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Filing paperwork for hours made Draco’s eyes itchy and dry. Being an Auror was exciting and all but the grueling paperwork was bloody nasty. There was nothing more he’d like to do than to go home, have a hot cup of tea and read a book before going to bed. He looked up from his desk to his Auror partner who was drowning in double the amount of paperwork. Potter looked much more exhausted than Draco. At least he knew there was someone who hated paperwork more than him.
It’d been five years since they were assigned to be partners and with painstaking civility and the occasional fight, they managed to work together brilliantly. They became much more casual and even mingled in their respective friend circles. Draco couldn’t really imagine that Potter would ever want to work with him but the universe had its own surprises.
Feeling as if being watched, Potter looked up, his brilliant green eyes locking on Draco. He raised an eyebrow.
“Alright there?” Potter asked.
Draco sighed, rubbing at his dry eyes as he leaned back in his chair.
“As alright as it gets when you’re buried in this endless sea of forms,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of wry amusement. He gestured to the paperwork scattered across his desk, a chaotic mess of official documents and half-finished notes.
Potter, on the other side of the room, was nearly engulfed by a mountain of forms that seemed to double rather than shrink down with each passing hour. The sight of him, looking pale and more disheveled than usual, provided a grim sort of comfort for Draco. At least Potter looked worse off than he did.
Potter’s head lolled back momentarily, his green eyes shadowed and fatigued. When he finally looked up, his face was marked with the deep lines of exhaustion, and his voice came out as a strained attempt at levity.
“Well, it’s not quite as exhilarating as a duel with the Dark Lord, but it does have its own charm,” he said, his tone flat and lacking its usual spark.
Draco smirked despite himself, leaning forward to study his partner’s haggard expression. “Oh, I’m sure paperwork has its own brand of excitement,” he quipped. “The thrill of a missing signature and all.”
Potter gave a half-hearted laugh, but it quickly faded into a tired sigh.
“Yeah, and let’s not forget the endless cycle of revisions,” he said, rubbing at his temples as if trying to banish a persistent headache.
Draco raised an eyebrow, concerned but hiding it behind a veneer of casualness. “How many more of these blasted forms do you have left, Potter?”
Potter glanced at the heap before him, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the paperwork was more than just physical.
“Too many,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m not sure I’ll make it through without a bit of magic myself.”
They exchanged a brief, knowing glance, the sort that they had been sharing ever since they started to make this partnership work. The office was silent witness to their camaraderie, the only sounds the occasional rustling of parchment and the steady scratching of quills.
Potter finally straightened up, stretching his arms over his head with a tired groan. “You know,” he said, “if we ever get through this mountain of paperwork, we should celebrate. Maybe with something less tedious.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like what? A trip to the pub? A game of Wizard’s Chess?”
Potter’s eyes, though heavy with fatigue, lit up with a glimmer of interest. “Make it muggle and we can have both. And maybe even a bit of that dragon-blood ale you were raving about last week.”
Draco’s smirk widened into a genuine smile. “You’ve got a deal. Though, I’ll warn you, even muggle chess is not going to save you from defeat.”
“Bring it on,” Potter challenged, his eyes gleaming with competitive spirit.
With their agreement sealed, they returned to their respective piles of paperwork, their mood much lighter and the tiredness a bit bearable.
“Finally going to spend time with him. Hope to see his drunk face.”
But there was still something that had been bothering Draco. He peaked a look towards Potter when he wasn’t looking.
Lately, Draco had been hearing strange things whenever Potter was nearby.
***
Over the past few years, Draco had started noticing things about Potter—little changes that went beyond the obvious physical ones. As their partnership as Aurors carried on, Draco found himself watching Potter more closely than he probably should. He couldn’t deny that Potter had filled out over the years, his muscles more defined, his posture carrying a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before. And Merlin help him, but Draco couldn’t stop noticing the way those Auror robes clung to Potter’s shoulders or how his arms flexed with every precise movement during training.
It wasn’t exactly new. Draco had long accepted, privately and with a great deal of grumbling, that Potter was fit and he was—well—attracted to him. But lately, something felt… off. Different. Potter had been acting strange, at least whenever Draco was around.
It had all started a few weeks ago, on a Saturday night at the pub after a successful raid. The place had been packed, the air buzzing with warmth and laughter as their colleagues gathered around a table, swapping exaggerated stories and clinking glasses.
Potter had been in the middle of it all—grinning, flushed from a couple of butterbeers, hair even messier than usual. And then, out of nowhere, he’d turned to Draco with that grin still plastered across his face, green eyes bright and just a little too focused.
Draco had felt his stomach flip, and not because of the firewhisky he’d been nursing.
“Hey, can I fill your drink?” he asked, holding out his empty glass. He was close—too close—and Draco felt his pulse stutter, a flush creeping up his neck despite his best efforts to stay composed.
Draco quickly looked away, fixing his gaze on anything but Potter’s face.
“No,” he muttered, his voice tight, clipped. He couldn’t risk meeting those green eyes—not when his thoughts were running wild, not when the space between them felt so suffocatingly small.
But then he heard it—a voice, low and rough, curling into his ear like smoke. The words slithered straight into his chest, bypassing his rational mind entirely.
“Maybe I should fill you up.”
The whisper was dark, suggestive, and undeniably familiar. Potter’s voice. Draco’s breath hitched, his spine going rigid as a shiver shot through him.
His head snapped back toward Potter, eyes wide and searching. “What did you just say?”
Potter blinked at him, clearly caught off guard. “What?”
“Did you—” Draco hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry. “Did you say something just now?”
Potter’s brows drew together in confusion, his expression earnest and—worse—completely clueless. “No… I didn’t say anything.”
For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the hum of the pub fading into distant background noise. Potter looked genuinely perplexed, and Draco felt his stomach twist.
In the dim glow of the pub, surrounded by the cheerful roar of laughter and clinking glasses, Draco couldn’t ignore the strange, electric tension simmering between them. The memory of that night lingered, sharp and intrusive, leaving him questioning not just the whispers but his own sanity.
Perhaps he’d been spending too much time with Potter. Maybe Pansy was right—he should just accept that blind date she kept banging on about.
But the thing was, Draco couldn’t shake the memory. The whisper haunted him, curling around his thoughts when he least expected it. And it didn’t stop there. Over the following weeks, it happened again. And again. Each time, the voice grew more intimate, more insistent—until Draco couldn’t tell if it was Potter driving him mad or his own imagination.
One afternoon, they were at the Ministry, wading through a mountain of tedious paperwork. The office was quiet, save for the soft scratch of quills and the faint rustle of parchment. Potter sat across from him, brow furrowed as he pored over the case file, utterly focused.
Draco, however, wasn’t focused at all. His eyes kept flicking upwards, stealing glances at Potter, taking in the way his hair fell messily over his forehead, the way his lips pressed into a line when he was thinking.
And then, he heard it again.
“You drive me crazy.”
The voice was low, edged with raw, unfiltered longing, and it sent a jolt straight through Draco’s chest. His quill stilled mid-word, suspended in the air as he froze, eyes widening slightly.
“Did you… did you say something, Potter?” Draco asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.
Potter’s head snapped up, brows knitting together in confusion. “What? No. Why?”
Draco stared at him for a beat too long before shaking his head, forcing a tight smile. “No reason,” he muttered, dropping his gaze back to his parchment.
But his hand trembled slightly as he picked up his quill, and the whisper lingered—warm, intimate, and impossible to ignore.
A few days later, they were on a stakeout, tucked into the shadows of a narrow alleyway. The night hung heavy around them, the air thick with anticipation and the faint tang of damp stone. They were waiting for a suspected dark wizard to make his move, and every creak of a distant door or flicker of movement kept them on edge.
Draco leaned against the cool brick wall, arms crossed, his sharp eyes sweeping the quiet street. Beside him, Potter stood close—too close—so close that Draco could feel the faint warmth radiating from his body despite the chill in the air.
It was in that fragile silence that Draco heard it again.
“I could bury my nose in that hair.”
His breath caught, sharp and sudden, and his head whipped around to stare at Potter. The words were still echoing in his mind, far too clear, far too real.
“Potter,” he said, voice low and tight. “Did you…did you hear that?”
Potter blinked at him, brows furrowing. “Hear what?”
Draco hesitated, searching Potter’s face for any hint of recognition, any sign that he’d heard it too. But there was nothing—just Potter’s usual baffled expression.
“Nothing,” Draco muttered, turning back to face the street, his heart hammering in his chest.
But it didn’t stop there.
The next morning, they were in the Auror gym, sweat-soaked and breathless as they worked their bodies to exhaustion. The air was filled with the rhythmic clang of weights, the dull thud of feet against training mats, and the occasional grunt of exertion. Draco was halfway through a set of weights when it happened again.
"He should be banned for looking so fit."
His grip faltered, and the weights nearly slipped from his hands. His head shot up, his gaze immediately zeroing in on Potter across the gym. Potter was mid-push-up, face tight with concentration, arms trembling slightly with effort. He hadn’t looked up, hadn’t said a word.
Draco shook his head and forced himself to focus, but the whisper lingered, curling around his mind like smoke. And when the fleeting thought of Potter thinking someone else was fit crossed his mind, a sharp, unfamiliar irritation twisted in his chest.
Later that day, during dueling practice, the tension finally snapped.
They stood facing each other in the sparring ring, wands drawn, circling like predators sizing up their prey. Potter’s emerald eyes were locked onto Draco’s, sharp and unyielding, his lips set in a determined line.
Draco’s heart was pounding—not just from exertion, but from something else, something clawing its way up from deep inside him.
And then, just as he raised his wand to strike, it came again—low, urgent, and impossibly close.
"I could just kiss him."
Draco froze. His concentration shattered like glass, and Potter’s Stupefy hit him square in the chest. The world tilted, and Draco went sprawling onto the mat, the breath knocked clean out of him.
“Draco!”
Potter was at his side in seconds, crouching down and grabbing Draco’s arm to help him sit up. His face was tight with concern, green eyes scanning Draco’s for any sign of injury.
“Are you alright?” Potter asked, his voice soft but firm.
Draco allowed Potter to pull him upright, his fingers trembling slightly against Potter’s steady grip.
“Yeah,” Draco said quickly, brushing himself off as he stepped back, trying to create some distance. His voice sounded sharp, brittle, even to his own ears. “I just… lost focus for a moment.”
Potter frowned, his eyes lingering on Draco’s face like he wanted to say something more. But after a tense beat, he simply nodded and stepped back.
Draco turned away, his breath still uneven, his heart still racing. His mind was a mess—a swirling tangle of whispers and green eyes and things he couldn’t, wouldn’t let himself think about.
But the words lingered, haunting him long after they’d left the training room.
***
“Potter, you’re absolutely rubbish at this—and it’s just Muggle chess,” Draco drawled, snapping Potter’s king off the board for the fifth time that evening.
Potter sighed, sinking lower into his chair and taking a long sip of his butterbeer. “I thought I was improving by practising with Ron.”
After hours spent buried under mountains of paperwork, Draco had finally dragged Potter away from his desk, insisting they’d both lose their minds if they didn’t stop for the night.
Draco leaned back, arms folded over his chest, a smug smirk curling his lips. “Clearly, Weasley’s as hopeless a teacher as you are a student. Remind me again—how exactly did you manage to save the wizarding world?”
Potter set down his butterbeer with an exaggerated clink. “It didn’t involve chess, did it?”
Draco’s smirk widened, his pale grey eyes glinting in the firelight. “Funny, I recall Weasley mentioning something about chess being involved in your first year. Good thing he was there, otherwise we’d all be hissing greetings to each other in Parseltongue by now.”
Potter’s mouth twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. He glanced down at the battered chessboard and then back at Draco. “You know, you could at least pretend to let me win once.”
“Potter,” Draco said smoothly, tilting his head to the side, “if I ever let you win, it would be a grave insult to both of us. Besides, watching you flounder is far too entertaining.”
“I don’t know why I agreed to this.” Potter groaned, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair, making it stick up even more.
Draco’s gaze lingered on him for a moment—on the way Potter’s shoulders had slumped, on the faint shadows under his eyes. The sharp edge of his teasing softened just slightly. “Because, despite your obvious lack of skill, you enjoy the company.”
Potter looked up sharply, his green eyes locking onto Draco’s. Something flickered in them—something quiet and almost… vulnerable.
“Yeah,” Potter said softly. “I suppose I do.”
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled in the hearth, painting flickering shadows across Draco’s sharp cheekbones and Potter’s tired face. The warmth of the room settled between them, heavy and still.
Draco cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he gestured to the chessboard. “Another round, then? Or shall we preserve what little dignity you have left?”
Potter snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile as he reached for his butterbeer again. “Go on, set it up. Sixth time’s the charm, right?”
Draco rolled his eyes, but his fingers moved deftly over the chess pieces, resetting the board. The corner of his mouth twitched upward in what might have been a smile—small, fleeting, but genuine.
“I love that smile.”
The whisper came so softly, curling through Draco’s mind like smoke. Draco’s hand froze mid-air, the black knight suspended just above the board. Harry’s voice had been too clear, slicing cleanly through the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the crackling fire. It lodged itself somewhere deep in Draco’s chest, stubborn and unyielding.
He glanced up sharply, and sure enough, Potter was staring at him, brows drawn together, lips parted like he was about to speak again but thought better of it.
“You said something?” Draco asked, his voice carefully even, casual—too casual.
Potter blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “You’ve been asking me that a lot lately. Maybe you should get your ears checked.”
Something twisted low in Draco’s stomach, sharp and cold, but he dropped his gaze back to the knight in his hand. He focused on its carved edges, his fingers trembling slightly as he finally placed it on the board.
“Maybe you’ve been muttering more than you realise, Potter,” Draco said lightly, but the sharp edge in his voice gave him away.
Potter tilted his head, green eyes searching. “You alright?”
Draco let out a sharp, brittle laugh. “Perfectly fine. Your atrocious chess skills just make me question reality sometimes.”
Potter’s mouth twitched into an almost-smile, but his gaze lingered, still searching, still too steady. Draco felt it pressing against him, digging under his skin, exposing things he couldn’t bear to let see the light.
“Your move, Potter,” Draco said abruptly, leaning back into his chair and turning his gaze toward the fire.
There was a beat of hesitation before Potter turned back to the board, muttering something under his breath as he nudged a pawn forward. Draco caught the faintest edge of the words, just enough to make him doubt himself.
“Why do you always look away?”
Draco’s fingers clenched around the edge of the table, the sharp wood biting into his palms. He said nothing. The fire crackled, glasses clinked, and laughter bubbled somewhere in the background. The haze of smoke in the air suddenly felt suffocating.
He stared down at the chessboard, but the pieces blurred together in his vision. Why do you always look away? Harry’s voice echoed in his head, soft and uncertain, like something fragile that had slipped out before it could be caught.
He wanted to scream, to snarl back because if I don’t, Potter, I’ll do something stupid. Something reckless. Something that’ll end up in the Prophet and ruin everything.
“So,” Potter said, breaking the silence, his voice deliberately light but tight around the edges. “Are you going to move, or are we going to sit here until we grow old?”
Draco forced a smirk, though it felt brittle on his lips, hollow around the edges. “Impatient and dreadful at chess. How do you manage it all, Potter?”
Potter huffed a laugh and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. His jumper rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of tanned skin above the waistband of his trousers. Draco’s gaze flickered there for a split second before he forced his eyes back to the board, his stomach twisting painfully.
“Some of us have talents in other areas,” Potter said, his voice light but edged with something Draco couldn’t quite place.
Draco’s fingers tapped restlessly against the rim of his butterbeer mug. The fire felt too hot now, the air too thick, the space between them suddenly impossibly small.
“Careful, Potter,” Draco said, forcing his voice into a drawl. “You’ll make me think you’re flirting.”
The words hung suspended in the air, sharp and dangerous, crackling with something Draco couldn’t name. It was too late to take them back now.
Potter froze. It was brief—half a second, a fraction of a breath—but it was enough. His lips parted slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was low, almost uncertain.
“Would that be such a terrible thing?”
Draco’s head snapped up, and their eyes met across the narrow wooden table. Potter was watching him, steady and unflinching, his green eyes impossibly open, impossibly vulnerable.
Draco swallowed thickly. His heart was hammering so loudly in his chest he was sure Potter could hear it.
“Potter…” he started, but the word barely came out, fragile and quiet, slipping between them and falling away into the heavy silence.
A loud crash shattered the moment—a glass breaking somewhere near the bar, followed by raucous laughter. The noise jolted them both, and Potter blinked, his gaze breaking away as his expression slid back into something neutral, something closed off.
“Never mind,” he said with a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Your move, Malfoy.”
Draco stared at him for a long moment before looking back at the board. His fingers hovered over a rook before he made his move with a sharp flick, knocking over one of Potter’s pawns.
“Check,” he said flatly.
Harry smiled faintly, but Draco couldn’t meet his eyes again.
The fire crackled, the pub buzzed with warm conversation and clinking glasses, and yet the silence between them felt vast despite the narrow wooden table.
***
As the days blurred into weeks, the whispers became an ever-present shadow in Draco’s life. They crept into quiet moments, soft and insistent, tugging at the edges of his mind.
“I want to hold you.”
“Don’t walk away.”
“I need you.”
But Potter? Potter was the same—or maybe even more distant. Since that night at the pub, something had shifted. He avoided Draco’s gaze, kept their conversations clipped and businesslike, and seemed to have erected an invisible wall between them.
And yet, the whispers lingered, carving themselves into Draco’s thoughts and leaving him restless, distracted. They weren’t just fleeting words—they carried weight, an intimacy that felt like it belonged to something private, something fragile.
But Potter carried on, oblivious, moving through their shared space at the Ministry with his usual blend of determination and weary good humour. He didn’t seem to notice the way Draco’s breath caught when their shoulders brushed in passing, or how the silence between them felt heavier now, filled with things unsaid.
The more Draco heard the whispers, the harder it became to ignore the slow, creeping pull in his chest whenever he looked at Potter. It wasn’t just the sharp way Potter moved during training, every step controlled and deliberate. It wasn’t just the sharp wit of their banter or the rare, fleeting softness in Potter’s voice during late-night conversations. It was all of it—Potter, in his entirety.
But the whispers—those were something else entirely. They didn’t feel like daydreams or fleeting fantasies. They felt real. They felt like pieces of Potter reaching out to him, whether consciously or not.
The whispers followed Draco home, curling around him in the quiet of his flat. They tangled with his thoughts as he sat at his desk at the Ministry, ink smearing beneath his fingers as he stared blankly at case files.
“I miss you.”
“Why won’t you look at me?”
“Please, Draco.”
Draco pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, as though he could physically shove the words away. They weren’t his—they couldn’t be. But Merlin, they sounded like Potter, every syllable dripping with that rough warmth that was uniquely his.
And Potter—Harry—was avoiding him. Draco was sure of it now. At the Ministry, Harry always seemed to be hurrying somewhere when Draco passed him in the corridors. Their chess games at the pub had quietly stopped without either of them acknowledging it. When their paths did cross, Harry’s smiles were thin and fleeting, and his green eyes never lingered long enough to meet Draco’s properly.
Draco told himself he was imagining things. He had to be. But the whispers wouldn’t let him believe that. They clung to him, haunted him, until he found himself flinching whenever he caught a glimpse of Harry’s untidy hair in a crowd or heard his voice from across the room.
The distance between them wasn’t vast, not physically. But it felt impossible to cross. And every whisper only made the ache in Draco’s chest grow sharper.
It all came to a head late one afternoon at the Ministry. Draco was gathering his papers in the dim, stale air of an empty conference room when the door creaked open behind him.
“Malfoy.”
The voice froze him mid-motion. Potter.
Draco forced his expression into something cool, neutral, before turning around. Harry was leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight. His face was hard to read—something guarded behind those green eyes.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Draco said, his voice cutting sharper than he’d intended.
Harry flinched, a flicker of something vulnerable crossing his face before he smothered it. “I’ve been… busy.”
“Right.” Draco let the stack of papers fall back onto the table with a dull thud. “Busy. How convenient.”
Harry sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking up to meet Draco’s for a fleeting second before darting away again.
“Is there something you wanted, Potter? Or did you just stop by to remind me how very busy you’ve been?” Draco’s voice cracked slightly on the last word, but he covered it quickly with a sneer.
Harry hesitated, mouth opening and closing once before he spoke. “I—no. Never mind. Forget it.”
He turned, as though to leave, but Draco’s voice sliced through the silence like a blade.
“Don’t you dare.”
Harry froze mid-step, his shoulders going rigid.
Draco’s breath felt tight in his chest, every beat of his heart thudding painfully in his ears. “You came here for a reason, Potter. So say it.”
For a long, unbearable moment, Harry said nothing. The faint ticking of the clock on the wall filled the silence, each second dragging out into eternity.
Finally, Harry turned back, his eyes locking onto Draco’s with an intensity that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.
“Draco, I—”
But before Harry could finish, Draco heard it again. Clear. Raw. Almost fragile.
“I’m scared of losing you.”
The words slammed into Draco like a physical force. His breath stuttered, his grip tightening on the edge of the table to keep himself upright.
Harry was still looking at him, brows drawn together in faint confusion, as if he hadn’t said anything at all.
And maybe he hadn’t.
Maybe it was just the whispers again—those maddening fragments of Potter’s voice that curled around Draco’s mind and refused to let go. Words Draco wanted—needed—to hear, but never would.
Draco turned away abruptly, his hands fumbling with the scattered papers. “Forget it, Potter. Just—just go.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, stretching on and on until the soft click of the door closing echoed through the empty room.
Draco let out a long, shaky breath, his hands trembling against the polished surface of the table.
But the whispers were still there, louder now, filling the hollow space Harry had left behind.
“Didn’t want to walk away from you, Draco.”
Draco closed his eyes, pressing his fingertips hard against his temples as though he could force the words out, chase them back into whatever corner of his mind they’d crept from.
“This is madness,” he muttered.
But was it? Was it madness, or something else entirely?
And if it was something else, how much longer could he pretend it wasn’t tearing him apart?
***
Draco snapped out of his daze as he finished signing the last of his paperwork. Across the shared desk, Potter was hunched over his own stack of files, his brow furrowed in concentration. Draco’s gaze lingered a moment too long on the way Potter’s fingers skimmed the edges of the parchment—slow, careful, oddly gentle.
It was such a small, meaningless gesture, yet it sent a sharp thrill through Draco’s chest. His mind, traitorous and far too eager, supplied an image of those fingers being put to far better use.
His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch, and Draco tore his eyes away, focusing instead on the inkwell by his hand.
Merlin, Draco, get a hold of yourself, he thought viciously.
It wasn’t just camaraderie. It wasn’t even respect. It was something else—something deeper, something far more dangerous. And no matter how hard he tried to shove it aside, it refused to leave him in peace. The weight of it sat heavy in his chest, thrumming like a second heartbeat beneath his ribs.
But no one noticed—not Potter, not anyone else in the Auror Office. Draco’s carefully neutral expression was his shield, his armour. His sharp tongue kept others at bay, and his perfectly straight posture gave no clue to the storm brewing inside him.
I’m losing my mind, He thought grimly. That’s the only explanation.
And yet, as the hours crawled by and the golden light of afternoon faded into dusky shadows, Draco’s gaze kept drifting back to Potter. It wasn’t just attraction—it was an ache. A quiet, persistent ache that curled around his ribs and refused to let go.
He’d spent years rebuilding himself, smoothing out the jagged edges of his past, piecing himself back together into someone whole, someone better. But this—this silent, relentless ache—felt like it had always been there, lying in wait.
But it wasn’t only the growing awareness of his own feelings that plagued him. It was the whispers.
Soft. Intimate. Relentless.
They were Potter’s voice—so achingly familiar, so unmistakably him—but they couldn’t be real. Draco had tried to dismiss them, tried to convince himself they were nothing more than figments of his tired mind.
“He looks so beautiful, lost in concentration.”
Draco froze mid-ink stroke when he’d heard it, his quill trembling in his fingers. He’d glanced up sharply, only to find Potter scribbling away on his parchment, utterly oblivious.
“I wonder what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair...”
The whispers came when Potter was close—always when he was close. They slipped into the quiet moments—when Potter’s sleeve brushed against his arm, when their knees bumped beneath the table, when Draco caught a fleeting smile sent his way.
“Draco, I bet he tastes even better than he looks.”
Draco had knocked over an entire stack of files when he’d heard that one, his face flushed scarlet as he scrambled to gather the papers. Potter had glanced at him, confused, but said nothing.
Draco had laughed it off, muttering something about clumsiness, but his hands had been trembling, and the whispers—Potter’s whispers—had stayed, curling around his thoughts, wrapping tighter and tighter until Draco could barely breathe.
No matter how much Draco focused on his work, how fiercely he tried to shut the whispers out, they wouldn’t stop. They invaded his nights too, Potter’s voice curling into his dreams, smooth and low, saying things Draco couldn’t even bear to repeat to himself in daylight.
“I wonder how tight you’d feel wrapped around me, how perfectly we’d fit together...”
Draco would wake up tangled in sweat-damp sheets, his chest heaving and his skin flushed, guilt simmering low in his gut. He knew these thoughts were wrong, that he should be disgusted by Potter’s unwanted advances. But a traitorous part of him couldn’t help but be flattered, excited even, by the intensity of Potter’s desire.
After those dreams, when he was alone with his thoughts, Draco would find himself imagining what it might be like to give in to the whispers, to surrender to Potter’s desires. He would touch himself, his mind filled with images of Potter’s hands on his body, his lips against his skin.
“Harry,” Draco would breathe, his voice rough with need as he stroked himself. “Please...”
And Potter’s voice would come, a seductive purr that made Draco's entire body shudder. “That’s it, Draco. Give in to me. Let me show you pleasure like you’ve never known.”
Draco’s hand would move faster, his hips arching off the bed as he chased his release. In his mind, it was Potter’s hands on him, Potter’s mouth, Potter’s body moving against his.
“Yes,” Draco would gasp, his climax crashing over him like a wave. “Potter, yes...”
And then the guilt would follow, sharp and cold, seeping into his skin like icy water. Shame always came after—familiar, relentless, curling through his chest like smoke. What was he doing, fantasizing about his Auror partner of all people?
This isn’t real. It’s not real, he’d tell himself over and over again, clutching at his pillow like it might anchor him back to reality.
Because Potter wasn’t like that. He didn’t look at Draco like that. If anything, he’d been avoiding Draco—keeping their conversations clipped and professional, their interactions brief. There were no sly glances, no flirtatious words. Nothing to suggest Harry Potter wanted anything from Draco Malfoy other than his signature on case files.
But the time at the pub… Draco would rule it out for a moment of the drinks talking.
And yet… the whispers said otherwise.
Draco rubbed at his temples, his quill abandoned on the desk. Across from him, Potter stood and stretched, his shirt pulling tight across his shoulders before he shrugged on his Auror robes.
“Heading out early, Potter?” Draco asked, his voice steadier than he felt.
Harry gave him a brief smile—small, distant, polite. “Yeah. Long day. See you tomorrow, Malfoy.”
Draco nodded stiffly, his expression carefully blank as Harry turned and walked towards the door.
“Don’t look at me like that, Draco. You’ll make me want to stay.”
Draco let out a sharp breath, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the desk as if it might keep him upright.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Draco alone in the dim office.
It’s all in my head, he reminded himself desperately. Just my bloody imagination.
But even as he told himself that, the whispers lingered in the silence, filling the empty spaces Potter had left behind.
***
The whispers weren’t fading. If anything, they were getting louder, more persistent, more real. Draco had tried every logical explanation he could think of—stress, exhaustion, some cursed object he might’ve unknowingly handled during a case. But none of those answers fit. Nothing explained how the voice—Potter’s voice—felt so vivid, so alive inside his head.
And Potter… Potter remained distant. Cordial, professional, but with a strange hesitance whenever they were alone. As if he could feel it too, whatever this was.
Draco wasn’t an idiot. He knew he couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t happening. So, he did the only thing he could think of—he went to the Department of Mysteries.
The Unspeakables didn’t usually take visitors lightly, but Draco still had enough sway, enough of his family name, and enough carefully crafted polite threats to secure himself an appointment.
The Unspeakable in question was a Witch named Cassiel Byrne—a sharp, birdlike woman with ink-stained fingers and keen eyes behind her round glasses. She was unsettling in that typical Unspeakable way, her stare like she was peeling back layers of Draco’s mind with a glance.
“What exactly is it you’re experiencing, Mr. Malfoy?” she asked as they sat in her dimly lit office, the walls lined with symbols that seemed to shift and shimmer when Draco looked too closely.
Draco hesitated. Saying it aloud felt impossible, like carving himself open with dull glass. But he forced the words out, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair.
“It’s… a voice,” he said carefully. “Not just any voice. His voice. Harry Potter.”
Cassiel’s thin lips twitched as though she wanted to smirk but refrained. “And what does the voice say?”
Draco swallowed, his throat tight. “Things he wouldn’t say. Things he shouldn’t say. Intimate things. Private things.”
Cassiel tilted her head, her glasses catching the faint glow of the runes lining the room. “Has Mr. Potter displayed any knowledge of these whispers? Responded in ways that suggest he might be aware of them?”
Draco shook his head. “No. If anything, he’s been avoiding me.”
Cassiel hummed thoughtfully, rising from her chair and gliding across the room to a towering cabinet filled with crystal vials and tightly rolled parchment scrolls. Her fingers ghosted over the glass before she plucked one vial with deliberate care, holding it up to the light. A faint glow pulsed within the liquid inside as she brought it back to her desk.
“Magical bonds can form in countless ways, Mr. Malfoy,” she began, her voice cool and measured. “Through spells, accidents, or emotions so intense they leave a mark on the soul. What you’re describing sounds remarkably like an Echo Imprint.”
Draco frowned. “An imprint?”
“Yes.” Cassiel’s sharp eyes fixed on him behind her round glasses. “Sometimes, when two wizards experience an intense emotional connection—whether positive or negative—a residue of their magic and intent can… linger. It’s rare, but not unheard of. These imprints can manifest as whispers, as feelings, sometimes even as hallucinations.”
Draco’s stomach turned uneasily. “So… what? Did Potter accidentally imprint on me somehow?”
Cassiel raised an eyebrow. “It’s rarely accidental, Mr. Malfoy. Imprints require powerful emotions to take root—grief, anger, love.”
Draco froze, every muscle in his body locking tight.
Love.
“Sometimes, an intense magical force can trigger the dormant connection to surface,” she continued, seemingly unbothered by the way Draco’s face had gone pale. “It could be anything from a powerful magical source or an object similar to it.”
Draco’s mind spun. Had there been something recent like that? Now that he thought about it, there was the time, they both had come across a strong magical artefact during a raid.
They’d both touched it, against every ounce of his better judgment.
He exhaled shakily. “Is there… a way to stop it?”
Cassiel studied him for a long moment, her gaze sharp and knowing. “You can sever the connection, yes. But it would require confronting the source of the imprint. Understanding why it was created in the first place. And most importantly… both parties need to be willing to let it go. The bond would most likely still remain but the whispers should stop.”
Draco swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. “And if they’re not confronted?”
The faintest smile tugged at Cassiel’s lips, sharp as glass. “Then, Mr. Malfoy, the whispers will never stop.”
The words hit Draco like a physical blow, and he had to force himself to keep breathing.
Cassiel continued, her voice softer now. “You have a choice to make. You can confront Mr. Potter and seek the truth… or you can continue running from it. But make no mistake—this isn’t something you can simply ignore. The magic is too deeply entwined now.”
Draco’s voice was low, almost hesitant. “Can Potter also hear my desires?”
Cassiel’s piercing gaze flickered with something—pity, perhaps—but her answer was steady. “It’s possible. But imprints like this are rarely two-way. Unless he’s equally… emotionally invested in the bond, he won’t hear your thoughts directly. It maybe that he is not essentially aware of the possibility that you might have those emotions. If he does, though, if he’s aware… then yes. He might hear.”
Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “So, if I’m thinking about something... intimate... he could hear it?”
Cassiel inclined her head slightly. “Not in every instance. It’s not as if he’s privy to your every thought. But strong emotions, desires—those can ripple across the bond. It’s like a thread pulled taut; vibrations travel both ways. But again, it’s unpredictable. There’s just as much chance it’s entirely one-sided, Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco’s mind raced, the image of Potter’s unreadable expressions during their encounters flashing through his mind. Had he been hearing his thoughts? All the unspoken things Draco had tried to bury?
He slouched back in his chair, the tension leaving his body. “So it’s a possibility that it’s all just in my head?”
“Essentially,” Cassiel replied with a small nod, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not significant. The connection exists, whether or not he’s aware of it.”
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His head was spinning, his pulse loud in his ears.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, his voice tight.
Cassiel nodded once, a flicker of sympathy passing over her sharp features before she turned back to her cabinet of mysterious artefacts.
Draco stumbled out of the Department of Mysteries and into the cold, sterile halls of the Ministry. The fluorescent light above felt too bright, the distant hum of conversation too loud.
An Echo Imprint.
The whispers were real. They were Potter. And they were born from something raw and powerful enough to leave an imprint on Draco’s very soul.
But if Draco wanted answers, if he wanted peace, he’d have to do the one thing he’d been avoiding for weeks.
He’d have to confront Harry Potter.
***
The Ministry’s grand atrium had been transformed into a winter wonderland for the annual Christmas celebration. Glittering garlands of enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily from the vaulted ceiling, shimmering as they caught the warm glow of floating candles. The air buzzed with the hum of conversation, laughter, and the occasional burst of magic as guests showed off festive charms.
Draco stood at the edge of the crowded room, a glass of wine held delicately between his fingers. His tailored black suit, accented with subtle hints of emerald green, was perfectly cut and immaculate—though he’d already begun to feel the weight of the evening settling on his shoulders.
It was, by all accounts, a stunning display. A proper spectacle, one designed to dazzle. But Draco’s attention was firmly fixed elsewhere.
Potter.
Across the room, Harry stood in conversation with a cluster of colleagues, his dress robes somehow managing to look both haphazard and effortlessly charming. His tie was slightly loose, hanging at a crooked angle, and his hair was—as always—an untamed mess. But it was his laugh that caught Draco off guard every time. Bright and unguarded, it cut through the crowd with an ease that left Draco rooted in place.
He tried—Merlin, he tried—to focus on polite conversation, to nod and offer the appropriate smiles and remarks to whoever had approached him. But every time his guard slipped, his gaze was dragged back across the room, back to him. Draco’s heart clenched at the sight of him, at the way Potter moved through the crowd, so utterly unaware of how magnetic he was.
It was infuriating. Potter wasn’t doing anything particularly remarkable tonight—no grand gestures, no extraordinary charm beyond his usual—but something about him was different. Or perhaps it wasn’t Potter who had changed at all. Perhaps it was Draco.
Either way, he couldn’t look away. And that, more than anything, left him utterly undone.
“Malfoy,” came a sharp voice at his side, snapping him out of his reverie. It was Granger, who was holding a mug of something steaming, her brows raised in that insufferably knowing way of hers. “You’ve been staring. Quite blatantly, I might add.”
Draco scowled, raising his glass to his lips to mask his discomfort. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Granger.”
Her knowing look said otherwise, but thankfully, she didn’t press the matter, disappearing into the crowd.
It didn’t matter, though. The damage was done. Draco’s already frayed composure teetered as he tried to rein himself in. But his resolve faltered again when Potter turned, his eyes scanning the room before landing on Draco. Their eyes met across the crowd, emerald locking onto grey, and Potter smiled—a warm, open smile that hit Draco square in the chest. He lifted his glass in a casual toast, utterly unaware of the effect he had.
Draco’s breath hitched. He nodded back, heart pounding as though he’d been caught red-handed.
Several glasses of Phoenix Fizz later, Draco decided it was time to leave. Or at least, he tried to leave. His exit was abruptly stalled when he stepped beneath a particularly cursed patch of enchanted mistletoe.
“Well, this is awkward,” came a familiar voice from behind him.
Draco turned slowly, already bracing himself. Potter stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, head tilted slightly as he glanced at the offending mistletoe.
“Ministry mischief-makers strike again, I see,” Potter said with a lopsided grin.
Draco’s throat felt dry, his usual sharp wit failing him.
“It would appear so,” Draco managed, his voice steady despite the rapid thudding of his pulse.
Potter tilted his head, examining the enchanted mistletoe with an amused smirk. “You know, rumor has it there’s a spell on these things. If you don’t play along, they’ll follow you around, popping up above your head at the worst possible moments. Could last for days—weeks, even.”
Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re making that up.”
Potter shrugged, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise. He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking to an almost unbearable degree. “I might be. But are you really willing to risk it?”
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue as Potter leaned in slightly, his expression softening. The teasing edge in his voice faded.
“If you want,” Potter murmured, his voice low, “I could... I don’t know... get someone else to help you out of this.”
Draco’s heart thudded painfully against his ribcage. Potter’s face was mere inches from his own now, his eyes filled with an odd mix of uncertainty and something else—something deeper that Draco couldn’t quite name.
The rational part of Draco’s mind screamed at him to nod, to wave Potter off, let him fetch some poor fool to play hero. But the rest of him—the part that had spent restless nights thinking of Potter, the part that had felt the jolt of something sharp and electric earlier when their eyes had met across the room—couldn’t bring itself to look away.
They needed to talk, needed to confront everything, but at this moment, Draco couldn’t think straight. All he could feel was the heat of Potter’s presence, the hum of something electric between them that seemed impossible to ignore.
“I think...” Draco began, his voice faltering. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet Potter’s gaze. “I think we can handle this ourselves.”
Potter blinked, clearly caught off guard. For a moment, he said nothing, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin, as if he had expected everything except that response. “Alright, then.”
He stepped even closer, his gaze flicking up to the mistletoe before settling back on Draco. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop. The noise of the gala, the glittering lights, the soft murmur of laughter—all of it melted away until there was only this: the two of them, standing beneath the enchanted mistletoe, the world holding its breath.
Potter hesitated, his face so close now that Draco could see the faint scar just above his upper lip, the way his breath ghosted softly in the space between them. It was as if Harry was giving him one last chance to pull away. But Draco didn’t move. He couldn’t.
When their lips met, it was soft at first—tentative, fleeting—but the intensity behind it made Draco’s chest tighten and his pulse race. Potter’s lips were warm, his touch uncertain but lingering, as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to pull away. He could feel Potter’s hand brushing against his side, then pulling him in, the kiss deepening, the heat between them growing.
It lasted longer than it should have—longer than Draco expected—but eventually, they pulled apart, both breathing heavily, their faces inches away. Potter’s lips were flushed, his hair messier than usual, and his wide green eyes were fixed on Draco as if he was the only one in the whole world.
He looked at Draco as though the kiss had been inevitable, something that had always been meant to happen.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Potter gave a breathless laugh, his hand running awkwardly through his hair. “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Draco swallowed the lump in his throat, managing a faint smirk. “No worse than being hexed by a rogue curse in the field.”
If curses could make you feel like that.
Harry chuckled at that, the sound soft and warm in a way that made something twist in Draco’s chest. “Good to know where I stand, Malfoy.”
But then Harry’s smile faltered. His expression shifted, his face paling slightly as his shoulders tensed. His hands trembled as he took an abrupt step back, eyes darting briefly to Draco before looking away again.
“I... I can’t, Draco,” Harry muttered, his voice strained. “I can’t do this.”
Draco’s chest tightened, but something sharper, more frustrating, surged within him. This—this hesitation, this avoidance—was something Draco had sensed coming, and he wasn’t going to let Harry brush it off.
“No,” Draco said firmly, his voice quiet but unyielding. “You can’t just kiss me and then walk away like nothing happened.”
Harry flinched slightly, his jaw tightening. “It’s not like that,” he began, his voice faltering. “It’s just... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t,” Draco interrupted, stepping closer, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t apologise, Potter. Not for that. You wanted it too, didn’t you?”
Harry’s gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the truth was too much to bear. “I... don’t know what’s happening anymore.”
Draco’s hand shot out, catching Harry by the wrist and holding him in place. His voice dropped to a fierce whisper. “You do know, and you have known for a while.”
Harry’s breath hitched, and for a long moment, they were silent, the tension between them thick, suffocating.
“Tell me the truth, Harry,” Draco demanded, his voice softer now but no less intense. “Tell me why you pulled away. Why you’ve been avoiding me. Why every conversation feels like there’s... something sitting between us, choking the air.”
Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet Draco’s, and for a moment, Draco thought he might actually answer. But then Harry’s gaze wavered, his lips pressing into a thin line.
“I can’t,” Harry said at last, his voice barely audible. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Draco. I didn’t want to... I didn’t understand it.”
“Understand what?” Draco pressed, his grip on Harry’s wrist tightening slightly.
Harry hesitated, his face pale, his green eyes filled with something close to panic. Draco’s heart was racing now, the weight of the Unspeakable’s words, the truth about the bond, coming crashing down on him. “You can hear them, can’t you?”
Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. He didn’t answer immediately, and that was enough for Draco to know the answer. He’d already suspected it, but hearing it confirmed made everything in him freeze.
“You can hear my desires,” Draco said slowly, his voice trembling slightly. “You’ve been hearing them, haven’t you? For how long?”
Harry swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. “Since that night in the pub,” he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. “I couldn’t stop it, Draco. I didn’t want to hear them. I didn’t know what you... what you wanted from me. But every time I got too close to you, every time you looked at me like that—it was like I couldn’t block it out. I didn’t... I didn’t understand it.”
Draco’s stomach churned, a mixture of anger, betrayal, and something else—something he didn’t want to acknowledge. He felt exposed, raw. This wasn’t just a magical accident. This was a connection, a bond of sorts, and neither of them had ever had the chance to ask for it, to understand it.
“The Unspeakable said it was a bond,” Draco said softly, more to himself than to Harry. “A bond that’s made from an intense emotion. And you’ve been hearing everything. Every thought, every feeling. And you can hear my desires, too. That’s why you kissed me and pulled away. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me. Because you heard what I want. And it’s not just that I want you. It’s everything. It’s the way I can’t seem to stop thinking about you, even when I try. You felt it, didn’t you?”
Harry’s face flushed crimson, and for a moment, he didn’t speak, his eyes darting everywhere except at Draco. Finally, he nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Yeah,” Harry said hoarsely. “I felt it. And I didn’t know how to... how to deal with it. I thought it was all in my head. I…I was ashamed.”
Draco’s breath caught in his throat as everything seemed to fall into place. The whispers, the constant pull towards Harry, the way his desires had felt so... loud. He had thought it was just his own twisted mind. But now, standing here with Harry, hearing the confirmation, Draco realised that it was more than that—it was the bond.
“You’ve been hearing my thoughts, Potter,” Draco said softly, the weight of the revelation pressing down on him. “You’ve been hearing everything I’ve wanted—everything I can’t control. No wonder you’ve been pushing me away.” He swallowed hard, his voice quieter now. “I heard yours too. I thought—I thought it was all in my head.”
Harry’s eyes flickered with a mixture of relief and uncertainty, hope sparking in his gaze. “You did?”
Draco nodded slowly. “I did. And I thought I was losing my mind. I thought… I thought it was just me wanting something impossible. But it wasn’t, was it? It was this. The bond.”
For a moment, Harry stood still, processing the truth, before his expression softened. The tension between them seemed to ease just a little, but there was still so much left unsaid.
“And now?” Harry asked, his voice quieter.
“And now,” Draco breathed, his voice low and trembling with the weight of the revelation, “we have to decide what to do about it.”
Draco took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until the air felt charged, humming with tension and something fragile yet undeniable.
“We can’t pretend this isn’t happening, Potter. The bond, the whispers, the way we—” He hesitated, his throat tight with the weight of the words. “The way we feel. It’s real. And it’s not going away.”
Harry’s breath hitched, his green eyes wide and uncertain as he stared at Draco. His hand lifted halfway, hovering inches from Draco’s face as though he wanted to touch but didn’t dare. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper. “I... I don’t know what to do, Draco. I’ve never—this is... it’s overwhelming.”
Draco swallowed thickly, every nerve in his body taut with anticipation. He should have stepped back, should have given them both space to think—but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned ever so slightly into Harry’s hand, his eyelids fluttering shut for a brief moment.
“We could... we could explore this,” Draco suggested, his voice soft and tentative. “The bond, the connection between us. We could see where it leads us.”
Harry’s lips parted in surprise, his brows knitting together as hope flickered across his face. “You’d... you’d want that?”
Draco nodded, the thud of his heart reverberating in his chest. “I do. Merlin, I do. I’ve tried to fight it, to ignore it, but it’s consuming me, Harry. The way I feel about you—the way I want you—it’s unbearable. And now that I know it’s the bond... I don’t want to push it away anymore. I don’t want to push you away anymore.”
Harry’s hesitation crumbled as his hand finally closed the distance, cupping Draco’s cheek with a tenderness that made Draco’s breath stutter.
“I want to try too,” Harry whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve been scared, confused... but I can’t keep running from this. From you.”
Draco turned his face slightly, leaning into Harry’s palm, his eyes drifting shut again as the warmth of Harry’s touch spread through him. When he opened them again, Harry was watching him intently, his gaze sharp and full of longing.
The pull between them became undeniable, magnetic. Slowly, Draco leaned forward, his breath mingling with Harry’s. And then, finally, their lips met—gentle at first, a fleeting brush of contact that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine.
Harry didn’t pull away, and Draco didn’t stop.
Harry’s breath hitched as he cupped Draco’s cheek more firmly, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Draco moaned softly, his lips parting to allow Harry’s tongue to slip inside. The kiss was passionate, desperate, years of pent-up longing poured into the moment.
Draco’s hands found their way into Harry’s hair, fingers tangling in the unruly strands as he pulled him impossibly closer. He nipped at Harry’s lower lip, savouring the taste of him, the faint hitch in Harry’s breath, the way their bodies seemed to fit together so seamlessly.
Harry groaned softly, his hips pressing forward instinctively, seeking more—more contact, more warmth, more everything.
“We… we should…” Draco tried to form a coherent thought, his voice breathless and unsteady. But before he could finish, the familiar pull of Apparition surrounded them, and they stumbled slightly as they landed in Harry’s living room.
The bond crackled between them, a live wire humming with energy, as Harry surged forward to capture Draco’s lips again.
“Bedroom,” Draco gasped against Harry’s mouth, his voice low and trembling with want. “Now.”
Harry nodded, his eyes dark with desire. He took Draco’s hand, leading him to the bedroom, their clothes discarded along the way. The moment they crossed the threshold, they were on each other again, hands and mouths exploring every inch of skin.
Draco pushed Harry onto the bed, crawling on top of him. He ground his hips against Harry’s, the friction delicious even through the fabric of their pants.
“I want you,” Draco murmured, his voice husky with need. “I want to feel you inside me.”
Harry’s eyes widened, a flash of surprise and then hunger crossing his face.
“Fuck, Draco.” His voice trembling with restraint.
Draco nodded, reaching down to unfasten his pants. “That’s the plan.”
Impatiently, Draco tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head and letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Harry’s eyes swept over him, taking in the pale expanse of his chest, the sharp lines of his collarbones, the faint definition of toned muscle beneath porcelain skin.
But then Harry’s gaze froze.
Scars. Thin, silvery lines carved across Draco’s torso in cruel, jagged patterns—remnants of the Sectumsempra curse Harry had cast all those years ago in a moment of blind rage and panic.
Harry’s hand hovered over one of the scars, his eyes filled with a mix of guilt and tenderness.
“Draco,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I... I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what the spell would do. I didn’t mean––”
Draco’s eyes followed Harry’s gaze, a quiet pang of discomfort settling in his chest. He had almost forgotten the scars were there, so used to seeing them on his own skin, so long ago branded by that painful moment. But now, with Harry looking at them, really seeing them, it felt different.
“They’re just scars,” Draco said, his voice attempting to sound casual, but the faint tremor betrayed him. “They don’t hurt anymore.”
Harry’s fingers traced one of the scars lightly, his touch feather-soft.
“But they hurt me,” he murmured, his voice thick with regret. “Knowing that I did this to you… that I caused you so much pain…”
Draco felt something stir in his chest at the sight of Harry’s anguish. Without thinking, he reached out and covered Harry’s hand with his own, letting their palms press together over the scarred skin. The warmth of Harry’s touch seeped into him, grounding them both.
He squeezed it gently, his voice quiet but firm.
“It’s in the past, Harry. We can’t change what happened, but we can decide what how to move forward. And I choose to move forward with you.”
For a long moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence stretching between them, full of unspoken understanding. Harry’s breath caught as he looked into Draco’s eyes, something raw and real passing between them. Unable to resist the pull any longer, Draco leaned in, his lips finding Harry’s in a kiss that was soft and slow, a tender exploration. It deepened, became more urgent, more needy, as if he were trying to pour every unspoken feeling into that one action.
Harry’s hands slid down to Draco’s hips, gripping them firmly as he pulled their bare bodies flush against each other. Draco gasped softly against his mouth, feeling Harry’s hardness pressing insistently against him.
Harry’s fingers trailed down Draco’s back, tracing the curve of his spine, the swell of his arse. Draco arched into the touch, a low moan rumbling in his chest. Harry helped him, pushing his pants down his legs, his underwear following soon after. Draco gasped as the cool air hit his heated skin, his cock standing proud and ready. Harry’s eyes raked over his body, a low groan escaping his lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” Harry whispered, his hand wrapping around Draco's length.
Draco’s head fell back, a moan tearing from his throat.
His heart raced as Harry’s lips claimed his in a searing kiss, the intensity of the moment overwhelming him. Years of pent-up longing poured into the kiss, their tongues dancing, exploring, devouring. Draco’s hands roamed over Harry’s body, mapping every contour, every dip and curve.
“I need you,” Draco gasped, breaking the kiss. “I need to feel you inside me, claiming me, making me yours.”
Harry’s eyes darkened with desire, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You’re mine, Draco,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “You’ve always been mine.”
Draco’s breath hitched, his heart swelling at Harry’s words. He had never wanted anything more than he wanted Harry in that moment. He murmured a cleaning spell and spelled his fingers slick.
“Watch me,” Draco whispered, but Harry was already watching, his gaze intense and hungry. Draco circled his slicked fingers at his entrance, teasing himself, before slowly pushing a finger inside. He moaned at the intrusion, his body clenching around the digit.
Harry wrapped his hand around his own cock, stroking it slowly. The sight of him touching himself, watching Draco prepare himself for him, sent a jolt of desire straight to Draco's core.
“More,” he breathed, adding a second finger, then a third. “I need more.”
Harry nodded, rolling over, his own thick fingers going to join Draco’s. Together, they worked Draco open, the sensations overwhelming him. His back arched off the bed, his hips rocking into their touch.
Draco removed his fingers, reaching for Harry’s cock. He slicked it up, his hand stroking the length, feeling it twitch and pulse beneath his touch.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling with need. “Please, Harry. Take me.”
Harry withdrew his fingers, reaching for the lube. He slicked up his cock, his eyes never leaving Draco’s.
Harry positioned himself at Draco’s entrance, the head of his cock nudging against the tight ring of muscle. Draco braced himself, his hands fisting the sheets. Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, Harry was inside him, filling him, stretching him, claiming him.
The sensation of Harry’s thick cock stretching him open was overwhelming, a delicious mix of pleasure and pain that had Draco seeing stars. He could feel every inch of Harry inside him, his walls clenching and fluttering around the intrusion.
“Fuck, Draco,” Harry groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. “You feel so good, so tight around me.”
Draco could only moan in response, his head falling against the pillow. He wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist, pulling him deeper, urging him to move.
Harry complied, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a hard, fast pace. The bed creaked beneath them, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Draco met every thrust, his hips rising to meet Harry’s, the pleasure building with each pass of Harry's cock against his prostate.
“Harder,” Draco demanded, his nails raking down Harry’s back. “Fuck me harder, Harry. Make me yours.”
Harry growled, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. He leaned down, his teeth sinking into the juncture of Draco's neck and shoulder, marking him, claiming him.
Draco’s orgasm was building, his cock throbbing in time with Harry’s thrusts.
“I’m close.” Harry gasped.
Draco’s eyes flashed with a new intensity, a fierce, almost feral look that made Harry’s heart pound. He pushed Harry onto his back, his cock slipping out as Draco straddling his hips, his knees nestling on either side of Harry’s thighs.
“I want to ride you,” Draco said, his voice rough and commanding.
Harry’s breath caught at the raw, unbridled lust in Draco’s eyes. He had never seen this side of Draco before, never experienced the full force of his passion, his hunger. And it was intoxicating.
“Take it then,” Harry said, his voice low and inviting. “Take everything you want from me, Draco. I’m yours.”
Draco growled, a sound of pure, unadulterated desire. He reached for Harry’s hard cock, glistening in the low light. Then, with a roll of his hips, he positioned himself over Harry, the head of Harry’s cock nudging against his entrance.
Harry’s hands gripped Draco’s hips, his fingers digging into the firm flesh as he waited, heart pounding, for Draco to take him inside. Draco’s eyes locked with Harry’s, as Draco sank down slowly, taking Harry’s hard length inside him inch by inch. Harry’s breath left him in a rush as Draco’s tight heat enveloped him again, squeezing him, milking him. Draco’s eyes fluttered shut, a low moan falling from his lips as he took Harry to the hilt.
“Fuck,” Draco gasped, his hips rolling slowly, adjusting to the feel of Harry inside him. “You feel so fucking good, Harry. So big, so hard, stretching me open...”
Harry could only groan in response, his hips lifting, seeking more of that exquisite pressure, that perfect fit. Draco started to move, rolling his hips, finding a rhythm that had them both panting and moaning.
He rode Harry hard and fast, determined to take his pleasure from the thick cock splitting him open. The room filled with the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, punctuated by their escalating moans and grunts.
Harry gripped Draco’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, his fingers sinking into the taut flesh as he thrust up to meet Draco’s downward strokes. The angle allowed him to hit Draco’s prostate dead-on with every thrust, making the Slytherin gasp and shudder.
“I'm close,” he gasped, his hole fluttering around Harry’s length. “Don’t stop, Harry. Don’t you dare stop.”
Harry reached between their bodies, his hand wrapping around Draco’s cock. The added stimulation was too much, and with a cry of Harry’s name, Draco came, his release painting his stomach and chest.
The feeling of Draco clenching around him pushed Harry over the edge. With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself deep inside Draco, his cock pulsing as he filled him with his release.
They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths ragged. Harry rolled them onto their sides, slowly slipping out of Draco.
“That was… something else,” Draco murmured, his voice rough from earlier gasps and moans. A sly smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he added, “All this time, we could’ve been doing this instead of me suffering through your tragic attempts at chess.”
“Oi,” Harry protested weakly, a flush creeping up his neck despite everything.
Harry’s protest earned him a soft, breathless laugh from Draco, who shifted slightly, wincing as their bodies adjusted. The dim light from the lamps cast warm shadows over their bare skin, and for a moment, neither of them spoke—just stayed there, wrapped up in each other, letting the quiet settle around them.
Draco’s fingers traced idle patterns on Harry’s chest, his touch feather-light but grounding. “You know,” he said softly, his usual sharpness giving way to something quieter, more vulnerable, “I wasn’t sure this would ever happen. Thought maybe the whispers would drive me mad first.”
Harry swallowed, his hand coming up to brush a damp strand of platinum hair from Draco’s forehead. “I was scared too,” he admitted. “Scared of what it meant, scared of losing you if I messed it up somehow.”
Draco’s eyes flicked up to meet Harry’s, sharp but soft around the edges. “You’re an idiot, Potter,” he said, but there was no bite in his voice—only warmth. “But you’re my idiot, apparently.”
Harry’s lips twitched into a crooked grin, and he leaned forward, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Draco’s forehead. “I can live with that,” he murmured against Draco’s skin.
For a while, they just lay there—bodies tangled, breaths evening out, the whispers in their minds now quiet, content. But Draco, ever the one to fill silences when they felt too heavy, broke it again.
“So… are we dating now, Potter?” he tilted his head to meet Harry’s gaze. “Or is this just an exclusive arrangement where we occasionally shag under the influence of mystical magical bonds and poor decision-making?”
Harry snorted, his chest shaking beneath Draco’s cheek. “You know, for someone who just had mind-blowing sex, you’re awfully mouthy.”
Draco propped himself up on one elbow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Don’t dodge the question, boyfriend.”
Harry blinked. “Boyfriend? Merlin, you’ve skipped three chapters ahead. Shouldn’t we be doing the awkward ‘are we exclusive’ conversation first?”
“Oh, please,” Draco drawled, flopping back dramatically. “I’ve already emotionally compromised myself with you, Potter. You’ve heard my innermost thoughts. You literally know my kinks. It’s far too late to play coy.”
Harry grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he shifted closer, draping an arm over Draco’s waist. “Alright, alright. Yes, Draco. I’d like to date you. Properly. The whole thing—awkward dinners, terrible movies, and me continuing to lose at chess while you mock me mercilessly.”
Draco’s smirk widened as he let out a low hum. “You drive a hard bargain, Potter, but… I accept your terms.”
They stared at each other for a moment before both broke into quiet laughter, the tension of weeks—months—of confusion and unspoken feelings finally breaking like a dam.
After they settled again, Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “You know, if we’re officially dating, I think it’s only fair I teach you how to properly play chess.”
Harry groaned, burying his face into the crook of Draco’s neck. “Merlin help me, I’ve created a monster.”
Draco smirked down at him, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt. “Oh, Potter, you’ve always been doomed. But at least now, you’ll suffer in style—with me by your side.”
Harry chuckled, his breath warm against Draco’s skin. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
He could feel Harry’s heartbeat steady and strong beneath his cheek. But then, something else caught his attention––a growing hardness pressing against his thigh.
Draco smirked down at Harry, his eyes glinting with mischief.
“Well, well, well,” he purred, rolling his hips subtly to feel more of that delicious hardness. “Someone’s eager for round two.”
Harry grinned up at him, his own eyes darkening with renewed desire. “What can I say? You bring out the best in me,” he teased, his hands gripping Draco’s hips to pull him closer.
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, how about we try out some of your kinks?” Harry grinned, a teasing tone in his voice.
“Always so crude, Potter.” Draco leaned down to kiss him—slow and teasing, his smirk pressed against Harry’s smile—it felt as though, despite everything, they’d finally found solid ground.
***
Epilogue
The Auror Office was its usual mix of chaos and drudgery—parchment stacked precariously on desks, enchanted memos zipping overhead, and the faint sound of someone cursing at a cursed teapot in the break room. The late afternoon sunlight spilled through enchanted windows, casting a warm golden glow over everything, including the two desks pushed together in the corner.
Harry Potter sat at one desk, leaning back in his chair with his feet propped up and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. His glasses were slightly crooked, and his hair was an absolute disaster, but the little smile playing at his lips said he didn’t much care. Across from him, Draco Malfoy sat with an air of regal poise, robes crisp, platinum hair falling perfectly into place.
“Potter,” Draco drawled, one elegant eyebrow arching as he flicked through Harry’s latest report, “did you actually write this while blindfolded, or are you naturally this atrocious at spelling ‘interrogation’?”
Harry smirked, tilting his head back and letting his chair creak dangerously under his weight. “Funny, I didn’t realise I’d hired you as my editor. Must’ve missed that in your job description, Malfoy.”
Draco let out a theatrical sigh, quill poised delicately between his fingers. “I’m simply trying to save you from public embarrassment. Merlin knows you’ve already got enough of that without your paperwork joining the cause.”
Harry grinned, dropping his feet to the floor and leaning forward across the desk. “Admit it—you just like reading my reports because it means you can stare at me longer.”
Draco paused, quill frozen mid-air. A faint blush crept up his neck before he smirked, sharp and quick. “I stare at you because it’s baffling how someone can look so smug while being so utterly hopeless at filing paperwork.”
Harry chuckled, his green eyes twinkling behind his crooked glasses. “See, you didn’t deny it. You like looking at me.”
Draco leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Careful, Potter. That ego of yours might start levitating.”
Harry winked. “Don’t worry, I’ll save the floating for later when I’ve successfully convinced you to come over tonight.”
Draco gave him a slow once-over, his silver eyes sharp and amused. “You’re awfully confident about that.”
Harry shrugged, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “What can I say? I’m irresistible.”
Draco rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile softening the edges of his sharp features.
A paper plane memo zoomed between them, hitting Draco squarely in the forehead before fluttering down onto his desk. He unfolded it with a scowl.
“It’s from Robards,” he said, glancing at Harry over the parchment. “Apparently, someone hasn’t submitted the Fallow case report yet. Care to guess who?”
Harry groaned, flopping back in his chair. “It’s on my desk somewhere… probably… under something.”
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are impossible.”
Harry grinned, leaning across the desk again, his face mere inches from Draco’s. “But you like me anyway.”
Draco met his gaze, something soft and warm flickering in his expression. “Unfortunately for me, yes. I do.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them thick with something unspoken and electric. Harry’s smile softened, and Draco’s sharp edges seemed to smooth out in the golden light.
“Dinner at mine tonight?” Harry said softly, his voice lower now, more sincere.
Draco tilted his head, his lips twitching upward. “Only if you promise not to bring takeaway from that last place.”
Harry laughed, the sound bright and easy, and reached across the desk to nudge Draco’s hand with his own. Draco let him linger there for a moment before subtly turning his hand over, letting their fingers brush.
From across the office, a few trainees were definitely staring, but neither of them seemed to notice—or care.
“Alright, fine. I’ll whip us a mind-blowing meal,” Harry said, his thumb grazing Draco’s knuckles before he pulled back. “Only because I love you. Happy?”
Draco rolled his eyes again, but the faint blush dusting his cheeks gave him away. “Ecstatic.”
The two of them turned back to their paperwork, but every so often, their eyes would meet across the desks—Harry with his mischievous grin, Draco with his barely-concealed smirk—and the rest of the office seemed to fade into the background.
Somehow, between sarcastic remarks and stacks of unfinished reports, they’d carved out something steady, something warm. It wasn’t perfect, and it certainly wasn’t quiet, but it was theirs.
The whispers had finally stopped. Now, Draco heard them spoken aloud—soft, raw, and impossibly close. Especially in bed.