This Secret Longing
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Potter stands before the warded door, his clothes so inconspicuous, nothing reminds of the powerful Auror the wizarding world sees daily on the pages of the Prophet. They've been meeting in Muggle hotels for months but still a blush colours Potter's cheeks when he hands over the bottle of wine. Only then he dares cast a glance at Draco.
Later, in the dim light, he still watches while Draco undresses. Lying naked on the bed, Draco waits for Potter to take his own shirt off, quickly as if he's suddenly remembered why they're here.
"C-can I touch you?"
Draco wonders whether lust puts the stutter in Potter's voice, or whether he's still afraid Draco'll say no. As if he'd ever. Before Potter came, his life had been the potion lab, with mother's occasional visits from France. He'd all but forgotten the sweet thrill of waiting, aching all week for someone who wants to be with him.
Tracing the scarred ribbons on Draco's chest, Potter whispers, "How, how can you let me fuck you?"
Draco pulls him close then, wondering for the umpteenth time why Harry Potter would even want to fuck him. He's no longer the pretty boy he once was; the Mark still glimmers darkly on his wrist. Yet Potter returns, week after week, and Draco gives him all he still has to give – his body, the pleasures he can offer, someone to share the wine and talk. Even fight.
But Potter pierces him so gently, ripping words from Draco's lips, shameful words like hurt me and please. Ruthless like the Auror hiding underneath those ordinary clothes, it's Potter then who gives, slamming into him to satisfy this secret longing: to be fixed and made anew, unmarked, unscarred, a slate cleared of the past.