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Draco Malfoy was standing with his back to the door, his hands clutching either side of the sink, his white-blond head bowed. His whole body was shaking. And Harry realized, with a shock so huge it rooted him to the spot, that Draco was crying—actually crying—tears streaming down his pale face into the basin below. Draco gasped and gulped and then, with a great shudder, looked up into the round mirror and saw Harry staring at him over his shoulder.
The scene was achingly familiar.
However, unlike the first time Harry had walked in on Draco crying into a sink, instead of turning around to hex Harry, Draco bowed to the side, kneeling suddenly, and retched into the toilet. Harry strode forward and rubbed Draco’s back as he coughed into the bowl.
“Fuck,” Draco said. He pulled the chain and Harry helped him stand, still leaning against the sink, Harry’s hand steady against his back.
Draco’s face was splotchy and his eyes were swollen. Harry wondered if he was sick because he’d been crying, or if he was crying because he’d been sick.
Draco shrugged off Harry’s touch. “Fuck off, Potter,” he said, leaning forward to splash water onto his face.
Harry huffed,irritation rising, but knew that that was exactly what Draco was going for.
Draco loved to push him and push him, just to see if Harry would fight back or run. Sometimes Harry would fight, unable to control his temper, unable to resist the way that Draco knew—the way that Draco had always known—exactly how to get under his skin.
But this was serious, whatever this was. Rejection or death or illness or something else that was eating away at Draco. Harry puffed out his cheeks and exhaled as slowly as he could, forcing himself to stay calm.
He placed his hands on Draco’s hips, curling his chest over Draco’s back. Draco smelled a bit sour from being sick, but mostly he still smelt like his normal sweet, musky self. A sob bubbled through Draco, and Harry grasped him tighter, holding him as their bodies shook together.
“You got me pregnant, you fucker,” Draco said finally.
“Very funny,” Harry said, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder, watching them both in the mirror. He tried to catch Draco’s eye in the reflection to smile at him, but Draco just gave him the kind of dirty look that Harry had once been accustomed to receiving from across the Great Hall.
“I’m not being funny, Potter. This isn’t a joke.” He rubbed under his eyes.
“What’s wrong with you?” Harry said, frowning. “Did we have a fight that I missed?”
Draco spun around and pushed Harry. Hard. Harry stumbled back a step, reflexively reaching for his wand, which was tucked into the waistband of his Auror robes.
“Nothing is wrong with me, you arsehole,” Draco said. “You’re the problem. The fucking saviour, the goddamn golden boy, magic so powerful it’s coming out of your stupid, unimpressive cock.”
“Jesus, what are you talking about?”
Draco opened his mouth to speak again, but gagged, slamming his mouth shut and drawing a fist to his lips. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, waiting for the nausea to pass.
Harry realized he was clutching his wand, breathing hard as he watched Draco’s expression shift from angry to dejected, sorrow casting a shadow across his pale face once more. “I’m not,” he said, his face screwed up in such a way that Harry couldn’t tell if he was holding back vomit or tears. Maybe it was both. “I’m not fucking with you, Harry. I really am pregnant.”
“But that’s impossible.”
Draco shook his head. “No, it’s—it’s not unheard of for wizards to get pregnant, Harry. It’s … it’s possible.” His body was still now, tears sliding down his cheeks. His eyes darted to the side, to the floor, anywhere to avoid Harry’s gaze.
Harry opened his mouth to speak—to say something kind and warm and reassuring—but no sound came out. He closed it, then tried again, his mouth opening and closing like a unconvincing puppet.
“Forget it,” Draco said. He turned on the spot and vanished with violent CRACK.
***
Harry tried fire-calling the manor, and Goyle’s place, but there was no answer at either. Harry sat back on his heels, sighing with frustration, his knees aching on the bricks of the hearth. He took off his glasses and rubbed some errant floo powder off the lenses with his sleeve.
What was he supposed to have said? None of this made sense. Men couldn’t get pregnant. But Wizards were greater than men, he thought, then frowned.
Maybe he was spending too much time with Malfoy after all.
Harry climbed the stairs of Grimmauld Place and changed from his uniform into jeans and Sirius’s old leather jacket. The same outfit he’d worn the first time he and Malfoy had been together.
It had been Christmas Eve, and it had been raining.
Spending the holidays with the Weasleys was wonderful, of course. Wonderful. Until he realized thathe was the only member of the family not in a couple—besides Charlie, who was adamant he’d let a dragon burn him alive before settling down. Ginny had the nerve to bring home her captain Gwenog fucking Jones, who had the nerve to pull Ginny onto her lap and remove an eyelash from Ginny’s cheek and then kiss her so gently just where the lash had been, right in front of her ex-boyfriend and parents and five brothers.
Ginny had insisted when she and Harry broke up that it was to focus on her career, and give them both time to figure out whether the physical component that had been sorely lacking their relationship was just from lack of experience or lack of … something else.
Harry had discovered that something else at a muggle gay bar in Brighton. Ginny had clearly discovered it while “focusing on her career.”
He had no right to be upset with her. He knew that. He also knew that, despite the fact that he was mostly sure he preferred blokes, the familiar monster, the one that had first made its appearance known when Ginny had been so cozy with Dean in sixth year, seemed to growl at the very sight of Ginny smiling at someone else. It felt wrong to be so possessive and protective of her. It was just… Ginny. She was his first love. The first person he had ever wanted to come home to.
And as he looked around—at Charlie and Arthur smoking pipes and seeing who could blow the most exotic shape (Charlie making larger and more elaborate dragons, Arthur perfecting muggle cars and steamboats), at Molly cooing over her tiny granddaughter, at Ron and Ginny and Gwen and Angelina speaking excitedly together about Quidditch, at Hermione and Percy heatedly discussing the upcoming ministry elections—Harry felt suddenly, completely alone.
A shag, he thought. I just need to get laid.
Yes, if he could have sex tonight, then he wouldn’t spend Christmas day feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t have anyone to call his own. Instead, he’d be able to spend the day in his own private day dream of anonymous sex in the bedroom of a stranger.
There was a muggle bar outside Islington that served as a cruising spot for wizards in London. Harry felt a little scuzzy going there—would there be married men? It wouldn’t be the first time he recognized a co-worker from the ministry. But since it was Christmas Eve, the gay bars—muggle and wizard alike—would be closed, and he wasn’t about to ring up an old fling on a holiday.
The place was nearly empty when Harry walked in. A few uni students were crowded into a booth in the back, laughing loudly; the barkeep watching football recaps on the telly, eyes glassy.
Harry found he was relieved that he didn’t see any wizards. He could have drink, relax for a minute, not have to do the work of approaching someone. He sat at the bar and ordered a vodka cranberry, which he nursed, mindlessly gazing toward the television.
Harry could feel his presence before he saw it. The tingle of magic—it was a sense he always must have had, but one he had honed as a junior Auror— a wizard was about to enter the bar.
He stared into his drink to try and calm himself, exhaling slowly. Maybe this person wouldn’t be interested, or interesting for that matter. Maybe they’d be afraid to talk to him since he was an Auror, or even worse, since he was Harry Potter.
He didn’t consider, worst of all, the blond git of his boyhood, sidling into the room looking fit as hell in tight grey trousers and a crisp white button-down. Draco Malfoy approached the bar, smirking, ordered a top shelf scotch, and sat down on the stool directly beside Harry.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said, refusing to look up at him and feeling stupidly self-conscious about his pink drink when he could smell the masculine strength of Malfoy’s scotch. He took a sip, hoping the watered-down vodka might make this whole interaction pass more quickly.
“Same thing you do, obviously,” Malfoy drawled. “To get my cock sucked.”
Harry sputtered and looked around the bar to see if anyone had heard. “Do you have to be so vulgar?”
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “No one else is coming here tonight, Potter,” he said, spitting the hard P and T sounds as he always had in school. “It’s me or your hand.”
“I’d sooner blow a blast-ended screwt,” Harry said. He scratched at an invisible mark on his jeans.
“As if you’re so much better than me,” he scoffed. “You know tonight you’re the just the sad little orphan Father Christmas forgot, and I’m the naughty little Death Eater with nothing but coal in his stocking.”
Harry considered pulling out his wand and pressing it to Malfoy’s throat, just to see if he could leave a bruise without magic. Just to see that look of fear cross Malfoy’s face. Just to see his relief when he pulled it away.
Instead, Harry hopped off his stool, dropped a quid on the sticky surface of the bar, and headed to the loo without a word. He’d have to head home, after all. His hand would be absolutely preferable to another moment alone with Draco sodding Malfoy.
As he washed his hands in the washroom, he caught Malfoy’s reflection looming over him.
“I’m not interested, Malfoy,” Harry said pointedly, shaking the water off his hands.
“Why not?”
“Because I still hate you,” he said. He moved to the door without turning around, without facing Malfoy, he was ready to leave and get on his bike and pray to never see Malfoy again when—
“Scared, Potter?”
His hand still on the door, Harry felt his heart jump into his throat.
Malfoy was joking. Actually trying to taunt him the way he had in school, just to get a rise out of him.
Two could play at that game.
Before he could stop to think, Harry was slamming Malfoy against the greying tiles between two urinals. He thought he heard Malfoy’s head slam against the stone. He didn’t care. He crushed his mouth against Malfoy’s, tongue diving as deep it would go down Malfoy’s throat. His fingers dug into the muscle under Malfoy’s shoulders as Malfoy moaned into his mouth.
Harry felt a thrill as he wondered whether Malfoy was moaning in pain or pleasure.
Harry thrust his hips aggressively against Malfoy’s, feeling the bulge in Malfoy’s trousers against his groin, so hard, so hot. Malfoy used the whimper that escaped Harry’s lips to push back, his hands on Harry’s chest.
They stared at each other for a moment, both panting hard, Malfoy’s pupils wide with intoxication and arousal. Harry swallowed.
Oh, this was definitely happening.
Malfoy grabbed at the hair at the back of Harry’s head and pulled him into a kiss. Malfoy licked across his teeth, stroked along his tongue. Harry kept one hand firmly on Malfoy’s arm, holding him in place against the wall, and reached down with the other to jimmy the buckle of Malfoy’s belt.
Malfoy wasn’t doing Harry any favors with undressing, though, he continued to grind his hips in rhythm with his tongue. Harry gracelessly groped to pull out Malfoy’s cock, and Malfoy reached down to unzip Harry’s jeans and free his erection.
Oh, it felt so good to have another person’s hand on his cock, and Malfoy’s fingers were long and slender and warm, and wrapped so tightly, all the way around.
With his other hand, Malfoy pulled his own cock out of Harry’s hand and pressed them both together between his palms. Harry bucked involuntarily and grabbed the fabric of Malfoy’s shirt to steady himself. Looking down at the twin heads of their cocks between Malfoy’s hands, Harry realized with savage pleasure that his own cock was just a bit bigger than Malfoy's.
It shouldn’t matter, really, but he still looked up into Malfoy’s eyes with a smirk.
“Think you can handle all this?” said Harry, thrusting, this time with purpose, trying to push hard enough to break Malfoy’s tight hold on them.
Malfoy sneered. “Size doesn’t matter if you don’t know what to do with it,” he said, his hips rolling against Harry’s, unable to stop the heat pulsating between them. “And if charms class was any indication, delicate wand work has never been your strong suit.”
“I never had a problem with your wand, Malfoy,” Harry said, licking his lips. “It always knew who it belonged to.”
And before Malfoy could retort, Harry pushed his whole body against Malfoy again, plunging his tongue straight between Malfoy’s lips. With just enough room between them to shift, Malfoy began to stroke his hands up and down their cocks. The most sensitive part of Harry’s, that little fold just under the head, rubbed against Malfoy’s, so roughly, so perfectly. An embarrassing whine escaped him.
“Turn around, Malfoy,” Harry growled. Startled, Malfoy loosened his grip enough for Harry to force him to turn around. Malfoy braced himself against the wall just in time to keep his face from slamming into the tile.
Kneeling, Harry dragged Malfoy’s trousers and pants down to his knees, and froze.
What was before him was the most gorgeous arse—hell, the most gorgeous thing—Harry had ever seen. Smooth and ivory, with the perfect dips of muscle on each side, little dimples by his hips, nicer than the marble sculptures he’d seen at the British Museum.
Stupid. Perfect. Pureblood. Arse.
Harry wondered if he’d ever wanted anything more than he wanted to bury his face and tongue and fingers and cock in all of that perfect, perfect skin. As Harry brutally parted Malfoy’s cheeks, he was unable to stop himself from moaning when he got a look at Malfoy’s tiny pink pucker.
Harry groped at his wand, muttering a quick spell, cold lube covering his fingertips. He wasted no time shoving two fingers inside, right up to the first knuckle.
Malfoy arched his back, and made a muffled sound. Harry looked up to see that he had folded his forearms against the wall and buried his face between them, biting his own wrist.
Fuck. Harry reached his free hand down to adjust himself, and smoothed a large bead of precome over the head as he twisted his fingers inside Malfoy, searching for his prostate. “So fucking tight,” Harry whispered.
God, feeling Malfoy squirm, hearing him moan—why had no one else ever been able to get Harry this hot? Why did it have to be fucking Malfoy? Knowing that he could control Malfoy with pleasure like this, make him putty in his hand, Harry felt almost drunk with it, almost like the savage ease of using the Imperius curse.
Harry pressed his palm against his own cock again, pushing it down to keep from getting too worked up. He wanted to fuck Malfoy, but he really wanted Malfoy to beg for it.
Harry leaned close, to plant sucking kisses to the top of Malfoy’s arse cheek, digging in his teeth as Malfoy began to writhe between Harry and the wall. He pressed his fingers to the second knuckle and hooked them downward. Malfoy arched and keened.
“What do you want, Malfoy?” he asked against the skin of his arse cheek. He tasted blood. He licked the spot softly, right against the teeth-marks he’d left, and continued to prod his fingers relentlessly against Malfoy’s prostate.
“I want—I want to come,” he panted with complete desperation, hardly able to get the words out.
“How, Malfoy? How do you want to come?”
“Want to come on your cock. Want you to touch me.”
If he’d known Malfoy was this easy, he’d have tried to seduce him last time he needed information, instead of stalking him around half the school.
Harry reached into his jeans pocket and retrieved his wand. He was shocked to see his hand was shaking slightly. He shot a locking spell at the door.
He looked up to see that Draco was also trembling. Worked up with lust, still biting and whimpering into his fist, even as he pressed his ass out and waited for Harry's next move.
He took a slow breath to steady himself before standing, conjuring lube into his hand, performing a quick disease-protection spell, and shoving his wand back in his pocket. He slicked up his cock and Draco's crease and braced himself against the wall, his hand directly beside Draco's head.
"Do it already, Potter," Draco hissed. "Just do it."
"I thought Slytherins were supposed to be patient," Harry said, sliding the head of his cock along the slick length of Draco's crack, teasing his rim. He wasn't even inside and already Draco's arse felt like heaven.
"That's Hufflepuffs you twat," Draco spat, craning his neck to try and look back at Harry. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be chivalrous, so fuck me already."
"If you insist." Harry plunged the head of his cock inside Draco then, and ohh he was so tight and wet and hot. Harry heard a high wail vibrating between his chest and Draco's back and echoing off the bathroom walls, he wasn’t sure if he or Draco had made it.
He pushed all the way in, watching Draco's body take his length. He pressed his thumb against the bite mark he'd left on Draco's arse earlier, spreading a drop of blood in a circle,.Draco hissed in response.
Draco started rocking then, pushing back onto Harry's cock, taking control of the rhythm. That wouldn't do.
Harry held Draco’s hips, holding them as still as possible, bruising the skin with the force of his grip. Draco panted, trying to hold still, reaching his hand down to clutch his cock now, to relieve some pressure. Harry pulled out, holding just the tip of his cock inside Draco, watching the way his hole flinched and held tight around it.
“Your arse, Malfoy,” Harry groaned. “Fuck.” He pressed in slowly, all the way, until his hips were flush with Malfoy’s arse. Holding still, he wrapped his hands around Draco and pulled Draco’s hand away. “Show me,” Harry said, gruffly, taking Draco’s cock in hand.
Draco made an incoherent nghyuh sound and placed his hand over Harry’s. Fuck, Harry thought, as Malfoy dragged Harry’s hand up and down his length in steady rhythm. He’d reduced Malfoy to incoherence.
“Please,” Malfoy whimpered. “Please move.” He still had his eyes tucked into his arm against the wall. He was gripping Harry’s hand over his cock, his knuckles white.
Harry pulled out as slowly as he possibly could, millimeter by millimeter, Draco’s body practically vibrating with tension. Then, right when only the head was still inside him, Harry thrust forward hard and fast, pulling Draco’s entire body back to meet him.
“UHH!” Draco moaned, high pitched, that luscious tone of pleasure and pain, letting Harry know he had hit the spot exactly. He repeated the motion, slowly out, hard and fast in, forcing the sound out of Draco once again.
He was trying. Trying to be the one in control, trying to torture Draco with pleasure, punching his prostate, rubbing his cock exactly how he wanted, but with the third thrust, as Draco, cried, “Potter!” he could feel his balls begin to tighten and his control begin to slip.
He pulled out faster, then, rolling only his hips as he held Malfoy still and began to pound rhythmically into him. Again, again, again, Malfoy moaning with each movement. Harry couldn’t stop now, he could feel himself getting close. He matched his speed with the fist over Malfoy’s cock, Malfoy letting go of his hand to reach backward, attempting to steady himself somehow on Harry’s hip, to hold him closer. The slickness of Harry’s cock inside Malfoy and the slapping of their bodies against one another echoed against the tiled walls.
“Gonna come all over your arse, Malfoy.”
And with that, Malfoy stiffened, arching all the way back against Harry, his cock spurting up into Harry’s hand and onto his own shirt. God, it was so hot feeling him tighten around Harry’s cock. Harry didn’t want to stop stroking him and stroking him, wrenching come from him until Draco finally whimpered, “Enough, Potter.”
Harry pulled out as steadily as he could. Then, squeezing Malfoy by the hip with one hand, he grasped his cock and jerked it only twice before he was coming all over Malfoy’s luscious cheeks, just as he’d promised.
Harry allowed himself to fall forward against Malfoy, his chest against Malfoy’s back, his spunk smearing between them. He held onto Malfoy’s chest and stomach, kissing Malfoy’s shoulder softly, feeling Malfoy’s breathing slow beneath him. Harry waved his wand to clean them up, and zipped up his flies as Malfoy pulled his trousers back on.
“Thanks for the fuck, Potter,” Malfoy said, turning around in Harry’s arms. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected at Midnight Mass.”
“I’d like to do that again sometime,” Harry said, his face barely an inch from Draco’s, his voice still raw from exertion.
“Perhaps, if you’re lucky.” Draco blinked down at him through hooded eyes, and suddenly, as if it was a dream, Draco Disapparated, leaving Harry empty-handed, alone in a pub loo on Christmas Eve.
***
“Is Ron here?” Harry asked, barging past Hermione and into her flat.
“No, he’s at the shop with George.” Hermione closed the door behind him. He couldn’t see her, but Harry was sure she was either shaking her head, rolling her eyes, or some combination of the two as she followed him in.
“Good,” Harry said. He headed straight into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of beer from the fridge. “I need to talk to you.”
“Is everything alright?” Hermione asked. She pushed a few books and stacks of papers aside to sit down at the table next to Harry.
“No. Yes.” Harry tipped his head back and downed about half his bottle. He wiped his mouth. “Do you know anything about magical pregnancies?”
“Oh, like the Virgin Birth? Is this for a case?” She lit up as she spoke. “I have to admit I haven’t studied the subject extensively but there have been some very fascinating cases where witches—“
“No,” Harry cut her off. “Wizards. Men. Is that, er, a thing that happens?”
“Oh, yes,” Hermione said, her eyebrows coming together.He imagined the gears shifting in her mind. “the magic isn’t that different, really. Though the magical womb adds a rather more complicated component, doesn’t it? I think I have a book that might have more information.”
“I knew you were the person to ask,” Harry said.
As Hermione browsed the extensive (and no doubt magically fortified) bookshelf in the living room, she called back to Harry, “Doesn’t MLE have a medical expert who can help you with this, Harry? I’m happy to look into it, but wouldn’t a healer have more information?”
“This is off the record, for now,” Harry said. “Wanted to get some information before I, er, made it official.”
Hermione returned again a moment later with what appeared to be a history text. She dropped it on the table with a thud and flipped open to the index, scanning the page.
“Here we are,” she said, opening to a passage toward the end. “…The exact origins of Wizard Pregnancy are unknown, though it is believed that the first cases originated in the fourth century when barren witches resorted to blood magic in their desperation to conceive. Before the advent of safe Caesarean birth and modern Healing practices, these pregnancies proved fatal for the expectant Father and the practice was outlawed. However, because many of the children of these rituals survived, Wizard pregnancies have appeared at least eight recorded times in the past century in Britain, China, and Brazil, all to couples with extensive and recorded magical lineages. The children were born healthy and with genetic similarities to both of their parents, indistinguishable to naturally conceived children.”
“The children are healthy,” Harry repeated. He felt a something tight unfurling in his chest, spreading warmth through his veins. He suddenly felt desperate to be with Draco, to kiss him and hold him, to surround him with his body and his love.
Draco was really was pregnant, and that meant… A child—his child.
“Harry, are you alright? You look ghastly.”
Harry shook his head. “Yeah, I’m fine. I need to go.” He stood up, knocking the table and his beer spilling onto the textbook. “Damn. Sorry, Hermione.”
“It’s fine,” Hermione said, flicking her wand to vanish the beer as she stood. “Are you sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said again, heading toward to door, Hermione following right behind. He spun around just as he reached the front door, Hermione nearly barreling into him. “Hermione,” he said, suddenly. “What do you think of Draco?”
Hermione’s mouth fell open with a little squeak. “Harry.” She swallowed. “What’s going on?”
Harry shook his head slightly. He looked her in the eye, trying to find her to answer his question without having to say it out loud.
“Harry, I’ve known you half my life,” she said, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, “and in that time, your gut instinct has had a better record of success than my opinion.” She took a deep breath, a small smile betraying her deliberate words, “so, I think, that you should trust your instincts.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Harry softly on the cheek.
Harry swallowed and nodded, turning on his heel and disappearing with a pop.
***
They’d been fooling around for months when Draco finally brought up the fact that Harry had never been around to his place.
“Your place?” Harry said, incredulously. He was lying on his back, the sheets rumpled at his feet, Draco resting his head on his chest, lightly stroking the dusting of hair there. “As in, Malfoy Manor? As in, where Voldemort lived? As in, the place where my best friend was tortured?”
Malfoy made a sour face. He turned his chin up at Harry. “No,” he said. “Malfoy Manor, as in my natal home, where I had all of my best childhood memories, where I have to sleep at night trying not to think of those things you just mentioned.”
“You sleep here ninety-percent of the time, Malfoy,” Harry said, giving Draco’s arm a light pinch.
“Yes, but only because sex helps me sleep and you won’t come to mine.”
Harry took a deep breath. His stomach churned.
He liked Draco—like wasn’t the right word, even. He was addicted to Draco. He’d be on stakeouts, waiting for perps to strike, and his mind would wander to Draco’s naked body, to the next time he could get his hands on him. And when he saw him, he couldn’t eat, couldn’t go out, couldn’t do anything until he’d made Draco come. And then when Draco would drag him outside to pick up takeout, Harry would knead Draco’s arse through his back pocket as the walked, unable to stop himself from leaning in and pressing his nose right behind Draco’s ear to take a deep inhale and take in his heady, musky scent.
Harry had even invited him to a few Friday nights with Ron and Hermione, which started awkwardly enough. Ron and Draco scowling at one another, until, with enough elbowing from Hermione and under-the-table thigh squeezing from Harry, they eventually found the common ground of their mutually abysmal quidditch team affiliations.
Draco had done that for him. Had been a good sport with the people who once hated him. Couldn’t Harry return the favor?
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay. I’ll go to your house.”
Draco smirked up at him. “Good. It’s my birthday on Wednesday and it will positively thrill me to torture my parents with your presence at dinner.”
Harry groaned. “I thought you loved your parents.”
“Oh, I do,” Draco said, “but Lucius Malfoy is banking an early end of his house arrest on being reformed and it delights me to no end to make him—what’s the phrase? Put his galleons where his wand is.”
***
Harry squirmed in his chair. He knew it was Draco’s birthday and it was formal, but did he really have to wear his formal robes? It was June for Godric’s sake. He felt sweat forming under his thighs as he attempted to sit in a way that his paramour’s parents would find acceptable for proper wizarding society.
“Can’t I just wear my work robes? Didn’t you always tell me I look good in red?” Harry had said that morning, as Draco was dewrinkling Harry’s outfit for the evening with swift flicks of his wand.
“Oh, yes, Harry, please do show up to my house in your Auror uniform, that’s sure to impress my father who was escorted to Azkaban twice by your colleagues,” Draco drawled, spitting the last word as if it left a fowl taste in his mouth. “Oh and do pick up a tin of Sleakeazy’s Hair Potion. It’s no use trying to look presentable if it looks like you just got through shagging their son.”
Harry slipped behind Draco, nuzzling into his ear, “and what if I have just got through shagging their son?”
“No, Potter.” Draco elbowed him away. “No touching until after dinner. Then you may have your dessert.”
The promise of said dessert was of course, in Harry’s mind, the only thing keeping him from apparating as far from Wiltshire as he possibly could. Visiting the manor, however, wasn’t nearly as traumatic as Harry had anticipated. Draco had flooed with him through his own chambers, and taken him directly to the dining room in the south wing, sparing Harry any contact with the halls near the dungeons where Harry had feared so deeply for Hermione’s life. Harry wondered if this was for his benefit or if this was how the Malfoy family lived now, avoiding contact with the memories of Voldemort’s occupation.
They made small talk and toasted Draco’s birthday. A roast game hen appeared before Harry.
“And how are the Aurors, Mr. Potter?” Narcissa asked politely.
Harry swallowed a particularly large and dry piece of hen. He couldn’t help but notice that his seemed a bit more, well, burnt than the others at the table.
“Good,” Harry said. “Er, long hours, but the work is very interesting.”
“And are they paying you adequately?”
Narcissa and Draco cried “Father!” and “Lucius!” in unison.
“I only meant to imply that my taxes must be paying for something, I want to make sure we’re keeping the saviour in the finest silks.”
Harry bit back a rude comment—starting a fight with Draco’s father on Draco’s birthday wasn’t the way to ingratiate himself to the bastard. Draco slipped his hand over Harry’s thigh under the table. “It’s more just what I’ve always done, Mr Malfoy. Searched for answers. Stopped those who would cause others harm. So any compensation is really just a bonus.”
“Harry is the youngest person to complete the Auror training program,” Draco cut in.
Harry smiled. “Only since I didn’t have to take my NEWTs. Tonks was really the youngest without special dispensation.”
Harry hadn’t realized he’d said something wrong until he saw how Narcissa’s lips tightened, and her ramrod back became even straighter. Her niece.
“Draco, darling, remind me to give you the birthday card that your Astoria sent.”
“Mother.” Draco’s hand squeezed Harry’s leg tight.
“Well, darling, she is your fiancee, it’s only appropriate that she counts down the birthdays until you’re ready to be married.”
Harry’s mouth went dry. “Fiancee?” he said, feigning curiosity even as his voice went high.
“Why, of course, Mr. Potter,” said Narcissa, “we tolerate Draco’s little proclivities for now, with the understanding that when he turns twenty-five, he’ll marry and produce an heir. Speaking of which, Draco, Astoria Greengrass just passed her Healer boards. I think it would be appropriate for you to send her a letter of congratulations.”
***
“What the fuck, Draco?” Harry seethed as he followed Draco back into his bedroom.
“What the fuck what,” Draco said, removing his robes and hanging them in the closet.
“When did you plan on telling me that you’re engaged?”
“Let me think…. Never? I didn’t think it would come up,” Draco said, casually.
“It wouldn’t come up?” Harry said.
“My marriage is four years away, Potter,” Draco sat on an ottoman and began unlacing his boots. Harry still stood in the doorway.
“You really didn’t think I had the right to know that you’re committed to someone else, then. You thought I only wanted to fuck you here and there and even though I came to the fucking manor for you, and I just wouldn’t give a fuck if you trotted off with someone else.”
Draco sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose theatrically. “Potter, what did you think was going to happen here? We’d fall in love and ride our brooms off into the sunset, the world be damned?” His voice had a bit of grit in it. He dropped his hand, his face softened and his gaze met Harry’s. “I have expectations on me. And they’re not to commit murder or any of the shit you or I had to deal with when we were younger. They’re good ones. Take care of the manor. Continue the family line. I can’t just abandon all this.”
Harry imagined what it would be like to have parents to please. How if his parents could see him, how desperately he’d want to give them whatever they wanted. He thought about Draco, standing on top of that tower with his wand to Dumbledore, caught between tearing his soul and betraying his family. How a year later, he looked into Harry’s eyes, his whole body quivering with fear as he lied to his aunt.
“You’re acting like you don’t have a choice,” Harry said.
“No, I’m acting like I’ve made my choice, because I have. Where would you be without me, Harry? Without my family? I am not proud that my father followed the Dark Lord, that he kissed his fucking feet. I know my father did despicable things, that he’s a despicable person. But I also know that family is everything. Because of you, don’t you realize that? When you stood in front of the Wizengamot and told everyone what my mother did? I’m the last Malfoy. I’m the last Black. And that’s what I choose.”
And Harry understood. He completely understood.
He wished he didn’t though. He liked it when he and Draco fought. He wanted to keep yelling at him. To punch and kick and scream. To lay insults and banter as he held Draco against his crotch, pulling his hair as his lips wrapped around Harry’s cock.
It was strange to Harry that Draco had such a clear vision of his future. When Harry was a boy, he imagined having his own house with his own things and no rules. Maybe a wife who loved him, maybe kids. It was all blurry and amorphous. The first time something clicked was when he found out what an Auror was—that’s me, he thought.
And then, hardly any time later, he found out he probably wouldn’t make it out of Hogwarts, let alone through Auror training or anything else. His brief time with Ginny–while she sometimes became the blurred wife in his post-Hogwarts fantasies–was all the sweeter because it felt so ephemeral.
But with Draco, all he knew was that he never wanted it to end. He wanted to know that he could touch Draco whenever he wanted—needed. hat he’d have that warm, smooth body in his bed at night. He wasn’t ready to commit to forever, but something possessive curled in him, that same Monster that made its appearance around Ginny suddenly roared at the prospect of losing Draco.
“Get over here,” Harry growled suddenly.
Draco scoffed at him, rolling his eyes, continuing to slowly unbutton his shirt.
“Accio Draco.”
Draco shot across the room and into Harry’s arms.
“What the fuck, Potter?” Draco said, but he pressed his hips into Harry’s.
Harry held him tight and pulled Draco’s head down to kiss him, open mouthed and sloppy, tongues sliding together. “You’re mine for now,” Harry said, and ripped Draco’s shirt open. A button flew across the room, pinging against the mirror.
Harry smoothed his hands over Draco’s chest. He swirled his thumbs over Draco’s nipples as Draco shrugged out of his shirt.
“You don’t own me,” Draco panted, eagerly bunching up Harry’s robes, only allowing Harry’s hands to leave him for an instant as he pulled the robes over Harry’s head and dropped them onto the floor.
“You were fucking naked under there?” Draco’s voice was a high whine as he took in Harry’s body. “In front of my parents? While we argued about—fuck.”
Harry smirked. He had been practicing vanishing his clothes. He had to use his wand, but he’d managed it wordlessly the moment before he’d summoned Draco.
Draco ran his fingers lightly over Harry’s stomach, down the trail of black hair leading to his crotch. Harry’s half-filled cock gave a twitch of appreciation.
“Take off your trousers and get on the bed, Malfoy,” Harry said. “I’m going to fuck you like you dreamed when you were younger.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter,” Draco said as he slid his trousers and pants off, his pink cock already standing at attention as he backed his way to the bed, Harry crowding him as he moved. “I always fancied a Chaser’s build. Seekers have always been a bit slight for my taste.”
“Is that why you never caught the snitch, then?” Harry pushed Draco down onto the bed, Draco’s legs still swinging over the side. He lifted a knee onto the bed beside Draco, making sure to stay close in his space without letting their bodies touch. “Too busy ogling Marcus Flint?”
Draco grimaced. “Too far, Potter. You’re going to make me lose my hard-on,” he said, sitting up and reaching out for Harry’s.
Harry allowed Draco to stroke him for a moment, running his foreskin up and over the head. Harry slid his fingers into Draco’s hair. Draco softly cupped Harry’s sac with his free hand. Harry shivered, feeling warm and safe, like he could let Draco just keep touching him for hours. “Turn over,” Harry said, his voice rough, “let me see you.”
Instead, Draco leaned down and took the head of Harry’s cock between his lips, swirling his tongue over the head. Harry scratched his nails against Draco’s scalp as Draco inched Harry’s length into his mouth, touching the back of his throat. Draco sucked, Harry’s other hand squeezing the back of Draco’s neck. It felt good, it felt so good; Draco’s expert mouth making obscene squelching sounds, but the way he was leaning down over Harry’s cock, Harry couldn’t see a damn thing. That wouldn’t do.
He yanked his hair and pulled him off as Draco yelped in pain. Draco coughed and looked up at Harry, his eyes watering slightly, his lips swollen and pink.
“Turn over,” Harry rasped again.
Draco smirked, then slowly crawled up the bed and hugged a pillow under his chest, his arse high in the air. Harry knelt on the bed behind him, squeezing his arse cheeks together and pulling them apart. He drew his hand back and brought it down to smack against Malfoy’s pale bottom, eliciting a soft grunt from both of them.
He leaned down and shoved his face between Malfoy’s cheeks. He latched his mouth around the tight ring and sucked hard. Malfoy bucked and panted, “Potter!”
Harry squeezed tight with his fingers, pulling Malfoy’s cheeks apart, and licked all around hole, first with the flat of his tongue, then the tip, circling round before pushing it inside. Malfoy was tight; Harry couldn’t get his tongue to breach him, so he sucked his own thumb into his mouth before pushing it inside Malfoy. Malfoy moaned long and deep, pushing back onto Harry’s hand.
Fuck, he’d miss this arse. He’d only had it for—hell it hadn’t even been six months. But the idea of living without it. No, he couldn’t. He needed it.
He pulled his thumb free and resumed the attack with his mouth, keeping his lips around Draco’s hole, his tongue as hard as he could to get it inside.
Draco’s cock was leaking onto the bedspread, right onto the Malfoy crest, dampening the serpentine lines. He was incoherent, crying almost. “Please, please, please, fuck, Potter, Harry, nnnnnghhh, I need it, I need your cock.”
And the way he begged. Harry would walk into a forest and die all over again just to hear Draco beg.
Harry kissed the back of Draco’s thigh, drying his face Draco’s warm skin. He reached around and pulled Draco’s thighs back, forcing him to fall onto his stomach. Harry then grasped his hips and flipped him roughly onto his back.
Draco’s eyes were nearly black, his face half-pink from where it had been pressed into the pillow. Harry leaned over him, kissing him wet and filthy, Draco reached up to softly scratch the hair on the top of Harry’s neck.
“Do you need more fingers?” Harry said, pressing his hard cock into Draco’s hip.
Draco shook his head. “No, no, please, just fuck me.”
Harry reached out toward the nightstand, but his fingertips couldn’t quite make it to the drawer for the lube. Draco had wrapped his legs tightly around Harry, and was now humping up into him. It felt like heaven. C’mon, Harry thought, Accio Lube, and with that the drawer slammed open and the lube rocketed into his hand.
Draco scoffed. “Bloody show off,” he murmured, as he buried his face Harry’s shoulder, kissing his skin.
Somewhat in shock, Harry clumsily sat back onto his heels and poured the lube into Draco’s outstretched hand and his own. He rubbed the silky liquid along his cock as he watched Draco press it into his own hole. Fuck, fuck,, he was glad Draco was ready.
He grabbed Draco’s wrist and pushed it into the mattress, then, without hesitating any longer, thrust his cock all the way inside Draco.
Draco arched back and let out a wail, reaching down to tug on his cock with his free hand.
Harry rolled his hips, fucking into Draco hard and fast. Draco pressed his heels into Harry’s lower back, pulling him closer as their bodies slapped against one another. Harry grabbed one of Draco’s legs and pulled it against his shoulder, the angle perfect for running his hand up and down Draco’s warm thigh, for seeing himself deep inside Draco’s tight hole.
“God, you look so good taking my cock,” Harry groaned, turning his head to kiss Draco’s shin and calf and the arch of his foot.
“You can call me ‘Draco,’” Draco smirked up at him, his hand still flying over his own cock.
“Huh?” Harry faltered, losing his rhythm.
“‘God’ is a designation, Potter.” Draco licked his lips, his rapid breathing betraying his humour. “My given name is fine.”
“Oh. Shut. Up.” Harry gave a particularly hard thrust with each syllable.
“Make me,” Draco challenged, suddenly serious.
Harry nipped at Draco’s foot arch again, then pushed Draco’s leg to the side. He slid his legs from under himself, and shifted so he was right on top of Draco, hips-to-hips, chest-to-chest, nose-to-nose. “I think I will,” Harry whispered as Draco tangled his legs with Harry’s.
Harry kissed him, softly for a moment, rutting his hips against Draco’s, his cock rocking slowly inside. He sucked softly at Draco’s lips before pressing his tongue gently against Draco’s. Sweeter than the creme brulee they’d had for pudding. They kissed as they rubbed their bodies together, trying to push themselves closer and closer together, almost as if they could merge.
Harry gasped, pulling away slightly, when he realized he hadn’t been breathing. Draco’s lips were pink and swollen, and Harry balanced on his elbows as he looked all over Draco’s ruddy face, losing himself in his pale eyes.
He knew it was silly, that this was just temporary, that this was just fun. And yet—he found himself wishing. Wishing, that he could be everything Draco needed. Because this was more than sex. Fuck, the sex was intoxicating, he could lose himself in it. But there was no one who got under his skin like Draco, who knew his buttons, when they needed to be pressed, when he needed quiet, when he needed to laugh, when he needed to be seen. Wishing that they could be a family. That they could continue the Malfoy line. He squeezed his eyes shut willing the images, the warmth that flooded through him as he imagined spending a life with Malfoy, to go away.
“Hey,” Draco said, cupping Harry’s face, running a thumb over his cheek, “where are you?”
“I’m here,” Harry said. “I’m right here.”
***
Draco’s shoes were tucked beside the nightstand when Harry made it back to Grimmauld Place, so Harry knew he’d returned in the time Harry was gone. Harry checked the loo and the kitchen, opening and closing doors until he found Draco in the sitting room, standing in front of the tapestry of the Black Family Tree.
He glared at Harry as he entered the room.
“Draco—I—”
Draco shook his head. “Shut up, Potter.”
Harry bit his lip and moved to stand beside him, close enough that he could feel Draco’s warmth without touching, looking at the tree.
“I’d be burned off as a blood traitor if Walburga was still alive,” he said quietly.
Harry’s gaze drifted to the burn spot over Sirius’s portrait, then Andromeda’s, her presence removed before there was a Tonks or Teddy. Draco’s portrait now had a thin vine extending beneath it, a tiny bud on its end, the promise of extending the line.
“All the best people are,” Harry said. They stood in silence for a while. “You look better.”
Draco shrugged. “I picked up a potion at the Apothecary. It was labeled for bloody witches,” he said, with a wry smile. “And I thought my life couldn’t get any more fucked by Harry Potter.”
Harry felt like he should apologize to Draco, but he realized he wasn’t sorry. He remembered when Teddy had colic and Harry and Andromeda had traded sleepless nights, he remembered when Teddy’s diaper exploded all over Harry’s favorite quidditch kit, he remembered when he had to leave a visit to Hagrid early because Teddy was having a tantrum. He knew what he was getting into. But he also knew about placing Teddy atop his first broom (“it’s tradition,” he’d said, “my godfather gave me mine,”), he knew about Teddy’s first smile, how it had pierced the gloom mere weeks after the Battle of Hogwarts, when Harry wondered if he’d made a mistake in returning to a world without Fred and Lupin and Tonks. He knew that he was the same age his parents were when he was born, how they sacrificed everything—everything—for him.
But this, of course, was Draco sacrificing everything. It was his body, his reputation, his freedom. He really ought to apologize for stealing those, but before he opened his mouth to speak, Draco said, “I’m keeping it, by the way.”
“Oh,” Harry said. He’d forgotten there was an alternative.
“I still fucking hate you though,” Draco said.
Harry tried to swallow his smile. He moved closer to Draco, crowding him back against the tapestry.
“What are you doing?” Draco scowled.
Harry kissed him softly, pressing his hands against the wall to either side of Draco’s head. He felt the rough embroidery of the family tree under his fingers. “Showing my appreciation.” Harry dipped his head and sucked gently on the skin right under Draco’s chin.
Draco clutched Harry’s sides, squeezing his fingers into the soft cotton of Harry’s T-shirt. He scoffed. “You think that’s how this works? That you can just fuck me and I’ll forgive you for all the stupid shit you’ve done to me over the years?”
Harry nipped at the skin of his throat. “Something like that.” He moved his head lower to kiss the dip just above the collar of Draco’s linen button-up. He knew that if he focused, if he really concentrated, he could do this without his wand—t least part of it. The part that mattered most.
Harry closed his eyes and focused all of his magic into the word evanesco.
Draco’s “are you fucking serious, Potter,” told him that when he opened his eyes, lo and behold, all vestments from Draco’s waist down would be missing.
Harry reached down and stroked the side of Draco’s bare thigh giddily. He kissed Draco again, full on the mouth, sucking his lips, consuming his air, as he ground his hip into Draco’s now free and undeniable erection.
Draco turned his head to the side, even as he rutted against Harry, holding him tight against himself. “You see,” he said, panting hard, his voice still thick with anger. “This is your problem, Potter. You’re an arrogant show-off, just like Snape always said.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Harry murmured, unfastening each of the buttons on Draco’s shirt with one hand, and continuing to massage Draco’s thighs and backside with his other. Draco was trying to get a rise out of him, the way he always had. As fun as it was to spar with Draco, the ball of light in Harry’s chest wouldn’t be dimmed.
“Even when we were little children, it was you—always trying to show me up on a broomstick, getting me detention, embarrassing me in front of my friends and my house. Uhhh.”
Harry briefly debated reminding Draco that these were all things that Draco, in fact, had done, but then Draco let out a little moan as Harry reached into his shirt and lightly flicked his nipple, and Harry couldn’t be bothered with the past when the present was warm and delicious.
“I hate your face. I hate your stupid ugly scar that everyone thinks is so damn special,” Draco whined as Harry kissed along his jaw. “I hate your stupid glasses. I mean, who even wears round glasses? It’s the 21st fucking century, Potter, I wouldn’t be caught dead in glasses like those.” Draco pouted as Harry ran his fingers along Draco’s arse crack. “Merin, I hate this house,” Draco said, as Harry used his other hand to slowly pull the foreskin over the head of Draco’s cock and back down again. “I hate that you’ve taken everything that should have been mine.”
That felt more serious, so Harry pushed Draco’s shoulders against the wall and kissed him roughly, hoping to redden Draco’s mouth with the stubble he’d grown being out in the field for two days. Harry pulled his wand from his pocket and focused on the word lubricius. When Draco broke away with a whimper, he knew he’d been successful. He slid his hand back behind Draco to find his hole slick and relaxed.
A thought crossed Harry’s mind; were these spells safe to perform on Draco? But he’d performed them dozens of times in the past few months and as far as he knew, everything was fine. Besides, it was too late now, but he’d ask before he did it again. For now, he needed to be inside Draco, needed him to remember why he put up with Harry in the first place, remind him exactly what was so powerful about their connection that it had created life.
Harry undid the fly of his jeans and pulled his aching cock free.
“I hate that thing,” Draco said, even as he involuntarily thrust his own hips against Harry’s.
In one motion, Harry grabbed Draco by the waist and lifted him and inch off the ground, pinning his back to the tapestry behind him. Draco wrapped his legs tight around harry’s hips and gripped Harry’s shoulders, his knuckles white.
Harry reached down to aim his cock and thrust is roughly up into Draco, bringing Draco down onto him with a deep groan, so that they were completely joined, Harry’s cock in Draco’s tight warm, wet arse, their stomachs and chests against one another, Draco’s face barely inches above Harry’s.
Draco arched his neck back, his head hitting the wall as he keened. Harry adjusted his grip so that he was supporting Draco by his arse cheeks, pulling them apart and pushing them together against his shaft as he rutted inside Draco.
“I hate that you’re always so stupidly noble. I hate that you don’t even have parents to disappoint.”
Draco pushed his shoulders against the tapestry to brace himself, his hips snug against Harry. He rutted in rhythm with Harry, his prick pinned between them, rubbing between his skin and Harry’s shirt.
Draco pulled harry’s hair, the pain searing the back of Harry's head, tipping his head back roughly so that Draco could attack his mouth. Their mouths were wide open against one another tongues sliding sloppily together, both sucking air in shallow gasps when they could.
“I hate that I’ll never know why you’re here. If you’re just being a fucking gryffindor.”
Harry’s glasses were beginning to fog and the slipped down his nose. His hands were too occupied to do anything about them so he shook his head violently until they fell to the floor with a clatter. This close, Draco’s face was clear to him.
“I wanted this,” Harry said, thrusting up as hard as he could. Draco let out a high pitched yelp of pleasure, assuring Harry he’d hit the right spot. “I wanted you.” Another thrust.
Draco’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, his mouth slack as he moaned with each of Harry’s grunting thrusts.
“I wanted all of you,” Harry said, and covered Draco’s mouth with his, swallowing his desperate sounds as he picked up a rapid pace, feeling his impending orgasm tightening his balls.
“Harry!” Draco cried out, his cock spurting between them, wet through Harry’s shirt.
Harry couldn’t stop, couldn’t pause to let him come down. He kept thrusting and thrusting until his own orgasm overtook him, struggling to keep them both upright, leaning into Draco’s lithe frame and pinning him to the wall.
They panted there, their hearts beating against each other, until Draco unwrapped his legs and touched them to the ground. Harry slipped out from inside him. Pulling his wand from his pocket, Harry used a quick couple of tergeos to get them cleaned up.
Draco shivered and wrapped his shirt tightly around himself, looking at the floor.
“C’mere,” Harry said quietly. He took Draco’s hand and lay down slowly on the floor, pulling Draco on top of him. Draco straddled Harry’s legs and snuggled against his chest. He tucked his head under Harry’s and Harry could feel the silkiness of Draco’s hair against his chin.
Harry knew Draco was in pain, that he was afraid of what was to come, that this was a far bigger sacrifice for him than for Harry, but he hoped that with his arms and the glow of his orgasm, his joy would surround Draco, too.
“Did i mention that I hate your scar?” Draco mumbled into his chest.
Harry smiled, and ran his hands up and down Draco’s back. “Do you feel better?”
“Shut it, Potter, you’re ruining the moment,” he said.
Harry pressed kisses into Draco’s warm hair. “Will you marry me?” he said.
Draco sighed exaggeratedly. “I suppose. But I won’t live in London.”
Harry kissed him again. “Okay.”
“And I want your elf.”
Harry chuckled. “He works at Hogwarts, now.”
“You took my elf, so I want yours. It’s only fair.”
Harry pinched Draco’s hip hard, eliciting the most satisfying yelp. “You’re a huge pain in the arse, you know that,” Harry said.
“Well, you’re stuck with me now, so you’d better get used to it.”