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It starts in a shithole town in northern Wales.
During the day, he and Potter take measurements from a circle of stones just outside town. It’s a bit like Stonehenge but much smaller and shittier and hidden from Muggle sight, so it’s just the two of them; day in, day out. No tourists. No buffer. Their dusty accommodations are absent any life apart from the ancient wizard manning the front desk and a half-wilted Venomous Tentacula languishing behind the counter.
“I thought it would be fun, being an Unspeakable,” Potter says on the third day. “Like a spy film but with magic. Instead it’s just… measuring rocks and wanking in a lukewarm shower.”
“Poor little Chosen Boy. Is adulthood not treating you as well as your glamourous youth?”
Potter chucks a rock at the unsettlingly bare yew tree that sits stark against the grey sky, like bones stripped of flesh. The forest beyond is yellow and russet with autumn colour, but not this ancient piece of shit.
“You’re a fucking muppet, Malfoy.”
They return to silence; it is not companionable.
That night, Draco wanks about Potter wanking in the shower.
***
Draco observes Potter like a Faerie Beetle beneath a magnifying charm.
Draco is usually assigned to work with Zacharias Smith, who has the personality of a bag of wet hair. He’d requested reassignment, implying that Smith was deeply uncomfortable with Draco’s sexuality. Then, he’d gotten sent to actual hell with this knob.
Potter has two modes: inane chatter and broody silence. He references wanking at least twice a day. He’s growing out his hair and sometimes wears it up in a stupid little bun, curls falling all around his face. The Weaslette is his fiancée, which Potter pronounces with a terrible French accent, and they intend to have thirty-five ginger children by the time they’re thirty. She’s off on her Quidditch world tour and very faithfully writing Potter a letter each week.
“She’s probably snorting Pixie Dust off of Viktor Krum’s bollocks,” Draco says, eyeing Potter as he sorts through a pile of jagged black rocks.
“Fuck you,” Potter says, predictably.
“What?” Draco tosses an ugly, brown chunk of stone from one hand to the other. “It’s what I would do if I were in Rio, flying about with the world’s most famous Quidditch champions. Loads of Pixie Dust and Muggle cocaine, right off of Krum’s thick cock.”
Potter laughs. There’s a derisive edge to it. Draco is well versed in derisive laughter since he lived with Lucius for seventeen years and Voldemort for a solid two. “She doesn’t fancy blokes like that.”
From what Draco’s heard of dear Ginevra, it sounds like she doesn’t fancy blokes at all, but he keeps that to himself. He’ll save his theories for an even duller day. As it is, Potter looks sweaty and scowly, which is enough to keep Draco going for another twenty-four hours, at least.
“Well. I must be wrong. You know your fiancée better than anyone, after all,” Draco says instead. “Who am I to make a prediction about the course of her life?”
Potter scoffs and goes about kicking up dirt for the rest of the afternoon, scowling at Draco.
Later, Draco tosses off to the image of Potter, snorting cocaine off of Viktor Krum’s muscular cock.
***
Draco isn’t one to run out of material, but it’s rained the past three days.
Weather isn’t a hassle for wizards, generally speaking, but something about the ley lines and old magic and rain fucking with the natural wards leaves them stranded inside with the scaly Venomous Tentacula, a wizarding chess set with three dead knights who refuse to get out of their little coffins, and the proprietor’s ‘familiar,’ a chinchilla named Ricky, who does nothing but shit out little pellets continuously.
Draco tries goading Potter about the Weaslette, which doesn’t spark anything besides a shrug. He moves onto the other Weasleys and Dumbledore and Hagrid. Nothing garners a reaction beyond a roll of the eyes and a minor scowl.
When Draco brings out the chess board and insists Potter play with him, everything quickly goes to shit. Potter only half-knows the rules, and he can’t sit still for more than thirty seconds at a time. His chair nearly tips over twice, and he refuses to keep track of his pieces. When Potter’s chair is precariously tipped back for the third time in a row, Draco sends a little swish of magic his way just to watch the surprise wash over his stupid face before he falls in a clatter to the dry-rotting floor.
Potter rolls to his side, clutching his arm and hissing. “You’re a miserable cunt, you know that?”
“Oh, I’ve been told.” Draco offers Potter his hand. A pleased trickle of warmth winds through his chest when Potter takes it. “Get your ugly arse up. We’re going to the pub.”
“The what?” Potter stumbles when he stands; then he glares at the floor as if it intended to trip him. “We’re not supposed to go into the Muggle bit of Car Tearen.”
“Caer Taran,” Draco corrects. He takes his hand back and wipes it on his jacket. Merlin, Potter’s palms are strangely damp.
“Yeah, that. We’re not supposed to let Muggles see us anywhere near Caer What-Have-You.”
“I don’t give a fuck. I need a drink. A bloody barrel of Firewhisky.”
Draco casts an Impervius and lets the door slam shut behind him. Just as he ducks through the alley that leads to the Muggle section of town, he hears Potter sloshing along behind him, then jogging to catch up.
“I could murder a sausage roll. Do you reckon they have them?”
“Do I look like a menu to you? Perhaps a Welsh maître d’hotel?”
“A what?”
From there, Potter slips into his inane chatter mode. Draco gets to hear an earful about one of the Weasley's latest boyfriends. He’s not sure which one of them is queer because Draco tunes out any time a Weasley is mentioned. Their first names are all like bursts of static at this point. Whichever one has a boyfriend is marginally more interesting, but if Draco needs to wank about it, he can imagine a random freckled man with a large cock.
When Draco takes a smoke break from Weasley chatter, Potter follows him and bums a cigarette. Draco tipsily recounts the reassignment request, which makes Potter laugh meanly. It gives Draco sort of an illicit thrill, luring Potter to be just as shit as he is.
They smoke and smoke until almost dawn. The sky is blushing pink as they climb the hill that leads to the horrible little bed and breakfast. The awful sign above the door blinks and flickers, wet from yesterday’s rain.
When Draco trudges back to his room, he has a lukewarm shower and a splendid wank thinking about Potter pounding into one of the Weasley boys.
In absence of anyone more interesting, Draco’s standards are sinking to the lowest common denominator.
He sleeps the rest of the day and skives off work. It’s only when he rises, face sweaty and still smelling of cheap whisky, that he realises it’s Saturday.
***
It becomes something of a routine after that.
They eat at the pub and fill up on whisky that tastes of petrol. One or the other of them has a hangover every morning for the next week. The atmosphere is loose and frantic, the same way it was when they were all locked together in the Unspeakables Academy for six months. Drinking cheap alcohol, shagging anyone willing, smoking outside in the eerie calm of midnight.
He wonders, sometimes, about Potter, if his standards have dropped off the cliff it would take to fall from Ginevra Weasley to Draco Malfoy.
Draco needn’t have been worried about Potter’s penchant for chaos and sluttiness, though. On Monday of their third week in Wales, Potter stays behind when Draco stumbles outside. Draco lights a cigarette and waits. And waits. Then flicks it into the night and walks the long road to the inn.
The next morning, when Potter joins Draco for coffee, he has a bruise on his neck he doesn’t bother to hide.
“What in Merlin’s name is that?”
Potter shrugs. “I was pissed. It’s nothing.”
“Was it that barmaid who’s always eyeing you?” Draco’s heart does something weird and horrible.
Potter shrugs again. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing at all. Live your life as you please. I’m sure your future wife won’t mind.”
Later, Draco has a quick tug back in his room to the thought of sucking Potter’s skin between his teeth until he tastes blood.
***
Draco’s Potter-shaped madness continues. It’s harmless; nothing more than a healthy imagination.
The day of Halloween, Potter is in a foul mood. Fouler than usual. Dark and scowly, his hair even more like a rat’s nest. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and paces around the nameless henge. Midday finds him asleep beneath a yew tree. Draco sighs every several minutes and loudly announces each new measurement, but Potter remains unmoved.
Just before sunset, Draco kicks him, hard. “Pub?”
“Fuck off.”
Draco aims a stinging hex right at the bruise on his neck, and Potter stumbles to his feet. He swings at Draco. Misses. Tries again.
That’s more like it.
“You shit. You’re such a shit!” Potter grabs his wand and aims it at Draco. His eyes flash green; his jaw sets. For one glorious moment, Draco thinks Potter is about to fling all that power in Draco’s direction. It sends an angry jolt of need straight to Draco’s core. But it fizzles. Potter heaves a sigh and slips his wand back in his sleeve.
“Potter.” Draco nods in the direction of the little shithole town, buzzing with something like anticipation. “Food. Pints.”
Potter follows him when he goes, kicking up bits of moss as they walk. Twice, he throws pebbles that zing just past Draco’s left ear. Each time, Draco’s stomach tightens, like he’s bracing for something. Except the something doesn’t come.
Potter’s sullen mood intensifies when they take their usual table at the pub. He scowls at Draco, and he orders three fingers of whisky. He doesn’t mention a single Weasley; only grunts when Draco asks him about Ginevra. Potter drinks until his eyes are glassy and unfocused. He loosens a bit, then.
When Potter finally responds on the topic of Quidditch, Draco coolly tells him that the seeker for the Cannons can’t fly, and he’s worried about her drooping eye. Potter broods and argues, and he’s nearly purple in the face by the time Draco comments that the beaters for the Harpies are both quite fit.
“Twins, you know,” Draco says. “Isla. And Gregory, isn’t it? I hear they’re fucking their way through the team. They’re not picky about gender.”
“Leave it, Malfoy. Ginny’s not–”
Draco steals a chip from Potter’s plate and dips it in his pint before simply dropping it on his empty plate. “Oh? Does she play for the Harpies? I forgot which team it was.”
Potter stares at the wet chip. “What the fuck?”
“Did she send you a letter this week? Her owl usually comes through on Tuesday evenings, doesn’t it?”
“Sod off.”
When Draco reaches for another chip, Potter smacks his hand away. But Draco’s fast, and he plucks another one off the plate, wets it, and drops it on the table.
“What the fuck is your problem? It’s like living with a Mandrake root out of soil.”
Draco grins; a wide, simmering slash of a smile he’s practised in the mirror since before he could read. Potter is locked in, his brows pulled down, eyes intense. One hand is balled into a fist. The veins on the back appear close to popping.
Draco picks up a beer-soaked chip, licks it, and tosses it at Potter’s face. It smacks him in the nose and falls, limp, onto Potter’s pile of uneaten chips. The look of shock–eyes wide, full lips parted–makes Potter look so utterly foolish that Draco laughs.
“You look like Ricky with your mouth hanging open like that,” Draco says.
“Who the shit is Ricky?”
“That horrible chinchilla.” Draco waves at the waitress. He’s smiling so hard that his whole body feels like it’s lit up, like he’s filled with the illegal Hungarian fireworks his father set off each summer before school. The feeling zips through him as he stands and flips Potter two fingers. He’s half-hard by the time he pushes open the door. He hopes Potter finds some randy barmaid to fuck tonight. Maybe that’ll put him in a more pleasant mood.
Draco takes out a cigarette and lights it. The moon is white and cold above, casting the darkened rows of businesses in blue-tinged, lunar light.
The door to the pub slams shut behind him, but Draco is already occupied with his nicotine rush and doesn’t turn. Draco jolts when someone catches his arm. He’s surprised when it’s Potter. He’s not sure why he’s surprised because Potter follows him everywhere, just never after a row like this. Potter has him shoved against the brick wall of the pub in a matter of moments.
“Gunning for a fight? I’m a worthwhile opponent.” Draco spreads his legs and bites his lip at the pulsing in his groin.
“Hex me,” Potter says. He cups Draco’s cheek and rubs his thumb over Draco’s bottom lip. It’s quick as a flash, and Potter’s thumb is gone. He’s stepped back from Draco, like they weren’t just flush with one another’s bodies. That’s when Potter smiles; not his ordinary blokey smile, but something altogether weirder.
“What?”
“Hex me again.” He gestures to the still-raised welt on his neck.
“This is a Muggle area, you lunatic. We can’t just go around firing off hexes. Besides, the Department of Mysteries will sack me if you come back covered in cuts and bruises.”
“I’ll heal them.” Potter is wild-eyed. He peels himself out of his jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Come on. Are you scared, you little shit? Should’ve known you’d be a coward–”
Draco throws up a Notice-Me-Not and aims a hex at the centre of Potter’s chest. Potter clutches his chest and laughs, stumbles just out of range, and runs. He’s fast for a musclebound bastard, but he’s shirtless now, and there’s plenty of surface area. Draco hits one out of every four times, covering Potter with stinging and bruising hexes. By the time they reach the inn, Potter has two black eyes, countless abrasions, and two cuts that bleed, attractively, down the centre of his furred torso.
He regards Draco with a half-smile. His eyes are eerily calm. When Draco breathes out, he can see his breath, but the zip-buzz of fireworks in his blood takes away the cold.
It’s not even a decision, really. He crowds Potter against the brick wall of the dank inn and kisses him. Potter is stunned, too stunned to kiss him back, but he groans when Draco bites down on his lip. Draco bites down hard enough that he tastes blood, then forces his tongue into Potter’s mouth to lick into the molten hot-centre of him. When Potter sucks his tongue and tentatively touches his waist, Draco presses his hard cock to Potter’s thigh and grinds against him.
Draco pulls back and rakes his nails, hard, along the wounds on Potter’s battered chest. “Have you ever had your cock sucked by a man?”
Potter shakes his head. His gaping mouth and wide eyes look less like Ricky this time and more like a cow on its way to slaughter.
Draco doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Potter could kill him, easy as breathing. Instead, Draco drops to his knees and unbuckles Potter’s belt. Undoes his flies. His cock is only half-hard when Draco takes it out, but Potter hisses when Draco swirls his tongue over the tip. It plumps up in Draco’s hand when he tongues the foreskin back, and licks beneath the head.
“Fuck,” Potter keeps saying. “Fucking Christ. Shit.”
When he’s at full mast, Draco swallows him to the root and groans. It’s sloppy and frantic, lacking the artistry he usually brings to bear on sex. Potter doesn’t seem to notice or care. Instead, he sobs pathetically, pumping his hips to get deeper. He groans and shakes when Draco gags and has to spit.
“I’m sorry, I–I didn’t mean to–”
Draco wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t fucking apologise. Just finish.” He opens his mouth again and makes muffled grunts as Potter fucks his face. Potter pulls his hair so hard he nearly comes in his pants, entirely untouched.
“Mmm, fuck. Oh, fuck.” Potter grabs Draco’s chin and wrenches his mouth open, his cock jerking and jerking against the roof of Draco’s mouth, filling it with hot, alkaline come.
Draco shoves down his trousers and grabs his cock. He can’t say anything since his mouth is still full of spunk, so he strokes himself instead. Potter looks debauched, marred with Draco’s hexes, his softening cock hanging out vulnerably with his jeans half-pulled down. He’s still wet with Draco’s spit.
“Fuck, Malfoy.” His voice wavers, his breath quickening as Draco wanks. “Oh, shit.”
Something about Potter’s panic makes Draco cock jerk. Pleasure coils like thread wrapping around a spool. It’s then that Potter does something entirely unexpected. Instead of hyperventilating or slapping Draco senseless, he cards his fingers through Draco’s hair. Draco whimpers, and his abdomen clenches almost painfully. He comes and keeps coming, splattering against the stone walkway. The sign above the door of the bed and breakfast flickers, the neon Lumos lighting up the semen-streaked stones.
He swallows Potter’s jizz and shivers and shivers, pleasure licking through him like Fiendfyre. Potter stares, mouth gaping, blood trickling from one eyebrow. He looks like a painting Draco could stare at for hours.
Draco does up his flies and stumbles inside, past the dusty counter and the shitting rodent, and up the stairs to his horrible room. He wards the room so he can’t be disturbed and downs a phial of Dreamless Sleep.
He sleeps until noon the next day and washes off the stink of whisky and sweat. When he masturbates, he imagines shoving his cock in Potter’s arse so hard he cries, then coming on his bruised and battered chest. His spunk hits the cracked grey tile and washes down the drain.
***
When Draco shows up at the site the next day, Potter is already there, taking measurements between the carefully stacked stone piles that sit in front of the larger, more monolithic rocks. The stone piles move one to two inches every day. Draco and Potter have been told not to question why that is.
Potter sighs moodily, growing louder and louder about his malcontent as the day wears on. When they stroll to the chippie by the seashore, Potter kicks pebbles around behind him. The food is mostly cold by the time they get back to the yew tree and the stones.
“Do you think the stones do anything? They must, mustn’t they?” Draco pops two chips in his mouth. They’re somehow both soggy and dry at the same time. “There’s some magical signature, of course. But it’s faint. Load of bollocks.”
“This isn’t anything,” Potter says, his tone curt. “It’s nothing.”
This, Draco feels, is not an appropriate response to his line of inquiry.
Potter’s eyes are on him. Draco continues eating his chips and staring ahead at the mounds of stones and the tall, jagged boulders that make up the henge-y circle that yields no sign of usefulness beyond its astonishing ability to incite Draco’s rage. He imagines licking one of his chips and sticking it on Potter’s face.
“You and me, I mean.” Potter Vanishes his lunch refuse with a flick of his fingers.
“Serious question, Potter.” Draco stands and brushes off his trousers. When he casts a Scourgify at his muddy shoes, they still look dull and lifeless, the ghost of the Welsh mud still upon them. “Why would you think I’m interested in you? I stooped so low because you were gagging for it, and I was bored.”
Potter blanches and stumbles through a half-arsed comeback— “You were the one who—you sucked my cock!” —as Draco goes about measuring the stones and the angles of their shadows compared to the position of the sun. They fall half a degree further to the east than they’re supposed to, which Draco notes in his log, ignoring Potter and the scorned puppy look on his idiotic face.
At the close of their shitty day, Potter follows him to the pub.
Draco is not at all surprised by the events that unfold after their meals arrive. He might as well have a doctorate in self-loathing bisexual men.
Potter tries to engage him in conversation about his beloved Weasleys over their passable cottage pie. He becomes churlish over Draco’s one-word response and trounces off to the bar, where he drinks an unhealthy amount of whisky for a man of his diminutive height. When Draco leaves, Potter stumbles after him and shouts— “You’re an utter prat, I don’t know why I let you suck me off!” —as Draco makes his way up the hill toward the flicker of the neon sign.
He ignores Potter all the way to the inn and ignores him harder when he climbs the lopsided, creaking stairs. When Draco opens the door to his room, Potter pushes in behind him, breathing down the back of his neck, lips brushing Draco’s ear. “You’re driving me insane.”
Hexes aren’t involved this time. Potter simply Vanishes Draco’s clothes and touches him all over, rough and possessive. When he bends Draco over the bed and says, “I don’t have any condoms,” Draco is even less surprised.
“I don’t care.” Draco’s back arches when an oiled finger slips between his arsecheeks.
“I want the lights on.” The sconces flicker to life without even the murmur of a spell. “I want to see you take it.”
More lube is smeared over his hole, so much it drips on the fraying rug below as Potter worries at his hole. He lets out a sob when Potter works a finger inside.
Potter nips and bites and sucks at Draco’s neck as he breaches Draco’s arse with a second finger. “You’re so small and tight here.”
Draco keens and tries to fuck himself on Potter’s fingers, tries to gain a little purchase, but Potter has him pinned. He attempts to lob an insult at Potter, but it comes out as a moan, broken and desperate.
“I’ve seen it in porn. It does stretch out after a little, doesn’t it.” Potter finger fucks him haphazardly—it’s rough, too rough, and Draco’s keening turns to a choked little cry when Potter rips away his fingers. Draco can hear Potter’s fly unzipping, the squelch of lube on his cock. “Doesn’t it?”
“Yes! It’ll stretch! Just—just fucking do it!”
Potter presses the head of his dick to Draco’s hole and sinks inside without further preamble. It takes several readjustments and a good deal more lube, but Potter finally bottoms out. He holds himself there, panting, kneading Draco’s arse so it clenches harder around his cock.
“You like taking it up the arse, don’t you?” Potter punctuates this with a hard thrust. “You like being fucked. Think about it all the time, don’t you?”
Draco grips the sheets, bites down on his arm. His cock bobs against the side of the mattress, and his body jolts when Potter slams into him.
“This is what you’re good for, hm?” Potter grunts as he fucks into Draco. His fingers slip to the place their bodies are joined, teasing at the tight little ring and slipping a finger in alongside his cock. “It’s so tight—oh fucking shit, Draco—”
Potter pistons his hips, fucks into him, hard and insistent. It’s far too much too quick; Draco hasn’t been fucked since before their doomed Welsh mission, and Potter overused lube in lieu of prepping him properly. Still, though, Draco feels lit up, glowing, like his spine is made of fire. His belly is a hard spool of tension, coiling tighter as Potter impales him, again and again, with that fucking gorgeous cock.
“Does–it–hurt?” Potter says this between thrusts and asks again when Draco doesn’t respond. He grips Draco’s hip so hard it feels like a bruise, like his blunt nails will draw blood.
“Y-es, hurts so good,” Draco manages. His eyes roll back in his head, and his back bows. His cock is full and leaking and resting flush against the mattress for every bump and jostle. “Harder. Harder.”
Potter fucks him hard enough that the bed rattles against the wall. He curses and groans and pumps faster, losing rhythm but keeping speed.
“That’s better,” Draco whispers, rolling his sweaty forehead against his hands. The burn bleeds into a heavy ache in Draco’s arse, and his cock pulses in time with Potter’s thrusts.
“Draco, oh, oh fuck.” Potter’s hips stutter, and he crams himself into Draco with a long, low moan.
“Fucking do it.”
Potter shudders and jerks. Draco can feel how full he is when Potter pulls out. It drips, over his arsecheek, and down the back of his leg. He pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the bed and takes his cock in hand. Beneath his arse, a wet sticky stain wicks into the bedsheets.
Potter looks horrified. “Merlin, Draco. Fuck. You make me so crazy and I—”
“Stop.” Draco grips his cock. “Put your mouth on it or get out.”
Tension crackles between them. Draco is certain Potter will leave. But, after a second, he drops to his knees and rests his head against Draco’s thigh.
“There’s a good boy,” Draco says and thrusts up so his cock head nudges Potter’s soft palate. “This is what you’re good for, Potter. The only thing good about you, isn’t it? You’re a whore.”
Potter whines around his cock and gazes up at him through smudged, crooked glasses.
“Look at you. Such a slut for it.” Draco takes a fistful of Potter’s stupid man bun and pulls. He thrusts one final time. Stars explode behind his eyelids, and he comes so hard it makes Potter gag.
Good, Draco thinks. Good that he’s marked up and swallowing Draco’s spunk. Good that he’s shaking so hard afterwards that he needs to be shushed and held and kissed. Good that he needs Draco. Draco is the only one who can save him tonight.
It’s late when they wake; grey light falls in from the grimy window. Potter doesn’t ask if he can fuck Draco again. He just does it, painfully slow this time, his lips locked with Draco’s, hands roaming his body like Draco is a precious thing, a thing he wants.
They drift to sleep again after a mediocre breakfast. Draco records fake measurements in his journal and holds Harry as they drift off again.