Work Text:
The cottage looked as though it had been stolen from a postcard—small, crooked, perched on the edge of a rocky cliff, with the sea snarling beneath it. The roof sagged slightly, as if bowing under the weight of too many storms; the wooden shutters creaked in the salt-heavy wind. It was the sort of place that could have been charming—a weight settled between Harry’s brows, like a furrow carved deep, like the first crack in winter ice, except this time the ice was the sea, splitting open beneath a brewing storm. It could have been charming, yes . . .
If it had belonged to anyone else.
Harry pulled his cloak tighter around himself. He shifted uncomfortably as another gust of wind bit through him, and for a fleeting moment, he wished the Ministry had sent someone else instead of him. He was good at his job, of course, but this wasn’t exactly an Auror problem, was it? No. It was an academic problem. A—a nerd problem! The sort of problem best suited to someone like . . . Hermione, who liked runes, and obscure magical theory, and—
The door swung open before Harry could knock.
Draco Malfoy stood barefoot in the doorway, sleeves pushed up. Harry stared—because it was bloody freezing, so how come Draco was just standing there with his sleeves pushed up?
No, he must be under a Warming Charm or something.
Then Harry’s gaze snagged on his forearms—inked with winding, cryptic lines—and fuck, that was unfairly attractive. His hair had grown out since Hogwarts, longer at the top. A disgustingly artful mess, Harry thought, like Malfoy had run his hands through it too many times, and yet it still looked great.
He was thinner than Harry remembered, all sharp angles and sun-kissed skin; thin, but not fragile—more lean, in fact. Wiry muscle beneath loose linen. His eyes flicked over Harry once, unimpressed, before he exhaled through his nose.
“Potter,” Malfoy said. “What a miserable little surprise.”
Harry scowled. “Yeah, trust me. I’m thrilled to be here.”
Malfoy leaned against the doorframe, arms folding lazily across his chest. Fuck—Harry swallowed hard. It did infuriating things to Malfoy’s collarbones . . .
“By all means, do come in,” Malfoy said, his voice rich with mockery. “I can tell you’re simply dying to.”
Harry wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t.
Malfoy smelled of sea salt and something citrusy—bergamot, lemon peel?—with a lingering, smoky scent that made Harry’s stomach tighten. Because Malfoy smelled good. He looked good, too, but this was work. He was here because of the case, because people were disappearing—dying, maybe? Because the Ministry thought there was Dark magic involved.
He was not here to be uncomfortably aware of Malfoy’s unbearably sexy, tattooed forearms. Or the way his shirt hung loose around his neck. Or the fact that his mouth—God, had it always been so—
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
Harry forced himself to step inside, fixing his gaze on anything that wasn’t Malfoy. A battered desk covered in scrolls. A chipped teacup abandoned near the fireplace, a half-open window where the sea wind slithered in, rustling parchment . . .
“So,” Malfoy said, shutting the door behind them, “who died?”
Harry finally looked back at him, eyes narrowing. “What makes you think someone’s dead?”
Malfoy smirked, slow and smug, like he was explaining something painfully obvious to a complete idiot, the prick. “Because, Potter,” he drawled, “you only look this uncomfortable when something truly terrible has happened.”
Harry hated this.
He hated the way Malfoy looked so bloody pleased with himself, hated the lazy, knowing smirk that hadn’t faded since he’d stepped in. Hated that he had to be here at all, stuck with him of all people, on a case that reeked of something ancient and dangerous and unknown. And most of all, Harry hated the way Malfoy had barely batted an eye as Harry explained the situation—like haunted, vanishing ships and possible sea monsters were no more concerning than a slightly over-brewed cup of tea.
“Well,” Malfoy said, stretching languidly like a cat in the sun. Damn him . . . why? “I can’t imagine why the Ministry came grovelling to me. Surely your little Auror squadron can handle a cursed pirate ship all on its own.”
Harry had watched him with clenched fists, trying—and failing—to suppress the urge to tell Malfoy exactly how much he despised that condescending tone. And the bloody git had leaned back in his chair, as though he didn’t have a care in the world, as though this was just another dull Wednesday to him.
Harry had been doing his best to keep his voice level. “People are missing, Malfoy. Whole crews, gone. No trace. And there’s talk of strange storms, like the sea’s alive around it somehow.”
“Storms? Alive?” Malfoy had rolled his eyes, the insufferable prat. “Please. The Aurors really need to stop reading so much fiction.”
He’d taken a leisurely sip from his mug, completely unfazed, and Harry had resisted the urge to knock it out of his hand.
He’d explained the rest of it anyway, despite the irritation gnawing at him. “A few ships crashed into it and vanished without a trace. No wreckage, no bodies. Just . . . nothing. Like they were swallowed whole.”
Malfoy’s lips twitched into a barely-there smirk. “Sounds like a lovely holiday spot. Sign me up for the next cruise.”
Harry felt a pulse pounding behind his eyes. He wanted to scream, to lash out. It wasn’t like Malfoy didn’t know how serious this was, of course he did! But he was acting like it was all just a joke, as if it didn’t matter, and it made Harry want to shake him hard—preferably until his brain leaked from his ears, thanks.
So, Harry gritted his teeth and repeated for the nth time: “Because people are missing , Malfoy.”
“Yes, yes. Tragic and all that,” said Malfoy, leaning back and crossing his arms. “But why drag me into it?”
Harry had wanted to say, Because apparently you’re the Ministry’s best bet when it comes to ancient, seafaring death traps , but that would only stroke Malfoy’s insufferable ego. And besides, he couldn’t be bothered to explain how desperate the Ministry had been—how they’d literally begged for Malfoy’s expertise on matters Harry didn’t even want to think about. Instead, he settled for, “Because it’s your job?”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.” Harry forced the words out, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt. “You’re the best at figuring out things like this, aren’t you? Curses, how they work, and . . . I don’t know, whatever the hell it is you do! Curse-Breakers—”
“Well, thanks, Potter.” Malfoy’s grin deepened. “I’m touched. I suppose it’s a gift.”
A gift. Right. Harry raised an eyebrow. Which, to his endless irritation, only made Malfoy’s smirk stretch even wider.
Fucking git.
❂
And now, here they were. Stuck together for the whole damn case. Harry had to endure this—endure being in Malfoy’s company. The longer he stood there, the more it grated on him, the more he loathed it. The way Malfoy made everything sound so bloody easy, so casual, like a walk in the park, when it was anything but. The way he—fuck. But he looked good though—
Harry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He wasn’t here for that. He wasn’t here to notice the way Malfoy’s tattooed forearms flexed with every movement, or how his shirt hung just right as if it had been tailored to fit him.
No. He was here for the case. Answers. Focus .
But all of that seemed to slip through his fingers as the wind howled around them, whipping Harry’s fringe into his eyes. It was just so hard to think straight.
They were standing at the crumbling edge of a coastal cliff, staring out at the Black Lark, which seemed to materialise out of the mist like . . . Well. Like a spectre from the past.
The ship was massive, its dark wood gleaming slick with rain. Sails torn and battered, but somehow still full.
It shouldn’t have been there.
According to the case files, the ship had vanished in 1416. Long forgotten. Lost to stories and legend. And yet, there it was, right in front of him, as if it had slipped through from a ghost story.
The storm raged around them, the wind howling like it wanted to tear them apart. And that bloody ship, a silhouette against the tempest, was as real and solid as anything.
“I assume you’ve got some sort of plan?” Malfoy’s voice was half-lost to the howl of the wind, but Harry still caught it.
Harry shoved his wet fringe out of his eyes, the cold sting of the rain biting at his skin, and grimaced. Obviously, I wouldn’t have come here to beg for your help, you idiot, if I had a plan. “No,” he said.
“Huh.”
Harry’s gaze flickered to Malfoy, standing there with that unnerving ease, like the whole situation was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. And, bloody hell, how did he manage to look so—The water slicked Malfoy’s hair down, making it shine faintly under the low light, like some sort of Greek god in a Muggle ad for shampoo. His shirt clung to him, the fabric outlined the lines of his shoulders, the way his chest moved with each breath.
Harry’s stomach twisted.
He tried to tear his eyes away, but they refused to cooperate, drawn to the curve of Malfoy’s neck, the way droplets of water trickled down his skin, vanishing beneath the fabric. Harry couldn’t help but wish he could be one of those droplets, slip away and vanish, tracing the same path down Malfoy’s skin, and Malfoy’s lips were just—looked just—slightly parted—if only Harry could—
He shook his head, finally managing to snap his gaze elsewhere. He could still feel the weight of Malfoy’s eyes on him, and damn it, the thought of them lingering made his pulse jump again.
“I assumed you would,” Harry said, forcing his attention onto a broken tree stump nearby. It was weathered, the bark chipped away by years of storms, but its rough edges still stood strong. He focused on the jagged splinters, how they seemed to hold their ground against the wind. “You’re supposed to be the expert here.”
He kept his eyes on the stump. Not on the way Malfoy’s impossibly sharp jawline caught the firelight. Not on the way his hair, slightly tousled from the sea breeze, made him look less insufferable and more . . .
The tree stump, Harry. And he tried to concentrate on its worn surface, imagining the storms it had weathered long before . . . well, before Malfoy had decided to torment Harry with his mere existence.
There was a pause—one long enough that Harry risked a glance up.
“I do have a theory,” Malfoy said.
“And?”
“And you’re going to hate it.”
Right. Coming from Malfoy, of course he was. A shivery kind of weightlessness settled low in Harry’s gut, tight and restless, like the start of a fall. And he’d like to blame it on the case, on the bloody mystery, the ship, the storm. But . . .
Fucking butterflies.
They fluttered in his gut, a delicate, maddening sensation that refused to be ignored, no matter how much he tried. They’d been doing that ever since he’d stepped foot in Malfoy’s goddamn cottage.
Why? Why now ? Why . . .?
Harry clenched his jaw, trying to focus on the case, on the reason he was here, but Malfoy—Malfoy—was . . . very distracting. Harry’s mind kept wandering back to the way his shirt clung to his shoulders, or how his hands looked when he gestured with that careless elegance. Ugh.
Focus, Harry told himself, but it felt like asking a quill to write with no ink. His mind scattered in every direction, his stomach fluttering as if he were auditioning for a Quidditch team. Except. Well, whatever he needed to concentrate on, his stupid body seemed to think it wasn’t top priority.
❂
Malfoy’s theory, as it turned out, was utter rubbish—because it involved stepping onto the Black Lark, the very ship that had a nasty habit of making everything that touched it, you know, disappear. Along with anyone foolish enough to set foot on it.
Harry had protested, obviously. He’d said things like, “That’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” and, “I once watched Ron try to cook an egg with Fiendfyre—his whole kitchen burned down.” But Malfoy, insufferable prat that he was, had merely raised an eyebrow, like Harry’s very valid concerns were just another charming quirk—then asked for more details on Ron’s misfortune.
Like. For real?
Unfortunately, with no other leads and a storm already snarling around them, there wasn’t much choice.
So, against every last shred of good sense, they stepped onto the deck of the ship. Because, “Are you nuts? Given the ship’s instability . . . honestly, Potter. Apparating to it seems unsafe.”
And, well, as presumed, it seemed that stepping onto it wasn’t such a wise choice after all.
The effect was immediate.
The ship lurched like a living thing, the floorboards shifting underfoot as though waking from a long sleep. Magic rippled through the air, thick and cloying, dragging at Harry’s limbs like invisible chains. All of a sudden, the mist that had hovered at the edges surged upward, swallowing the cliffs, the sea, and everything beyond the ship’s rails, until the world itself seemed to vanish. Within the vast, damp white void, it was just them and the ship.
Adrift in nothingness.
And silence. A terrible, absolute silence.
No creak of wood, no lap of waves. No distant cries of gulls. Just . . . nothing.
Harry’s pulse hammered against his ribs.
He could feel the magic now—cold, ancient, wrong, slithering against his skin like too many hands reaching out at once. He’d faced Dementors. He’d faced Voldemort. He’d spent seven years surviving Hogwarts, and yet something about this made his spine press tight.
“Well,” Malfoy said, flexing his fingers like he was about to perform some intricate bit of wandless magic (which, knowing Malfoy, he probably was). “This is probably not good.”
“No. You think?” Harry exhaled sharply. “Why am I not surprised.”
Malfoy’s usual smirk faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease that was quickly masked. He ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the foggy, shifting deck, and Harry wanted to punch him for looking so damn calm. Or—horrifyingly—do something else entirely to that perfectly composed face. Like . . . kiss it.
The thought hit him so hard he nearly choked on it.
This was a cursed death trap, and he was here because people had vanished, and all he could think was—And he was not here to notice how the mist embraced Malfoy’s pale lashes, or how the cold made his cheeks just a bit pinker, or how his sleeves were pushed up to reveal those—those gorgeous tattoos on his—
Fuck. Fuck.
Concentrate. Job. Cursed ship. Haunted fog. Not Malfoy’s stupid, annoyingly handsome . . .
Harry squared his shoulders, forcing all thoughts of Malfoy out of his mind—his stupid tattoos, and those bizarrely beautiful thorn rose branches wrapping around the Dark Mark (Christ, it almost looked good—no, it did look good). He shoved the thoughts away with a fierceness, then turned back to the deck, gripping his wand tighter.
And then the ship groaned, long and deep, as though stretching. A slow creak rattled up from the hull, and the whole vessel tilted, throwing Harry off balance.
He caught himself against the mast. “Tell me you have an actual plan.”
Malfoy, of course, landed gracefully, the bastard. “Oh, don’t worry, Potter,” he said, glancing at the mist like it was an interesting bit of decor rather than a very likely sentient being trying to do who knows what to them. “I always have a plan.”
Harry gulped. Because, yes. That was what he was afraid of.
❂
Hours passed. Maybe more. Time had lost all meaning the second they stepped onto this cursed ship. It didn’t move—not in the way a ship should, anyway. There were no waves, no gentle rock of the tide. Just the oppressive weight of magic, thick and suffocating. Humming underfoot like—like a warning.
The deck was empty. Eerily so. Except for scattered, rusted weapons and the remnants of a long-abandoned crew. The air smelled like old wood and something fouler, something that clung to the back of Harry’s throat. And meanwhile, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, like the kind of uncomfortable sensation that made every muscle in his body tighten. It was as if something was watching them. Even though he couldn’t see a thing.
God, how he hated it. Almost as much as he hated Malfoy’s insufferable charm—er, calm.
“Enjoying yourself?” Harry said. A little too sharp, but he didn’t care.
Malfoy, crouched near an old crate, didn’t even bother to look up. “Immensely.”
Harry clenched his jaw. “You know, I thought spending an entire evening in your company would be the worst part of my week, but, no. Now, I think being on a haunted ship—on a cursed haunted ship—until who knows when, and with you, is slightly worse.”
Malfoy straightened, dusting off his hands.
Harry’s gaze darted to his forearms again, stupidly, and then immediately away. God. Had Malfoy noticed?
“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice low and smooth, like velvet dipped in sarcasm, “if you wanted to spend time with me so badly, you could have just asked.”
Harry’s face burned. Ugh, he hated that he blushed. This was a haunted ship. Those people missing—well, they were probably dead, weren’t they? And yet all he could focus on was Malfoy’s infuriating, impossibly attractive—
“Right,” Harry muttered. “Brilliant. We’re trapped, and you’re making jokes.”
Malfoy didn’t even blink. “Would you rather I panic?”
“Yes!” Harry said. Then, his brain caught up. “No. I mean—bollocks. I just—I don’t know! Do something useful!”
Malfoy let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rolling his eyes like Harry had just asked him to solve world hunger. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s check the captain’s quarters.”
Harry opened his mouth to argue, to tell Malfoy exactly what he thought of that suggestion, but then—he stopped.
A cold, heavy feeling curled in Harry’s stomach. He really didn’t want to do this—didn’t want to go into a dark, possibly haunted cabin with Malfoy looking as good as he did—but if Malfoy thought it might lead somewhere, fine. Besides, the bloody ship wasn’t going anywhere, and Harry desperately wanted to get off the damn thing.
“Lead the way, then,” Harry said, his voice flat.
The captain’s cabin was as dark as the bottom of a lake, lit only by the occasional flicker of ghostly blue flames that made the place look like the set of a particularly morbid fairy tale. It was as if the ship itself had been abandoned by time, like Captain Hook’s crew had long ago succumbed to the horrors of Neverland, leaving this place to rot in their wake—bloody hell, blasted Peter Pan! The furniture was ancient, dusted with damp, but the fireplace still crackled with an unnatural warmth that sent chills crawling up Harry’s spine. He cursed under his breath—the next time Ron wanted to watch a Muggle film while drunk and high as a kite on a summer breeze, well . . .
He could do it by himself.
On the desk, old maps lay scattered, pages torn, scrawled over with desperate, frantic writing. Malfoy leaned over them, reading by the flickering light of his Lumos, and Harry hated that his gaze couldn’t help but wander to the way Malfoy’s grey trousers fit so perfectly over his arse. The fabric stretched taut over the curve, making Harry’s breath hitch for a split second.
It was ridiculous, really. Harry knew he shouldn’t be thinking about this—about how good Malfoy looked standing there, that ridiculous fit of his trousers drawing attention to his body in ways it really—really—
Stop it. It was obnoxious. Unnecessary. Malfoy had no right to be this—this . . .
He gulped.
Hot.
Harry tore his gaze away. The case, you idiot.
“This ship—I think,” Malfoy said, his fingers tracing lines on a—was that a diary? “No, it can’t be . . .”
“What?!”
“This galleon,” Malfoy said, voice low and grim. “It’s bound by blood.”
Harry frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning someone sealed it with a blood curse.”
A heavy silence stretched between them.
“And?” Harry pressed.
“And unless we undo it, we’re not leaving.”
“Brilliant,” Harry muttered under his breath. “Just brilliant.”
Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Well, Potter, what happened to you? You used to love a bit of adventure—”
Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. He was going to lose his mind. “Ha bloody ha,” he said. “Not this kind of adventure. I was thinking more along the lines of a quiet drink and a good sparring match, or going to a Quidditch game, not—” He gestured vaguely at Malfoy, at the cursed ship. “This.”
Malfoy chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “I don’t know, Potter. See, you’ve always been the ‘dark, brooding hero’ type.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a reason I’m not wearing a cape,” Harry snapped.
Malfoy looked confused for a moment, and then—because of course tonight could get even worse—the ship lurched violently, sending both of them crashing against the desk. The maps flew into the air like confetti at a funeral, and somehow, somehow, Harry ended up pinned between the old parchment and the . . . very solid weight . . . of Malfoy’s body.
Malfoy was close. Too close . His breath ghosted against Harry’s jaw, warm despite the damp chill of the cabin. His hands—those bloody, tattooed hands—braced against the desk, caging Harry in.
“Potter,” Malfoy purred, voice all silk and sharp edges.
Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, and he was sure it was loud enough to drown out whatever Malfoy was saying, but—
“Are you . . . blushing?”
“Fuck off,” Harry said. He tried to push Malfoy off, but Malfoy’s eyes glinted like he knew exactly what was going on. “You’re just—you’re insufferable.” Even he could hear the slight tremor in his voice.
The ship groaned, another surge of magic rattling the walls, but Harry barely noticed. It was hard to focus on anything beyond the way Malfoy’s body pressed so tightly against his—fuck—radiating off like a steady pulse. The faintest exhale of breath ghosted over Harry’s cheek, and for a moment, it was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of them.
“I might be,” Malfoy said, voice smooth. “But you seem to like it.”
The storm outside raged on—thunder cracking, wind howling—but in the captain’s quarters, it felt as though the air itself had thickened. Magic hummed beneath the floorboards, swirling through the air like a living thing, tugging at Harry’s thoughts, making his focus slip.
He should have been thinking about the ship, the blood curse, the lives at stake—but all he could think about was Malfoy, and how close he was, leaning casually against the desk, against him. All Harry could think about was how impossibly gorgeous he looked, and how much he wanted those lips meeting his own—tentative at first, like the brush of a summer breeze.
Truth was, Malfoy had always been somewhat attractive. But the years had done something to him. The hard lines of his jaw had softened just enough, his body filled out in ways that made Harry’s stomach twist. The tattoos that snaked up his arms—dark and intricate—only seemed to emphasise the muscular grace with which he moved. Every inch of him was sharp, sculpted, dangerous—and Harry hated the fact that his body responded to it. And yet . . .
He wanted. Dear God, he wanted .
Malfoy caught his gaze. Harry’s heart stuttered for a moment, breath hitching in his throat before he could compose himself. He forced his attention back to the cursed map on the desk, but it did little to ease the tension growing between them. It felt like an electric pulse bouncing off the walls, vibrating through him.
“You’ve been staring, Potter,” Malfoy said. “You think I haven’t noticed? Ever since we got here, your eyes have been—”
Harry’s cheeks burned, and he mentally cursed himself. He wasn’t a bloody teenager anymore. He was an Auror, for God’s sake. “Er. I . . .”
Malfoy’s gaze sharpened, a glint of something far too knowing in his eyes.
“I . . .”
“You’re still staring. Why am I not surprised?”
Harry was absolutely not staring. He was just . . . observing. Yes. That was the word for it. Observing the firelight catching on Malfoy’s annoyingly perfect cheekbones, the curve of his lips, the dip of his throat. Observing the way his grey trousers clung a little too well to his thighs, the hint of ink curling up from the collar of his half-open shirt—But it was just observation. An Auror thing. Nothing more.
Harry gulped hard. Fuck. Why did Malfoy have to be so bloody perfect?
“I’m not staring, I haven’t been—” His voice cracked like a pubescent fourth-year.
Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Really,” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Because you’ve been doing it for quite some time now, and I’m beginning to think . . .”
Harry’s pulse spiked. Oh, no. No, no, no. He looked away again, but it was no use. Malfoy had him hooked, reeled in, and was now watching him struggle for air like a particularly tragic goldfish.
And then—the worst part. Malfoy leaned back and smirked.
That smirk. The one that had haunted Harry through years of Hogwarts, the one that had only grown more insufferable with time. The one that somehow managed to be both infuriating and disgustingly attractive, all at once.
“Merlin, Potter, look at you. You’re practically drooling.” Malfoy’s voice was rich with mockery, his head tilting in that way that made it painfully clear he knew exactly why Harry was acting this way—like he found the whole thing unspeakably funny.
Harry swallowed thickly. His stomach twisted in a horrible, traitorous way. Then—because the universe despised him—Malfoy stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate, like a tiger stalking something very stupid and . . . very doomed.
Harry’s breath caught. A strange, restless energy coiled in his chest, spilling through his limbs, making the floor feel unsteady beneath him. He should step back. Establish some kind of . . . distance between them. He really, really should. But his body refused to listen.
“Yes, you are definitely staring.” Malfoy’s voice dropped lower. “And I think you like what you see.”
Harry’s brain short-circuited. He opened his mouth to argue, to say literally anything that might salvage his dignity, but—well. Nothing came out. Meanwhile, Malfoy’s gaze swept over him, like he’d already won.
Malfoy’s smirk flickered—then vanished. Just like that, gone, as if someone had snuffed out a flame.
“And I think this will be good for us, if we ever want to get out of here,” Malfoy said, his tone flat.
Harry blinked.
Wait. What?
“What do you mean, ‘this will be good—’?” he started.
And then Malfoy kissed him.
It wasn’t some slow, hesitant thing, either. No careful build-up, no lingering question. One second, Malfoy was staring at his lips; the next, his mouth was on Harry’s—hot and insistent, and entirely in control.
And Harry—well.
Harry did nothing.
For a single, agonising moment, his brain simply ceased to function.
Malfoy was kissing him. Malfoy was kissing him. Malfoy—who had spent years—years—making his life miserable. Malfoy—whose stupid face had been the subject of at least a handful of thoroughly productive wank fantasies for Harry (and no, Harry is not admitting that out loud, ever, and especially not to Ron). Malfoy—who smelled like salt and bergamot and smoke and . . .
And Malfoy must have felt that Harry was frozen.
He made a sound—half amusement, half frustration—and dragged his fingers through Harry’s hair, tilting his head just so, deepening the kiss like a dare. And God, that did it.
Something in Harry cracked wide open.
He exhaled sharply against Malfoy’s lips, tension melting from his body all at once. His hands—traitorous bastards—fisted in Malfoy’s shirt, yanking him closer, and suddenly, he was kissing back. Eager, almost desperate, chasing the impossible, reckless rightness of it.
Malfoy made a pleased noise against his lips, a low vibration that shot through Harry’s nerves. The world outside blurred, narrowed. The wind rattled the windowpane. The fire crackled. Parchment fluttered on the desk. And Harry—Harry could only kiss Malfoy like he’d been waiting for this all day long, like this was something inevitable, something written into him years ago, just waiting for the right moment.
And, fuck.
He really, really liked it.
A low, breathless laugh escaped Malfoy as he pushed Harry back against the desk— onto the desk—and, ow. Harry shuddered at the contrast—the wood was cold against his lower back, the chill shocking against the heat roaring through his veins.
Malfoy smirked again, but this time it was different—soft, almost . . . fond. He palmed Harry through his trousers, pressing just enough to make Harry’s breath hitch. Then, lips brushing Harry’s ear, he murmured, “I think this ship’s got more than just ghosts on board, Potter.”
Harry shuddered again, the sensation of Malfoy’s breath against his skin sending a jolt straight to his core. His chest was burning, overwhelmed, and before he could think, before he could question, he was kissing Malfoy again—harder this time, hands sliding beneath his shirt, fingers mapping smooth skin, tracing the curve of tattooed muscle, taking .
They moved together, frantic, desperate, like the fire between them had been waiting for years to be set loose. And somewhere, buried deep in the back of Harry’s mind, the curse of this ship flickered like a dying candle—irrelevant. Insignificant.
Because right now, there was only Malfoy.
And Harry.
And . . .
“Ow!” Harry’s hand shot up to his lip, his breath catching as the sting spread. “Malfoy! What the—?”
❂
The sound of the storm outside had finally begun to quiet. Harry was sprawled on the desk, his head resting on a stack of old maps that had been shoved aside in the rush of the moment, eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing. Malfoy sat on the edge, back ramrod straight, as if he were waiting for an award for not crumbling. The air felt . . . cooler now. Almost foreign—a stark contrast to the mess of tangled limbs and . . .
Harry had so many questions.
The ship still groaned beneath them, but there was something different about it now. The oppressive magic that had filled the air was gone, as if the curse had—but that couldn’t be, could it?
Harry pushed himself up on one elbow, his head swimming slightly—fatigue and a strange, heady elation tangled together inside him. He glanced over at Malfoy, his tongue instinctively darting out to touch the spot where his lip still throbbed. The skin was tender, aching from where Malfoy had bitten him. He could still . . . feel it. Malfoy’s teeth sinking into his skin. The rush that followed, how good it felt when Malfoy shuddered against him, a breathless shiver of connection as they both gave in to the moment, as they came, together. Fuck . “You bit me, you prat.”
Malfoy didn’t even flinch. He just looked back at Harry with that annoyingly calm expression. “It was necessary.”
“Necessary?” Harry sputtered, the words coming out in a high-pitched laugh. “Necessary?! You couldn’t, I don’t know, give me a heads-up before you sunk your teeth into my—?”
Malfoy shrugged. “Why bother?” His lips curled into a smug little smirk. “You’ll live.”
“Next time, please let me know when you’re going to use me as a snack. You could have at least asked if I was okay with being your personal blood bank.”
Malfoy’s smirk only deepened, like he was secretly delighted by Harry’s discomfort. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”
“ What worked?”
“We had to mix our blood.”
Harry stared. Blinked.
“To break the curse, Potter. Merlin! We had to mix our blood while—” He paused. Gestured between them. “Seems pretty self-explanatory to me.”
“Right,” Harry said, still trying to make sense of it all. What did he mean? They had to exchange blood while they were . . . fucking? No, that couldn’t be . . .
“You didn’t think this—there was a curse, Potter, remember? Curses don’t care about consent,” Malfoy said, looking at Harry as though he were the one who had lost the plot.
“Right,” Harry said again, his mind still reeling. “Of course not.” Did this mean—was Malfoy not into—into him?
Harry’s gaze flicked to Malfoy’s neck, where a fresh, angry red mark was beginning to form. He took a deep breath. “So, um. We should probably leave the boat before it—”
“You should probably—”
“You go first.”
“—inform the Ministry.”
“Yeah. Sure, I—yes.” Without thinking, Harry licked his lip. “Ow. Crap . . .”
Malfoy’s mouth twitched, a small smile forming, but he didn’t say anything. They walked to the deck and apparated to land, and as they walked to Malfoy’s cottage, the silence that followed felt oddly awkward, though Harry couldn’t decide if that was progress or denial.
Was he supposed to apologise for something? Was he supposed to just—what? Pretend nothing had happened? Because something definitely had. The last time he’d been this confused about someone, it was in fourth year when he thought Cho Chang was going to kiss him in the broom closet, only for her to cry about Cedric instead, so . . . yeah. Not exactly the same thing, but . . . close enough?
He glanced sideways at Malfoy. No. No, definitely not the same thing. This felt—
Harry’s stomach did a little flip.
Maybe he should just pretend he was still angry. That would be easier, right? Easier than admitting he was kind of—maybe—hoping that Malfoy felt something too?
“So, er.” Harry said, dragging his eyes away from Malfoy’s well-defined jawline (which, he realised, he’d been staring at for far too long). “Guess you don’t usually ask before you—” Harry stopped himself, heat creeping up his neck. “Forget I said that.”
Malfoy gave him a look, something between amusement and mild confusion, as if he were genuinely puzzled by Harry. “I’ll . . . keep that in mind?” he said.
Harry stumbled over his words, mentally kicking himself. “I just . . . You know, I wasn’t expecting the whole blood-bonding thing. Not that I’ve had much experience with curses and blood mixing, but . . . and then you—and now—” He waved his hand vaguely, as if that explained his confusion.
Malfoy looked at him for a moment, then let out a small chuckle. “What, you want a manual or something? ‘How to Deal with Unexpected Blood Curses and General Awkwardness’?”
There was a pause.
Malfoy’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “Well, I don’t have one.”
Ten minutes later, they were standing in the awkward silence of a doorframe, Malfoy’s cottage looming ahead like a place Harry probably shouldn’t be, but somehow was.
Harry cleared his throat. “So . . .”
Malfoy was looking at him like he wasn’t sure whether to offer a handshake or an apology. Then, Malfoy leaned in, his voice all soft and teasing, sending a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Are you planning on coming back, or was this just a one-time thing?”
Harry blinked.
He didn’t hesitate. “I suppose I could fit a little more ‘research time’ into my schedule. Make sure the curse is properly broken and all that.” He made a big show of looking thoughtful, though his lips were twitching in amusement. “Wouldn’t want to leave any unfinished business.”
Malfoy’s eyes gleamed, as if he’d just hit the jackpot in a treasure hunt. “Good,” Malfoy said. He bit his lip, looking almost . . . hopeful? “But maybe we should . . . take a break from curses and do something a bit more . . . normal. You know, like grabbing a drink sometime? You did say, before—”
Was Malfoy offering him a date? “Yeah, sure.” Harry’s lips quirked into a grin, and before he could overthink it, he found himself nodding. “A drink sounds great—good.”
“Deal.”
Harry laughed, the sound coming out low and a bit more relaxed than he’d expected.
The pause that followed felt heavier than it probably should have, like they were both walking on a tightrope. Harry glanced sideways at Malfoy, and for a moment, he could see the faintest trace of something in Malfoy’s expression. Something . . . softer. Fond.
“See you tomorrow?” Malfoy asked.
“Same place, same time?”
“Different place, different time. I’ll owl you.”
As Harry turned and walked away, the weirdest thing happened—for the first time in a long while, the thought of tomorrow felt . . . thrilling. Like the quiet promise of fingers brushing, of words left unsaid but understood all the same. And maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new. Something more than just curses and awkward silences. Something that made him feel lighter than he had in years.
And maybe—just maybe—he had Malfoy to thank for it.
And, as it turned out, he was right.
Especially when tomorrow casually tripped over next weekend, which politely stepped aside for Monday, which tumbled ungracefully into Thursday, then Friday, and then, without anyone really meaning for it to happen, dwindled into Sure, I’ll be there after work. Yes, should I bring something to eat? —as if that had been the plan all along. And perhaps it was.
Same spot. Same cottage. Same impossible pull toward the curve of Malfoy’s lips, and the way they tasted like something Harry had never meant to crave but now couldn’t go a day without.
And, as Harry stood there, a grin tugging at him like a secret only he and Malfoy were in on, he realised—somewhere between stolen glances and quiet laughter, between arguments that ended too close and silences that felt too full—that Malfoy had become . . . his.
❂
The ropes tightened, a soft yet firm pull that made Harry’s breath hitch just slightly. The sensation was strangely grounding, like the world outside of this didn’t matter. His eyes flickered over to Draco. He seemed focused, his hands skilled and deliberate in their movements, shaping the ropes with a precision that was both unsettling and fascinating.
And Harry cursed the day he had agreed to indulge Draco in this stupid fantasy of his. Who cared about shibari?
“Okay?” Draco’s voice broke the silence, like a whisper of concern woven through.
Harry chuckled softly. “Yeah, I’m fine.” It was funny—well, funny might be a stretch, but there was a sort of quiet, absurd beauty in how something like this could turn the entire bedroom into a tension-filled dance. The ropes pressed against his skin in patterns that felt like a secret language only Draco knew how to speak. Every tug, every twist was a question, a command, a promise.
And then it wasn’t just the ropes. Not anymore. No, now it was the way Draco’s fingertips brushed over him, just a breath away from touching but never quite giving in. The way Draco’s eyes flickered between concentration and something more—something that felt like quiet affection, something that always made Harry’s chest warm, like sunlight on the coldest mornings. Like love.
“You look gorgeous like this,” Draco’s voice said against his ear.
It was the way Draco made everything feel electric—every touch, every glance.
Draco kissed him, his hands threading through Harry’s hair with a tenderness that made his heart stutter. It was like a quiet promise, an unspoken declaration that felt too big to say aloud but Harry wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to say, I love you . But he let himself sink into it, felt the heat of Malfoy’s body press against his own, and for a moment, there was nothing but the rhythm of their breaths, the pulse of their connection.
Then Harry shifted, grinding against him, desperate for more, but his legs—stiff, immobile, caught in the mess of rope, tangled limbs and the weight of their closeness—refused to cooperate. He winced. Let out a breathless chuckle, his face flushed with the mingling of embarrassment and amusement.
“Can’t move my legs.”
“I’m almost done.”
As the last knot settled into place, Draco stepped back, eyes softening just the tiniest bit as he surveyed his work.
Harry’s breath stuttered in his chest.
“Does it hurt?” Draco asked.
“No, but—” But he wanted to touch Draco too, damn it. “Please, untie me.”
“No, not yet.”
Harry’s heartbeat pulsed, a steady drumbeat that thrummed in his veins. “What—? Is that supposed to make me feel relaxed or something?”
Draco’s lips quirked into that familiar half-smile. “You always talk too much,” he teased, fingers brushing against Harry’s hole in a way that made Harry’s pulse skip. “But yes, I’d say you’re about to feel very relaxed.”
Harry could only roll his eyes. “God, you’re insufferable.” But there was no real heat behind the words—only a softness, a fondness that had settled deep in his bones over days, months of being with Draco.
“In a nice way, I hope.”
Harry didn’t get the chance to respond—not properly, anyway—because then Draco was pressing him down, his touch deft and assured, the ropes still snug against Harry’s skin. He felt every shift, every brush of Draco’s fingers like a whisper against his nerves, winding him tighter.
And then Draco was inside him, and the world narrowed, everything distilling down to sensation, to the slow and steady stretch of it, the way his body gave, the way Draco took. He moved like he was writing something into Harry’s skin, something slow and deliberate with each roll of his hips.
Harry’s breath hitched. “You—you’re such a—God, more ,” he said, though it came out more like a breathless whimper.
Draco chuckled, his mouth brushing over the shell of Harry’s ear. “Shut up, you love it.”
And Harry did.
He loved this—loved the way Draco knew him, the way he could unmake him so effortlessly with just the right amount of push and pull. It was pleasure knotted together, a slow-building tide that Harry felt in his bones, as every thrust sent another ripple through him, another shudder rolling up his spine, and he let himself sink into it, let himself be held by it.
The ropes pressed firm around his wrists, his thighs, a reminder of how much he’d given up in this moment—not just control, but something deeper, something that had once terrified him to offer.
And yet, with Draco, it had never felt like losing.
It felt like finding. Like being seen. Wanted.
Draco kissed him then, messy and consuming, swallowing the soft sounds Harry couldn’t hold back—he was so close. His hands traced over every inch of exposed skin, like he was memorizing the moment in the way only he could. And Harry—Harry was undone, ruined in the best way, his body alight, his chest too full, his heart beating in sync with Draco’s own.
Draco came with a shuddering gasp, burying himself deep, hands gripping Harry like he was afraid he might disappear.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Their breathing tangled together in the dim glow of the room. Harry barely registered the way Draco’s wand loosened the ropes, the careful way he eased him out of them, pressing absent kisses along the marks they left behind.
“You alright?” Draco said, voice softer now, almost reverent.
Harry hummed, nuzzling against him, eyes heavy-lidded with warmth. “More than alright.” He smiled, even though his arms felt numb, and, “Though, I suppose I’ll be regretting this tomorrow.”
Draco huffed a laugh, rolling them over until Harry was sprawled under his chest. “Good. Serves you right for calling me insufferable.”
Harry bit at his collarbone, just to be difficult, before rolling them over and settling against Draco. He held Draco’s hands down, nuzzling under his jaw.
It didn’t last long.
Draco slipped his hands free, kissing him softly, his finger threading through Harry’s hair. Harry pressed against him, grinding slowly.
“Let me—wait—”
Then Draco moved down, and though Harry knew what was coming, his body still betrayed him, arching up the moment Draco’s lips pressed against his cock—hot, wet. Inevitable.
Draco made a pleased little noise, a quiet hum of satisfaction around his cock, and Harry . . . Harry melted into it, into the heat and the rhythm, into the way Draco knew him, how he always seemed to unravel him with a touch, lost to the pulse of now, to the slow, steady build, to the way Draco took him apart and put him back together, piece by piece, until Harry was trembling, undone. Floating in the aftermath—sated, weightless. Blissfully lost.
Draco laughed, tired and low, as he lifted his head. Harry couldn’t help but grin, feeling utterly pleased with himself. His face was damp, his hair a mess, and Draco looked at him like he was both ridiculous and perfect all at once.
Harry sighed.
He didn’t know when he’d started to think of Malfoy as Draco, or as Draco as home, but now, with Draco’s eyes locked on his, Harry realised—he wasn’t sure where home even was, without Draco in it.
“You know,” Harry began, voice a little rougher than he’d intended, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, a glint of something dangerous—or maybe just intrigued—dancing in his eyes. “Yeah?”
Harry took a slow breath, trying to steady his racing pulse. “You ever think about . . . I don’t know, maybe making things more official?” He had meant to say it casually, but his voice came out a little too quiet, a little too unsure.
“Official?”
Harry’s stomach did a flip, and he swallowed. This wasn’t exactly how he had planned it, but then again, when had anything with Draco ever gone according to plan?
“I was thinking maybe we could . . . move in together? Tell our friends that we’re—together.”
For a long moment, Draco didn’t say anything, just looked at him with those eyes—those eyes that seemed to see straight through him, but also held something so tender that it made Harry’s heart stutter.
Finally, Draco’s lips quirked, that familiar smirk tugging at his mouth. “Well, I suppose I could tolerate you for the rest of my life.” He moved forward, closing the distance between them, his lips just a breath away from Harry’s. “But only if you promise to kiss me again. I’m getting quite used to it.”
Harry laughed, breathless and light. The night stretched wide around them, infinite and quiet.
“Deal,” he said, and then he kissed Draco with everything he had, with all the words he could never quite shape, all the promises he had never known how to make—until now.
It was slow, unrushed, like they had all the time in the world. Draco’s lips were warm, impossibly soft, moving against his like they belonged there, like they’d always belonged there. Harry felt fingers curling at the nape of his neck, tilting his head just so, deepening the kiss until it was nothing but a promise without words.
His heart pounded—not from nerves, not from uncertainty, but from the stunning certainty of this. Of them. Of knowing, down to his marrow, that there was nowhere else he’d rather be, no one else he’d rather spend a lifetime with.
And maybe the answer had always been here, in the way Draco touched him without hesitation, the way their bodies fit together so perfectly, like they were made for each other.
Harry’s heart fluttered. He smiled, his breath catching as it mingled with Draco’s. There was nothing left to question, no more hesitation. He pulled back just enough to look into Draco’s eyes—those eyes that had always seemed so full of everything and nothing at once—and said:
“I love you.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk curling up at the corner of his lips. He leaned in, his breath warm against Harry’s skin, and whispered, “At last, Potter. Took you long enough.”
Then, with a teasing glint in his eye, he added, “I was starting to think you needed a map to find your way to me.”