow, his slender ankles crossed and propped up on the desk. Brow furrowed, he leafs through a small stack of parchment with a frown but looks up when I clear my throat. Surprise flashes across his face, along with another emotion I can't quite place, but it's not the hatred or scorn I would have expected to see there.
"Potter." His voice is cool, controlled.
I attempt to adopt the same inflection as I reply, "Malfoy."
"What brings you all the way out here to my humble little office, then? Finally caught a break from ridding the world of evil one dark wizard at a time?" God, is he infuriating.
"Hardly," I say in the most detached tone of voice I am able to. "I'm here to discuss a case with you, actually."
That perks his interest. "A case? As in, you need my help?"
"No," I grit. As if. "I just need to ask you a few questions about the Ackerman case." Ainsley Ackerman was a fairly low-level criminal, known throughout the Auror department for his shady business dealings with cursed objects. Several of those objects had recently "accidentally" made their way into Muggle hands, resulting in two deaths. The Obliviators had had quite the day attempting to round up any Muggle with a connection to the man and wipe their memories, a feat made more difficult by his abysmal record-keeping and unwillingness to cooperate.
I toss the folder onto the desk and he opens it curiously. "I just need you to take a look through that and confirm the Muggles we've managed to reach so far. His records indicate that there are still at least a dozen cursed items unaccounted for." Malfoy begins scanning the parchment and I turn to leave. "You can just drop it off at the department on your way out."
"Potter." His voice stops me before I can turn the knob and I reluctantly spin back to face him. "How have you been?"
How have I been? Did Malfoy just ask how I've been? Almost as if he cared, almost as if maybe he'd been thinking about me in the past few weeks.
"Fine," I reply automatically, but then take a second to truly ponder the question. How have I been?
"Would you like some tea?" he asks politely, gesturing me to sit.
Sinking warily into one of the empty chairs before his desk, I watch as he fills the kettle with his wand and taps it. Steam instantly billows up and he pours us both a cup, taking a second to add sugar and milk—how does he know how I take my tea?—before handing mine to me instead of sliding it across the surface. His fingers caress mine lightly before I jerk the cup away, nearly spilling the scalding liquid all over myself.
As I wait for it to cool I watch him silently. Despite him being the one to issue the invitation to stay, he looks as if he's now unsure of what to say. Must be a first.
"I heard about the Eldridge case," he begins haltingly. "Are you…have you recovered?"
At his words, I shift slightly. The Eldridge case had happened nearly a fortnight ago—it had started out as a domestic dispute, but quickly escalated once the Aurors had arrived. I had been attempting to reason with Eldridge and get his wife from the home, but he slashed me with a Severing Charm, one I had not been quick enough to avoid. It sliced through my thigh, cleaving my femoral artery and causing me to lose an alarming amount of blood in a short amount of time. My partner had Apparated me to St. Mungo's, where I was quickly patched up but forced to spend the night. Was he asking how I was doing? Did he truly care?
"I'm fine," I respond cautiously. "The injury was serious, but they fixed me up in time."
"I'm glad." The way his silver eyes are burning into mine, I can almost allow myself to believe the words.
The gaze becomes too intense and I take a sip of tea to break it.
"How—how have you been?" I don't want to ask the question, but curiosity drives me to speak.
"I've been better," he says wryly.
What does that mean? He's not saying he maybe…missed me, is he? Maybe as much as I've stupidly missed him?
"Er…" I'm at a loss for what to say. Part of me wants to scream at him, throw things, storm from the room. Another part longs to enfold him in an embrace and soothe the exhausted lines around his eyes. But I know that my touch would hardly be welcome.
"Potter," he murmurs, leaning forward in his chair. I unconsciously lean forward as well. The folder lies forgotten on his desk between us, alongside our cooling teacups.
"Malfoy," I whisper, hating the almost needy edge to my voice. God, I've missed him. His eyes drop to my mouth and the wild hope that he might finally, finally kiss me seizes me before I can stop it.
At that moment, the door to his office bangs open. Pansy Parkinson stands in the doorway, smirking. "Hello, darlings," she trills, and I feel my stomach roil in disgust at the sight of her.
"Well, I'll just be going, then," I gulp, shooting to my feet and glancing at Malfoy, only to find him glaring daggers at Parkinson. "Just, um, drop that off before you leave today, all right?" And not waiting for a response, I elbow past the woman blocking his doorway into the blessed escape of the corridor.
I don't slow my hurried pace until I am back in my own office, door shut, before I slump against it, trembling. Seeing him had been difficult enough, but to hear the worry in his voice, to have him offer me tea and ask how I've been, almost like a friend, almost like he cared…
I run my hands roughly through my hair and sigh, shoving away from the door and crossing the room to sink into my chair. A large stack of memos and paperwork sits on my desk and I pull it towards me and begin leafing through it, hoping for a distraction.
Several hours later and I've made very little progress, my mind refusing to stay on task for more than a few minutes at a time, always wandering back to Malfoy and his office, the intensity of his gaze and the way his eyes had dropped to my mouth.
A knock on my door startles me and I croak out permission to enter. The knob twists and Malfoy steps inside, almost as though summoned by my thoughts. His outer robes have been removed to reveal a snug beige jumper and tailored chocolate-colored trousers, the cut perfectly showcasing his long, lean thighs. Thighs I am far too familiar with.
"Yes?" I ask hurriedly before he can catch me ogling him. His ego is inflated enough, after all.
"I…" He clears his throat. "I'm bringing this back." He waves the folder in the air and crosses the room to place it on the stack of parchment before me.
"Thanks," I mumble.
"I…look," he begins as he drops into one of the chairs facing my desk, "I'm sorry. About Pansy. Arriving like that, I mean, I had no idea she was going to show up." His voice sounds earnest, sincere, but I know him far too well to believe that tone.
"It's fine," I shrug, attempting nonchalance. "You don't owe me any explanations." He looks momentarily stung by the words, so I continue speaking. "I mean, I think your girlfriend has the right to be able to drop into your office from time to time."
"My girlfriend…?" He sounds confused and my heart clenches. Had I misread the situation? Were they not together?
"Yes, you know, Parkinson." I wave emphatically and place my hands out of sight beneath the desk, twisting them together to keep from showing my anxiety at his proximity. "The woman you like to take out? Tried to turn me over to Voldemort seven years ago? Your date to the Yule Ball fourth year?" I clamp my lips together and will myself to stop talking.
"I believe you are under some sort of misapprehension about the nature of my relationship with Pansy," he informs me. "We are not an item and have not been since Hogwarts." My fingers tingle with the desire to drag him near and I'm grateful for the desk separating us. "Unlike you and Chang," he adds, a slight twist to his words.
Me and Chang? What about us? He doesn't believe us to be a couple, does he?
"I, erm," I cough uneasily, "think you're suffering from the same misapprehension. Cho and I aren't together." At my words, his eyes widen in surprise.
"No?" he asks carefully. "But I thought…the banquet last month, and I've heard rumors floating throughout the Ministry of the lovely bed-and-breakfast you two like to frequent on the weekends."
My cheeks redden and I look down. Part of that rumor was true; she surprised me one weekend by taking me to a secluded motel out in the country, where I tried, sincerely and with disastrous failure, to rekindle the relationship we once might have had. Cho was beautiful and clever and played Quidditch in her spare time, and yet something was missing. She liked me and told me as much several times, but after the second night when we slept together, I could no longer feign interest to myself in continuing a relationship with her.
"It just…" I shake my head slightly in an attempt to order my thoughts, "didn't work out. I suppose she's not the one for me." My endeavor at keeping my voice neutral is impeded by the slight tremor.
"No, she's not," Malfoy responds in a low voice. The change in tone makes me glance up to find him watching me intently, almost hungrily, as though his face were a mirror reflecting back to me my own feelings towards him.
"And Parkinson?" The tremor is much more noticeable now.
He shakes his head. "Pansy and I have no interest in dating one another. She's far too much of a slag for monogamy and I…" The sentence trails off and I want to shake the missing words out of him.
"You what?" I breathe, hardly daring to hope.
"I…find myself more interested in another," he confesses, coloring slightly at the admission.
"Oh?" I cock my head and gaze into his silver eyes evenly. "And who would that be, then?"
If I had been expecting a vocal response, I would have been disappointed. However, as a pale face suddenly appears before me and his lips descend on mine, I can only feel a dizzying rush of shock. For a moment I am frozen, unable to move or kiss him back, but as he starts to pull away the blood rushes through my veins once more and I seize his face between my palms, holding tightly and kissing him for all I'm worth. It's messy, desperate, open-mouthed, and needy. And absolutely perfect. He whimpers and clutches me tightly and I am lost in the sensation of finally, after months of dreaming about this and resigning myself to the fact that it would never happen, finally kissing him.
It feels like seconds but I know could very well be hours later that I pull back. His lips are pink and slightly swollen, his hair is mussed from my fingers, and his eyes are bright and dazed.
"Malfoy," I murmur without knowing what I intend to say.
"Don't." His fingers twist even tighter in my robes. "Let's not ruin this with accusations or introspections. For right now, let's just be here."
I nod and pull him back toward me, only to pull away again a moment later. "Have dinner with me," I blurt, immediately reddening. Dinner? God, the way he approaches relationships I may as well have asked him to marry me. I squeeze my eyes shut and wait for the crippling rejection. But I am surprised once again.
"Okay," he breathes.
My eyes fly open in shock. "Okay?" Did he just agree? Do we have a…date?
He nods shyly. "Tonight?" he asks in a hopeful voice.
My own nod is just as tentative. "My place? Seven?"
He presses an achingly soft kiss to my mouth and murmurs, "I'll be there," against my lips before straightening and combing his fingers neatly through his hair, fixing the tousled strands.
As he adjusts his tie, he smirks, and at the sight, dread clenches my gut as he crosses the room, but at the doorway, he pauses to glance back at me. "I missed you," he confesses, barely a whisper, so quiet that I almost imagine I heard it.
"I missed you, too." My return is just as soft, but the corners of his mouth turn up into a genuine smile, one that takes my breath away.
"I'll see you tonight," he vows, opening the door and disappearing with a click.
oOo
"Shit, shit, fucking shit, what the bloody hell were you thinking allowing me to purchase this?" I grumble as I tear through my wardrobe, wrenching article after article past in rejection.
Pansy lounges on my large bed, the same one from my childhood I had sent over from the Manor when I purchased my flat. "Your clothes are fine, Draco," she calls loudly. "Just pick a damn outfit already!"
I pause in my furious searching and turn to stare at her. "I can hardly just 'pick one'," I tell her, nose wrinkling. "It has to be…perfect." God. Am I really standing here, attempting to pick out the perfect outfit to impress Potter for our date? The swift rush of excitement and nerves answers that question for me.
"Perfect, huh?" The mattress creaks slightly as she rises and saunters across the room to stand behind me. "So who is this mystery date, then? Is she prettier than me?"
"He is a far cry prettier than you, yes," I shoot back snootily.
Glaring, she smacks my shoulder sharply. "Bitch."
"Learnt it from you, love," I grin, stepping back out of the range of another slap. Her lips twitch and she glares even harder.
"So what kind of look are we going for, then?" Her attention returns to the wardrobe. "Something slutty? Obscene? Orgasm inducing? Maybe teasingly modest? What exactly is this bloke into?"
I ponder the question. "Something…heart-stopping," I decide, wanting nothing more than to see Potter's eyes widen in surprise and desire.
"Hmm...heart-stopping…" she mutters as she flips through the clothing. "Got it!" Her clawed hands happily yank several items from their hangers and hold them up for my approval. I smile at her selections and take them from her, not bothering to shield myself from her eyes as I strip and change. After all, how many times has she seen me naked?
"So if this works out with you and mystery man, does that mean an end to our fun?" Her voice is slightly pouting, but I know her too well to believe it.
"There are plenty of unsuspecting victims for you to unleash your 'fun' upon without me," I inform her. "Okay, how do I look?"
Taking a step back, she eyes me critically. I turn in a slow circle, stopping to look myself over in the mirror. The trousers she chose are black and sinfully tight, low-cut and extremely form-fitting. The shirt is long-sleeved and storm grey, highlighting my eyes and clinging to my skin in a way that is enticing and yet not indecent.
"It'll definitely do," she admires.
I nod and run a comb through my hair, consider putting product in it for a moment before rejecting the idea. Potter seems to have a thing for my long hair and is—or was—constantly running his fingers through it, something I secretly love.
"So is this someone you work with?" Pansy demands as I spritz myself lightly with my favorite—and most expensive—cologne. "I had no idea you were even interested in anybody."
"I promise, my dearest Pansy, if things go well tonight I shall spill all," I vow, pausing to cast several teeth whitening and breath freshening charms before smiling widely and spreading my arms. "Yes?"
She grins and kisses my cheek. "You look absolutely gorgeous, darling, there's no chance in hell of anyone resisting you."
I peck her on the jaw and tell her to lock up before she leaves, then I'm Apparating away, rotating uncomfortably before coming to a stop outside Potter's front gate. Opening it with only slight trepidation, I march up the front walk and pause before the door. Taking a deep breath and willing my nerves to calm, I raise a hand and rap sharply against the wood. It flies open almost instantly, something I take comfort in—that and the widened green eyes raking over me heatedly.
"Hi," he greets, stepping back to allow me entrance. As I cross the threshold I glance around, noting that nothing has changed since the last time I was here, far too many weeks ago.
"Hi," I return, holding out the bottle of red wine I had chosen. "I wasn't sure what we were having," I apologized, "so I figured it best to play it safe."
With a smile, he accepts the bottle. "Come and find out, then," he challenges, leading the way down the hall to the dining area. The table is set beautifully for two, complete with candlesticks. At the sight of the lit candles, I feel my eyebrows raise in surprise, not having expected the romantic gesture. I glance at him to find him flushed and staring at the floor, scuffing his shoe nervously.
"It smells wonderful," I admit. Who knew Potter could cook? "What is it?" I indicate the large dish sitting between the two plates, next to a bowl of leafy salad.
"Chicken Parmigiana," he informs me.
"Mmm, sounds lovely." I cross the room and sit as he hurries to the kitchen to open the wine. By the time he returns with two glasses I have served the both of us salad and smile gratefully as I accept my glass.
One tan hand rises as he lifts his drink in a toast. "To maybe finally getting this right," he declares, clinking his glass against mine. I smile and nod in agreement as I take a sip.
The food is surprisingly good, as is the conversation. Despite the staggering number of times we've had sex, we've rarely held an actual conversation. It's not at all awkward or forced the way I would have expected it to be. Have we always had this much in common? Always shared so many interests? Has he always been this funny?
After dinner, he opens another bottle of wine and we move to the living room, sitting side-by-side on a couch in front of the fireplace and talking, our thighs barely brushing. As my focus drifts to his thighs, I shift closer and trail my fingertips along the denim of his jeans, glancing up at his face through my eyelashes. He gazes at me calmly through half-lidded eyes, but as my touch travels higher, he reaches out to stop me, slipping his fingers into mine instead and holding tightly.
"This isn't…" he hesitates as if he knows what words he's attempting to say and yet is having a difficult time getting them past his lips. "This is…real, this time, isn't it?" His eyes are deep and pleading. "I can't take any more mind games, Malfoy, I really can't."
"Draco," I correct.
"What?" His nose is pinched up in slight confusion as though attempting to decipher my answer to his question.
"Draco. My name." A name I have longed to hear spoken from those lips, after thirteen long years of acquaintance.
"Right. Draco," he amends. At the sound of my given name rolling free from that mouth, that low voice caressing the vowels, turning the co part of my name into a sharp sound that's nearly pornographic, I fight back a delicious shiver. Oh. "So the rest of my question, then…" He trails off and I ponder how best to answer the question without appearing too invested. But the wine and the glimmer in his eyes convince me to throw caution to the wind and for once in my life be completely honest.
"It's always been real for me, Harry," I admit, ducking my head and fighting the urge to hide. A finger reaches toward me to coax my chin upwards, to meet the emerald gaze being sent me.
"It's always been real for me, too," he says softly. "But…the way you acted…you wouldn't even kiss me…" I can hear the hurt in his voice and want to hex myself for putting it there.
"I…" How do people do it? Confess things? Slash themselves open with admissions until they are nothing but raw susceptibility? Hand others emotional weapons and wait to then be destroyed by them? How are they able to be so vulnerable? "I didn't think you would want…anything beyond what we had. Not with me." There. I can be brave, too. But the terrified pounding of my heart and sudden lightheadedness making me dizzy do not exactly offer credence to the statement.
"So you were protecting yourself?" Potter muses, rotating his glass slowly in one hand.
"I suppose I was," I allow cautiously, vowing to hex him senseless if he dare mock my insecurity.
"So, what does this make us now, then?" he asks, another question I am unable to answer. What did he want it to make us?
"It makes us more than we were," I answer. "Let's not spoil the evening by overanalyzing it. Let's just remember that we both want to be here."
"Okay," he relents, lips quirking up into a tiny smile.
I take advantage of his silence and lean forward to kiss him, plucking the nearly-empty glass from his loose grasp and placing both on the coffee table. Pressing further into him, I part my lips, tracing my tongue teasingly along his mouth before slipping it inside. Groaning, he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, one hand sliding through my hair and the other resting on my neck just above my collarbone.
Gradually, we begin shifting until I am flat on my back on the couch with him stretched fully atop me. His mouth moves from mine to trail lower, over my chin and down my throat, and I could kick myself for having waited this fucking long to kiss him—who knew he could be so talented at absolutely everything? If I had done this in the beginning like I wanted to, I would surely never have stopped.
"Pot…Harry," I pant and he pulls back to look at me.
"Yes?" His voice is low and husky, sending sparks of arousal shooting through me.
"Bedroom?" I whisper, slipping a hand beneath his t-shirt and running my fingers lightly along the warm skin of his back.
"Hmm, too far," he complains breathlessly, returning his mouth to the skin of my throat.
"Yes, but,"—oh! How did he do that?—"I really think we should be on a bed. This couch is far too narrow for everything I want you to do to me."
Those words catch his attention and he leans back to stare at me. "And what exactly is it you want done to you?" One hand creeps under the fabric of my shirt to brush along my bare flesh and I shiver.
"Fuck me, Harry," I plead, rolling my hips and reveling in the tiny gasp he makes in response to the motion.
"I could," he begins, "but…" But? But what? But he doesn't want to? But this is some kind of cruel joke at my expense? But he lied and he's really with Chang and now has enough humiliating blackmail material to utterly destroy me? "But what if…" he continues, unaware of the panic lacing my body, freezing me into place, "what if you fucked me?"
His words do nothing to unfreeze me and if anything, only solidify me more. Fuck him? Potter wants me to fuck him? The Saviour of the Wizarding World just asked an ex-Death Eater to fuck him? In all the history of our sexual encounters, he has never bottomed. Not once. And not for my lack of trying, either. It was something I accepted quickly enough, especially considering his astounding topping abilities, but his suggestion makes me shudder pleasantly.
"Are you serious?" Immediately overcome with worry he might change his mind, I instantly long to snatch my words back, but he simply smiles and nods before kissing me once more.
"Bedroom." His voice is a throaty growl and I catch my breath. The warmth along the front of my body disappears as he stands, hauling me to my feet and leading me up the stairs to his bedroom. He pulls me inside and shoves me against the wall, kissing me breathless and tugging the shirt over my head. His eyes glow as they rake over my bare chest and I feel nervous, despite how many times he's seen me without the barest stitch of clothing. This time feels different.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, and everything seems strangely bright. Beautiful? Harry Potter thinks I'm beautiful?
"Harry," I breathe. The kisses turn harder, more passionate, stealing all the air from my lungs, but that's fine, he can have it, it's his. We tear at each other's clothing, not slowing until we're both naked and hard. Slowly and without breaking the kiss we begin backing toward his large bed, tumbling into it and taking turns rolling each other onto their backs until finally, Harry is beneath me, panting and staring up with large eyes dark with desire.
"Draco," he murmurs, and the two syllables dropping from that mouth light a fire in my gut.
My tongue slides over his chest, sucking on each of his nipples in turn, trails along the muscles of his stomach. "Lube?" I pant, huffing warm air over the tip of his straining cock. The top half of his body twists as he fumbles in the nightstand for a moment before handing me a round jar. I unscrew it and dip my fingers in, coating them generously before turning back to my task. I stroke him tenderly, gliding lower and lower along his shaft and over muscled thighs, nudging them further apart. "Bend your knees." I will my voice to sound like more of a suggestion and less of an order, but he obliges with almost no hesitation. The tip of my index finger circles tighter and tighter around his clenched hole.
"Relax, Harry," I soothe. The tension slowly begins to dissipate as I rub calming circles on his thighs and scatter gentle kisses across every bit of flesh within range of my mouth.
"Just…go slow, all right?" he implores. "It's been a while."
A white-hot jealousy flares up within me at the thought of another man having beat me here, but I manage to quiet it and smile at him. "Of course," I promise as the tip of my finger penetrates him. He sucks in a loud breath as I slowly push it in further, taking my time, pulling out then pushing back in, working it slowly until he tells me to add another one.
As the two fingers open him up, I twist them gently, searching for…ah! There it is. As I brush his prostate he gasps and I grin smugly. My attempts at inserting a third finger are stopped by his frantic head shaking, and for a terrifying second, I believe he's changed his mind and is about to ask me to leave.
Instead, he raises his knees to his chest and simply says, "Now."
My fingers shake as I dip them back into the jar and stroke my cock, now slick with lube. It presses against him and I hesitate. "Are you sure?"
His eyes soften and he nods. I bend down to kiss him as I slowly press inside, my hands running over every bit of his flesh I can touch in silent comfort. Once I'm fully encased, I pause, breathing heavily, knowing he needs time to adjust and fighting the urge to pull out and slam back in.
"You…" he pants, "you can move now."
Nodding quietly, I bend down to kiss him again as I slowly pull out and slide back in, setting an unhurried pace, wanting this to last as long as possible. But after nearly six weeks of not touching one another, we're both desperate for the feel of the other and the tempo has soon increased, spurred on by his cries and encouraging moans. I reach between his legs to stroke him in time to the thrusts and all too soon he's throwing his head back and shouting my name, his inner muscles clenching tightly around me.
With a groan, my own orgasm crackles through me like lightning and I collapse on his chest.
oOo
Several dizzying minutes later, my heart is still racing and my breaths are coming in short pants. I can feel sweat and semen drying on my skin, but that's all right because I can feel Malfoy on my skin as well. He's lying heavily atop me, restricting my breathing somewhat, but I couldn't give a shit about oxygen at the moment. My arms wrap around his back and clutch him tightly to me, terrified that at any second he's going to jump up and disappear, with only a "See you around, Potter!" in place of a farewell. His only response to the embrace is to press a kiss to the middle of my chest and gaze at me questioningly.
"That was brilliant," I tell him, still refusing to loosen my grip.
"Well, if I had known that honesty and a few mind-shattering kisses were all it would take to get into your pants like this, I would have offered them both months ago." The smirk I used to loathe so fiercely twists across his face but for some reason, the sight of it no longer bothers me.
"We got to it eventually," I respond lightly, not wanting to ruin the moment by talking about the what-ifs.
He hums and lays his head back down, only to raise it almost immediately, nose wrinkling. Cool air rushes over my skin as he moves away, climbing from the bed to the pile of clothing near the wall. For a moment I panic, thinking he really did mean to just leave me alone after that. Not after that, I plead desperately.
But a second later I sink back into the pillows and relax as he returns with his wand, casting much-appreciated cleaning charms over the both of us. I sigh as he slips back into the bed and curls into my side, his head on my chest and one leg thrown between my own. My hands slide up to hold him in place, and I press a soft kiss to his pale hair.
"Things are different now, aren't they?" I know I should probably just sleep, stop analyzing this for the present, but the niggling fear that he won't be here when I wake won't let go.
"Do you want them to be?" His voice is calm, controlled. Infuriatingly so. Where did the pulse-quickening honesty from earlier disappear to? Even all these years after school has ended, he is far too Slytherin for his own good.
"Of course," I respond, tightening my hold on him. "For starters, you better be planning on spending the night, because I will not be able to take it if I have to watch you walk out that door. Not after that." This will be an evening of firsts for us: the first time we kissed, the first time he was truly honest with me, the first time I showed my own vulnerability and allowed him to top, the first time sleeping together for us actually included sleeping together.
"Good," he sighs happily. "Just try and get rid of me now, Potter." His voice sounds drowsy and warm and I kiss the top of his head again.
"Goodnight, Draco," I whisper, tugging the blankets up to cover the both of us.
"Goodnight, Harry," is his mumbled reply.
oOo
My eyes scan the crowd with practiced detachment, smirking as I watch middle-aged men flirt with younger women the instant their wives are from their sides, my gaze noting which couples seem tense and which seem more at ease around one another, and knowing smugly which category I fall into.
As though my thoughts had somehow been projected, the object of them appears behind me suddenly, sliding a muscular arm around my waist and pulling me close, tucked snugly into a familiar warmth.
"Hello, gorgeous. Care to dance with me?"
The question melts my smirk into a genuine smile. It is a question I had not so long ago expected to never hear directed at me. A quick nod in affirmation and he leads me to the dance floor, already alive with spinning couples. Was it really only seven months ago that I stood here, watching him dance with someone else, nearly smothered in pained envy? But this time it's right. This time it's me in his arms instead of that bitch, Chang.
Harry smiles and shakes his head as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking. We twirl effortlessly around the floor, neither of us really leading. Whispers echo in the large room and I know that people are staring—even though it's been six fucking months already, for Christ's sake—but I find myself unable to care. Harry seems just as incapable, refusing to loosen his strong hold around my waist.
As we rotate, I see Chang out of the corner of my eye, watching us impassively, and cannot resist the urge to send a large, smug smirk her direction. Harry chuckles and pinches me sharply.
"Be nice," he admonishes.
"Am I ever not?" I ask in feigned shock.
His laugh deepens. "Draco." The warning in his voice is belied by the twitch of his lips.
"But she's horrible, Harry," I remind him with a pout.
"She's not horrible," he argues, gaze locked firmly on my mouth.
"Oh yes, she is," I disagree. "She had horrid devious plans in regards to yourself that I simply cannot forgive."
"I don't think wanting to date me counts as a horrid devious plan," he snickers, attempting to look stern.
"It is when you belong to me," I state seriously.
His eyes soften and he presses a gentle kiss to my lips, one I am more than happy to respond to. "Well, her plan hardly worked now, did it? Besides, I recall you also executing a rather devious plan of your own that night," he smirks, and I smile at the expression he picked up from me.
"Yes, it was rather devious of me, was it not?" I murmur. "Should we tell her what really happened that night, hmm?"
"Don't you dare, Draco," he responds staunchly.
"Kill all my fun for the evening," I sigh morosely, and his lips twitch.
"We could step outside for some air," he says suggestively. "I hear the garden is lovely at night."
"And people think I'm only with you for your body and not your brain," I reply admiringly.
He smiles for a second before looking offended. "Hey!"
But we're already whirling from the dance floor and strolling through the large French doors. The garden is much the same as I last remember—tall neatly trimmed hedges, fragrant rose bushes soaked in silver moonlight, soothing trickle of water cascading gently into a large stone fountain. Familiar arms wrap around me and I lean back into the man I love as we stare up at the moon, neither saying anything, just enjoying the moment together.
As one index finger slides underneath my chin and he turns my head to meet him in a searing kiss, I can't help but think that this does, in fact, mean everything.