"Burning the midnight oil?"
Harry looks up from his papers and, all at once, realizes that he's been in the same position for far too long. His neck aches at the movement, his eyes burn at the sudden light, and his shoulders twinge in pain.
"Not that I'm impressed as all hell with your work ethic, but it's nearly midnight."
"Is it?" Harry rubs his hands into his eyes, under his glasses.
Shacklebolt pauses a moment, then heads inside. "Is it the Livanov case?"
"No, that was wrapped up days ago," Harry answers. "I'm going through the backed-up request reports."
Shacklebolt stops at his desk, frowns. "What, all of them?"
"Yeah."
"All eight years' worth?"
"What can I say, Minister, I'm feeling thorough."
"There is a thin and semantic line between thorough and self-punishing, and you are nowhere near it. And how many times have I asked you not to call me Minister?"
"Don't worry, it's only out of respect for the office. I'm still absolutely holding you to that fifty galleons you owe me from pub night."
Shacklebolt grins sleepily at him, then, quite without segue, says, "So who are you avoiding?"
Harry sighs, gathers up the stack of parchments on his desk (March, 2008 to July, 2009). "Who says I'm avoiding someone?"
"Please, I've been using the same tactic for years. It hasn't stopped working yet. I know it's not any of my business—"
"It's fine," Harry insists. "We're friends, you're not overstepping anything, it's just—" He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair, sits back in his chair. "It's complicated."
"Isn't it always?"
Harry shrugs, but doesn't say anything.
"Oh, go on," Shacklebolt says. He sinks into the chair on the other side of Harry's desk, settles back. "I've had my head buried in trade deals all day. I could use the opportunity to think about something else."
Harry sighs and wonders where to begin.
"Ever had a relationship so complicated that you have no idea where it stands?"
"I'm a politician," Shacklebolt says by way of answering.
"With someone you're having sex with," Harry amends.
"Oh. Then no."
"He's brilliant, and I'm starting to think I've got it pretty bad for him. But he's so adamant about us not being serious. I've tried really hard to get him to open up, to talk about things, but he always manages to…"
Harry's mind drifts. He is upset about all those distractions Draco had managed to come up with, but only in an abstract sort of way. In practice, his distractions usually ended up with Harry fucking his throat, or Draco sobbing and begging as Harry flogs him, or with him tied up on his bed…
"So I take it the sex is good."
"Far better than it has any right to be," Harry says.
"Well, sex is important," Shacklebolt concedes, lifting one ankle to rest on the opposite knee. "But I wouldn't call it the foundation of a good relationship. If you can't communicate with him, that's a pretty big problem, don't you think?"
"I mean, yes. Obviously. But there are these moments when he looks at me like I'm the sun, when he shows this real vulnerability – I think he actually does like me, he's just trying really hard not to admit it."
"So you're trying to give yourself distance?" Shacklebolt asks, gesturing to the yet-insurmounted pile of forms.
"Yeah." Harry rubs at his wrist. The itching hasn't really stopped, but he thinks it might have lessened. "A bunch of reasons."
"Come up with any clarity yet?"
"Not really. Mostly just that I really want to see him again."
"Careful, that sounds an awful lot like love," Shacklebolt says.
For a while all Harry really feels is surprise, and not in the way he'd expect to feel it. Love? Is he falling in love with Draco Malfoy? They aren't even in an actual relationship.
And besides, what the hell does Harry know about love? The closest he ever came was with Ginny, and that ended in unmitigated disaster.
"Ooh, did I speak too soon?"
"I don't—" Harry begins, haltingly. "It's only been two months."
"I notice you haven't addressed the question."
Harry can't be falling in love with him. Right? He likes Malfoy – quite a lot – and he would certainly not be opposed to the opportunity to like him more, but love? Isn't there just too much baggage they haven't dealt with for that?
But then again, he came into it knowing the baggage, and somehow that had made it more compelling. The baggage is what had drawn him in when they were both sixteen and stupid. He likes all of Malfoy's scars, physical and emotional; he liked his smart mouth that he had at one point convinced himself he despised; he liked his wit, the prickly guardedness around the vulnerable core, the—
"Oh, shit," Harry says.
Shacklebolt chuckles, and Harry realizes that he is falling in love with Draco Malfoy.
Fuck.
From the corner of his desk, something rattles. It takes him a moment to even hear it, and a moment longer to realize what it is.
"Sounds like you've got a bit more to chew on. I'll leave you to it. Try to actually go home at some point before dawn, won't you?"
"I… yeah."
It's the two-way mirror, the one with a link to his sex dungeon. It rattling means someone's inside.
"See you on Monday, Harry."
Exit Shacklebolt. Head still swimming, he picks up the mirror and sees him on the other side, nosing around the potions table in the corner of the room. He looks so curious, that same look of open-hearted wonder—
God, he really is in so much trouble.
"Malfoy."
—
The wards, to Draco's surprise, actually let him in. He stops being surprised once he remembers that this is Grimmauld Place, and he is a Black by blood. That's likely the only reason, and not because Harry went out of his way to make Draco specifically welcome.
"Potter?"
No answer.
The house is dark and cool. Either Potter's asleep – which seems unlikely, since it's only half-eleven, and Draco knows he's a night owl – or he's still at work.
"Potter?" he calls again, louder. Still no answer. Draco heads into the kitchen – nothing – then down the hall – still nothing.
Then, after a while, he heads down into the sex dungeon.
Draco's been looking for an excuse to really look around, and the Slytherin in him would never pass up an opportunity. He charms the lights on, and all the rows of equipment, gags, bindings, racks, straps all light up with it. Draco can't imagine how much Potter spent on this place, though with control of the Black family vaults, it was likely pittance, comparatively.
Draco moves slowly along one wall, admiring the rack full of whips and canes and riding crops, the repurposed wall-mounted coat rack full of gags. How is it that after six weeks they've never managed to use most of these yet? Draco's fingers linger overlong on the handle of the riding crop, when he smells something.
It's faint at first, like sauce muffled under a lid. It catches his attention at once, and he follows it across the room to a small, slapdash potions table. There's a lidded cauldron, and when he reaches down to inspect the contents—
"Malfoy."
He spins at once, heart nearly leaping up his throat and out of his mouth.
On the adjacent wall, in a large, gilded mirror, is Harry Potter.
"What—?" Draco begins.
"Breaking and entering?"
Draco straightens. "Your wards let me in."
"I know."
Draco moves closer. Potter looks to be in some sort of office, with unremarkable tan walls with a map and a diploma.
"Is this a linked mirror?" Draco asks, inspecting the frame.
"One of many things I inherited from my godfather," Harry answers. "I notice you've avoided telling me what you're doing in my sex dungeon."
Draco straightens. "Looking for you. Where are you?"
"Why are you looking for me?"
Draco's mouth twists. He turns away from the mirror and wanders idly back toward the potions table. "You've been gone for over a week," he answers, sounding as nonchalant as he can without being too obvious. "I've missed this dungeon."
"Just the dungeon?" Harry returns neutrally.
"Also your cock," Draco admits. "And the handcuffs."
Draco looks back in time to see a pained expression on Harry's face. It's gone before long.
"Sorry. Work's been…"
"Is that where you are? At work? At midnight?"
"The Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn't head itself. Do you make a habit of going through peoples' shit when they're not there to stop you?"
"It's the best time to do it," he deflects. "What are you brewing?"
"Be careful—" Harry begins, but Draco's already pulled the lid off. The smell assaults him all at once.
"Oh, Merlin," Draco says. "Is that amortentia?"
"Yes. Please be careful with it."
Draco bends down and inhales deeply. Circe, it smells good.
"Why are you brewing a love potion?" Draco asks.
"It's sometimes used as a sex aide," Harry explains. "In proper doses."
"A sex aide?" Draco looks back at the mirror. "Isn't that sort of ethically questionable?"
"Usually," Harry says. "But if it's brewed correctly, it can create the feelings of lust without a target."
Draco considers it for a moment. He supposes that could be done, if the reagent ratios were adjusted properly. And because he's never been able to think of an interesting potions problem without overthinking it, he spends a while trying to work out those adjustments in his head before he hears Harry say—
"What does it smell like?"
Draco glances back at him briefly.
"A bunch of things," he admits. "Mostly, like – like old, settled leather. You know? Like in an aging chair. And…" He bends down again, inhales. "Merlin. A bit like lilacs and dusty books and mint."
When Harry doesn't respond, Draco glances back at the mirror. Potter is siting a bit stiffly in his chair, and there's some curious expression on his face – tight and controlled, like he's holding something back.
"This batch smells done," Draco comments.
"Likely," Harry answers.
"So do you reckon if I took a spoonful of this, it would induce that lustful euphoria?"
Harry breathes out long and low. "Likely," he says again.
Draco leans his hip against the side of the table. "Reckon that would get you back here?"
"No," Harry says, tone unchanged.
"Why not? Surely whatever project you're working on doesn't preclude you ever going home."
"I can't, Draco," he says. "It's not – it's complicated, and I don't want you to worry about it, but I can't."
"What's complicated?" Draco asks.
Harry sighs and rubs at his right wrist.
"If there's something wrong—"
"What? Do you want to talk about something personal finally?"
Draco's not quite sure why the comment stings like it does. In any case, Draco only knows how to deal with hurtful comments in one way:
"You're right, that sounds pretty dull." Before Harry can say anything, Draco grabs a ladle from the potions table, scoops up a bit of the amortentia, and downs it in one swallow.
"Draco, for Christ's sake."
It tastes like honeysuckle nectar and good wine, and it warms all the way down his throat. He looks back at the mirror and runs his tongue along his lower lip. "You were going to offer this to me, anyway."
"Not now," Harry says. "Not like this."
Draco drags a small, metal table away from the wall and pulls it in front of the gilded mirror. Then he hops up onto it. "If you're going to avoid me, then I should at least be entitled to remind you of what you're missing."
"Trust me," Harry replies, "I know exactly what I'm missing."
The effects of amortentia, of course, aren't immediate, but they are pretty quick. Draco feels it at first in the tips of his fingers – a gentle tingling, that turns to a pulsing, that turns to a thrumming.
"I liked your letter," Draco tells him, flexing his hands.
"Good," Harry says neutrally.
"But I have to admit, a glass cock that fucks me on its own is a lot less fun without your voice in my ear, ordering me to come."
Harry is still rubbing his wrist, expression carefully controlled. Draco feels the thrumming move into his palms, his wrists, his arms – oh, Merlin—
"This is pretty potent," Draco says, suddenly feeling a bit hot in his clothes.
"Yes, it is," Harry says.
"Wow," Draco mutters when he feels a sudden rush of blood to his chest. He knows all the physiological effects of amortentia, of course – he knows that it can't force a person into sexual arousal; all it does is incite that first itch and amplify anything that follows once it's scratched. Though at the moment it feels less like an itch and more like a steadily-spreading fire in every vein of his body. Draco swallows hard, his mind going back over the contents of that letter.
"Merlin, that was hot," Draco says, leaning back on his palms, squirming on the table as heat blooms on his chest and down his stomach. "I suppose it speaks to your experience as a Dom that you can make me come without even being in the same room as me."
Harry doesn't answer. He's watching Draco with a controlled sort of ravenousness – he sits forward in his chair, but only just; he drums his fingers on the desk, but not too quickly. He watches Draco like a lion watches its prey.
Draco can't take this anymore; this otherwise cool cellar is becoming unsettlingly hot. He reaches for the buttons on his shirt and fumbles to undo them—
"Slower," Harry says suddenly.
Draco whines. "It's hot," he protests.
"Slower," Harry repeats, more firmly.
Chest heaving, blood burning with lust, Draco forces his frantic hands to move slower, popping one button at a time.
"That's better," Harry says. "You're much more pleasant when you're obedient."
Draco groans heavily as he pops the last button and eagerly shrugs the shirt off his shoulders. He rises to work at his belt.
"This push and pull is getting unbearable, Draco," Harry says, watching as he disrobes. "You insist you are not my submissive, but you come back and submit to me at every turn. You say you don't want anything serious, but you complicate it every time we're together with this combination of – of callousness and eagerness. I don't know what you want. I don't think you know what you want."
Draco sits back on the table, naked now, chest heaving. "I want you to come back here and fuck me," he says.
"No," Harry says.
Draco whines and bucks his hips off the table. His cock is already half-hard without any stimulation. "Please," he says. "Please, the potion – it's getting really intense—"
"I know," Harry says, "I brewed the bloody thing. Wet your fingers for me, Draco."
Still half-arced off the table, Draco lifts one hand to his mouth and eagerly sucks at two fingers. Harry makes a low, pleased sound, and Draco makes as much of a spectacle of it as he can.
"I don't need to physically be there. Despite all your sass and your defiance, Draco, I can still get you off – keep you in your place – dominate you – with nothing but a word. You're proving it right now."
Draco groans heavily around the fingers in his mouth. Merlin, he's right.
"Lie back, Draco, and fuck yourself on your fingers. Let me see."
He collapses onto the metal table and eagerly spreads open his legs. He hears Harry's low sound of approval, and Draco winds his arm around his thigh; after several weeks of regular sex, his body submits more willingly, and his fingers push in at the same time, and Draco keens.
"Good," Harry mutters. "Tell me how it feels."
"Nng," is all Draco can manage at first. He's dizzy with the amortentia; it's pounding with every heartbeat and burning him up. It makes his fingers feel like heaven. "So good. Merlin, it's so good…" He bucks his hips, grinds them down against his fingers.
"Deeper," Harry says.
He presses deeper, and his body stretches, aches to accommodate. Draco gasps and rocks his hips, yes, yes, yes.
"Perfect creature," Harry mutters. "That amortentia has gone straight to your head. How badly do you need a cock inside of you?"
"Please," Draco sobs. "Yes. Please, please-please-please."
"Faster," Harry growls, and Draco fucks his fingers faster, bucking and writhing on the table. It's not enough, Merlin, it's not enough, he needs more.
"Please fuck me," he sobs, "M-Merlin, I need it so badly—"
"If you beg very nicely," Harry says, "I'll let you use a toy on yourself."
"Please!" Draco is frantic now; he can't quite find his prostate with his own fingers; the position is too awkward. And even though it feels fantastic, it's not enough – he needs the weight of a cock, the girth. He needs it so badly that he feels physically dizzy every moment that he does not have it. "Please – I need it, Harry—"
"Again."
Draco sobs impotently. He scissors his fingers, tries to curl them, but it's no use, it's not enough; the amortentia has him bowstring-taut and absolutely insatiable. "Harry – please, Harry – I need to be fucked. I need it so badly. Please."
A low groan. "Again."
"Please, please let be use a toy, my fingers aren't enough—"
"Summon a toy," Harry says, and at once, Draco scrabbles for his wand on the end of the table, summoning – well, it doesn't matter – whatever toy is nearest. What ends up flying into his hand is a thick, black, ribbed thing, at least eight inches long.
"Goodness," Harry says, "you must be in the mood for a challenge."
If there is some part of Draco that thinks his body can't handle such a massive thing – and it is massive, at least three inches in diameter toward the base – it is drowned out by the buzz of the amortentia – need need fuck please yes.
"On your front, Draco," Harry says, "and put that perfect ass of yours up. I want to see you take it."
Draco nearly swallows his own tongue. He's wet and open and loose from his fingers, but he knows not loose enough. He rolls sloppily onto his front and presses his face into the metal, knees propping up his backside, and the wide head pushes against his entrance.
"It's too big," Draco whines. "I need another—"
"Alecto," Harry says suddenly and— fuck—
It pushes into him with a sudden, bruising thrust, and Draco is stretched to his absolute limits, screaming, scrabbling both hands out and gripping hold of the edge of the table and holding on for his life.
"That's right, Draco," Harry says. "All of my toys respond to verbal commands."
"Merlin yes yes yes yes yes yesyesyes. Too much. More. More, please. Harry, please more."
The toy is agonizingly slow at first; the initial thrust had only forced it in about a quarter of the way, and – oh, Merlin – it keeps slowly, steadily, pushing deeper, spearing him wide open.
"Too much, but you still want more? If I'd known you were such a size queen, I'd have gotten more creative."
Draco doesn't know what a size queen is but if it means more of this, he's all for it – the toy shoves deeper and Draco howls. And it is far too much – Draco feels like he is being ripped open – but he does want more – he wants every inch of it.
"You're taking it very well," Harry says. "You are criminally fucking beautiful when you are being fucked, Malfoy."
One last thrust and – "Hnnngghhaa—!" —the massive toy is fully seated in him, and it aches, and it burns, and it's perfect, and he wants more.
And then it slowly starts to thrust— "Meriln – Merlin, yes—!"
A heavy grunt from behind him. "Both hands on the table. You don't need to touch your cock, do you?"
Draco can barely hear him. The amortentia is buzzing hard in his head and the toy is moving faster now – Merlin, so fast, so bruising, so big, it's perfect, a flawless balance of ecstatic pleasure and thrumming pain – and Draco rocks back against the toy, body thrumming.
"Gorgeous fucking creature," Harry says, voice taut and strangled.
It starts to thrust faster, and Draco starts to lose his ability to see, or hear, or think – the universe stops at his skin, and as he is fucked open, everything in him collapsing, knotting, twisting, burning up, then exploding—
"Aaaaaaghnnn—!"
—coming, desperately, painfully, that enormous toy fucking his climax out of him with such intensity that every muscle trembles with it and it feels as though his soul escapes through his cock, and he falls apart—
—
Harry is coming a split second after Draco, drunk off the sounds of him shouting himself hoarse and fucking against the toy.
And he knows he should not have done this, but he did it anyway.
And he knows he should not go back, but he does anyway.
He cleans Draco up and puts him to bed, watching him as he sleeps.
And after all the intensity, the passion, all that's left is a twisting in his chest – the sweet heartache and desperate affection of a man falling in love.
