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There were four steps between the door and his side of the bed, Harry knew, because he walked them in the dark. Ginny took a deep breath and turned, but didn’t wake as he settled in. She never did. There were pillows between them to block Harry’s limbs, which she claimed would stretch out in the night, seeking. He smashed one with his fist to make it more comfortable to hold.
His days were all the same. Sixteen hours at work, eight hours sleeping. Weekends weren’t much different except he’d cut back to twelve. Sometimes Ginny had Quidditch galas she liked him to attend. He’d sneak and get autographs for Ron, because who would deny the Saviour of the Wizarding World a quick favour? The galas were fun. It was always fun, with Ginny. He loved it—loved her—would do anything she asked. He made her breakfast every day before he left—packed her lunch, cleaned the sitting room from where she sat most nights after practice watching Muggle telly or playing video games. She did the laundry, he did the dishes. Balanced.
Work wasn’t as simple. Some genius assigned him and Malfoy as auror partners, and Harry hadn’t discovered exactly who’d done it. If he had, it would at least give the papers something new to write about when he was arrested for murder. When they weren’t yelling at each other, they were on opposite sides of their office—silent. Their desks faced each other, but neither looked up. Neither spoke.
Their caseload was heavier than any other team because they both worked more than anyone else. Malfoy put in as many hours as he did—maybe more, if he included the weekend.
Harry eyed the clock, felt the burning dryness in his eyes he hadn’t noticed when he was staring at his report, pressed cold fingers to his eyelids to soothe it. He preferred the office after hours—when even the most dedicated workers had headed off home or out for drinks together. They invited Harry, but he never went. He had better things to do.
The clink of a belt buckle sent Harry’s heart to a gallop. He swallowed and clamped his jaw as a thrill went through him—that slight sick feeling that clung on the edge of wanting something so badly. He took a shaky breath, lowered his hand, let it rest on his thigh as he felt blood swarm, his cock interested before anything had even happened. His eyes crossed the room, finding the edge of Malfoy’s desk, pausing before they completed the journey to his flushed face, his lifted chin, his gently jostling arm.
Heat roared in Harry’s chest—a tightness in the back of his throat—lungs emptying as he dug beneath his robes and unfastened his trousers, too eager for his own good. His head rushed as he gripped his cock, shoulders relaxing, one arm braced on his desk as if he’d return to his paperwork at any moment. They met eyes and Harry’s heartbeat went jagged, a pitiful noise escaping his throat, swallowed a moment later as he clamped his mouth shut. Malfoy stood and Harry’s eyes dropped, his mouth watering at the sight of his pink cock—the glistening head—the veins on the underside as he worked a slick hand across it, light catching the ring on his third finger.
Harry sat back in his chair, watching as Malfoy craned his neck to see, moaning out his next breath as he worked his head with a skillful hand. Harry shut his eyes, plagued by guilt for three shuddering heartbeats. He pushed it away like he always did—buried it—opened his eyes as if it had never been there. Malfoy had come closer, and Harry’s hand paused, shoulders tightening as if he’d seen a snake in the grass. He’d never done this before. Never so much as rounded his desk, and now he was halfway across the room with a hungry look in his eye that Harry knew too well.
Thin fingers were still tugging loosely. Harry’s hand went back to work as he gave a nervous swallow, wondering if he’d carry on or stay where he was, his thigh touching the farthest corner of his desk like it were a safe place in tag. Before Harry could settle down again, Malfoy heaved a breath and marched forward, and Harry gripped the arms of his chair as if to stand. Malfoy got there first, arm stretching past Harry’s face, and Harry braced for a touch. Instead, his chair creaked back, feet lifting from the floor, breathing harder than ever as Malfoy stared down at him and his skin tingled with disappointment that it had been his chair Malfoy was reaching for.
He tried to speak. His treacherous throat produced a croak of half-breathed air, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Malfoy’s grey ones. Lungfuls of his cologne made Harry’s head spin—replacing the oxygen with something better. He smelled sweet—clean—Harry always breathed deeper when he was closer to him. Now, it felt like he couldn’t breathe deeply enough and the edges of his vision went a little dark, the only thing he could see Malfoy’s face, his twitching fist, feeling his heartbeat in his cock as he waited for something else to happen.
Malfoys eyebrows were peaked, his eyes half shut, moans catching on every breath. His gaze stayed on Harry’s face—his eyes, his mouth, his hair—roving like they couldn’t get enough even though they saw each other more than anyone else. The hand on his cock sped faster, even while Harry’s were still fastened to the arms of his chair, his skin on fire, sweat building beneath his robes and on his forehead.
His hand shook as he secured it around his twitching cock, easing into the familiar touch, his eyes still locked on Malfoy’s. He was redder than Harry had ever seen him, flushed all the way to the crisp collar of his white shirt, cheeks blotchy. He moaned louder as Harry tugged himself, and Harry answered, moaning, too. Malfoy’s elbow bent, Harry’s head tipping to rest on the back of his chair, the space between their faces narrowing. A thrill went through him.
“Don’t,” Harry whispered, even as he lifted his head, his eyes on Malfoy’s lips, wanting.
Harry groaned, hand tugging faster, imagining what it would feel like. Malfoy paused a few inches away, grey eyes roaming, landing on his mouth, brow tensing. Harry felt his gaze like a kiss—allowing his mouth to part on his next moan—the most he could get himself to beg. Another inch, Malfoy moved forward, and Harry could feel the heat of him. It was unbearable—suffocating—buried in the smell of him—the thought of what his mouth would taste like. He came, swaying forward, hoping for even the slightest accidental graze, but Malfoy kept his distance even as he came, too.
“Harry, behave,” Ginny said, her hand clamped tight to his elbow.
He thought of the autographs tucked away in his pocket and frowned at her, wondering how she knew. She was looking over his shoulder, behind him in the crowd, and the back of his neck prickled as he shut his eyes and inhaled, knowing what she meant before he even turned around.
“Malfoy,” he said, mouth tight as he looked up. “My wife, Ginny. You’ve met.”
“Hello, Draco,” Ginny said gracefully, flicking her gaze in Harry’s direction as if he’d done something childish. “Astoria, right?”
“Yes. It’s an honour to meet you, really, I’m—”
“Tori,” Malfoy murmured, and she brought a hand to her mouth, looking up at him, hiding her smile. “She’s a fan,” Malfoy supplied before pressing a kiss to her temple.
They looked comfortable, settled into each other like that. Their bodies were almost flush, Malfoy’s hand on her hip, keeping her close. Ginny stood almost a foot away, and when she came closer, Harry didn’t know where to put his arm.
“Flint invited us,” Malfoy said, glancing at Harry, then away, as if Harry merely happened to be standing where the path of his gaze roamed. “Congratulations on beating him. He’s a sore loser, though, so watch out.”
Ginny laughed, but all Harry managed was a thin smile, watching as Malfoy steered Astoria away, staring at the hand he had settled on her waist as they went to the next group.
Now that Harry knew he was here, his eyes drew to him like a magnet. He stood out from the crowd—literally—taller than most. More beautiful than any. Ginny elbowed him in the ribs so many times they ached permanently, but he couldn’t stop himself. He went to the bathroom, thought about using a memory charm to make him forget Malfoy was there at all.
Hands clutched to the sink, he stared at himself, thinking he should go home and let Ginny finish the night. He wouldn’t be any fun anymore, anyway. She’d be better off without him.
Malfoy came in—faltered, like he hadn’t known Harry was in here as the door swung shut. Water dripped off Harry’s fringe from where he’d washed his face, his glasses on the sink beside him, Malfoy’s expression a blur. Harry watched in silence as Malfoy came closer, the white embellishments on his black robes a squirming swirl in the mirror. His heart pounded, and he put on his glasses, looking at himself as Malfoy went to the sink beside him and washed.
His cock stirred at the smell of him, hands shaking as he deposited soap into his palm, buying more time. He’d never washed his hands more thoroughly, his ears straining to hear over the rush of water, seeing the toe of Malfoy’s shoes in his periphery. He dried them—looked up—held his breath as he met Malfoy’s gaze and wanted to run—wanted to stay—wanted to hide, but he didn’t know from whom.
Malfoy’s first step was unsteady, as if his body had done it without his consent. When Harry didn’t move, he came closer, crowding him, and Harry responded as if someone had jinxed him with a repellent charm. With every step forward that Malfoy took, Harry moved backward, hitting the edge of the bathroom stall so hard it would bruise. Malfoy shut the door without turning, his fingers grappling with the lock—fighting to slide it home. Harry waited for him to act first—but the eagerness of his hands couldn’t be ignored as they both parted their robes and struggled with the fastenings on their trousers as if it were a race of who could get their cock out first.
Harry’s shoulders raised as his pulse pounded in his throat, leaning against the wall on one arm as his other jostled, tugging his cock, granting him relief from the throbbing that had been distracting him since his eyes had first met Malfoy’s face in the ballroom. He let out a shaky moan, seeing Malfoy’s purplish cockhead, knowing he’d been waiting, too. His knees felt weak—not used to doing this while standing, turning so that his shoulders were flat against the wall and Malfoy did the same on the other side.
Their heavy breathing filled the stall—the whole bathroom—and Harry vaguely thought they should cast a locking charm on the door. They were good at being quiet, mostly, but someone could come in—see two sets of feet—catch them in the act when they’d been so good at keeping it a secret. How long had it been? Months? Years? Harry’s eyes shut as his head tilted back, feeling the thrill of risk—loving it. His groan echoed, and Harry clamped his jaw, opened his eyes, felt his heart lurch when Malfoy wasn’t where he ought to be.
He was on his knees, head pressed to the wall, lavish robes pooling where he knelt on the dirty floor. Harry’s cock throbbed dangerously at the sight, side-stepping to get in front of him, feeling weaker than ever as heat roared in his chest. He flattened his palm to the wall above Malfoy’s head, his other hand still working, knowing he was close and wondering if Malfoy was, too. Grey eyes were locked on his—bright, eager. His pink lips parted, and Harry could feel his hot breath from a foot away, drawing his hips closer. Harry was moaning too much, he knew. Telling on himself. If someone had come in, he wouldn’t have known because all he could hear was Malfoy’s panting—his flitting fist—his own heartbeat as it rushed in his ears.
Malfoy’s head came forward, tongue flattening as it stuck out, so close Harry could almost graze it with his knuckles as his fingers swept the head of his aching cock. He almost didn’t want to come—didn’t want it to be over. He thought of their wives in the next room. Maybe they were searching for them. Maybe they hadn’t yet noticed they were gone. A pinch of guilt made the pleasure of his orgasm sweeter as he gave into it, meeting Malfoy’s eye, his body jolting as he came across his flushed face, and felt dampness on the shins of his trousers as Malfoy followed him down.
They never came any other way after that. Malfoy would go to his knees in front of Harry’s office chair, let Harry paint his face, then vanish it away once he found his sense again. It was harder to look at him now he knew what he looked like with come caught in his eyelashes—sliding down his temples—strings connecting one lip to the other over his open, gasping mouth.
Harry wondered what Malfoy would do if he allowed it to be the other way around.
Malfoy towered over him as he rounded Harry’s desk, cock in hand, panting. It had been days. They were both too eager—Harry already on the edge—whimpering as he tugged his sensitive cock. His mind was a blur of lust and need, and he fell to his knees before he could form a coherent thought, opening his mouth wide, looking up. Malfoy came at once, a groan tearing from his chest louder than anything Harry’d heard before, feeling the faintest touch near his ear, brushing his curls like he might fasten a hand there, but he didn’t. Harry came staring through the white mess that coated his glasses, knees aching from how hard they’d hit the floor.
It was nice to be touched—even if it was only the warmth of Malfoy’s release on his skin. It felt like they were connected for that brief moment before Malfoy vanished it. He wanted more. His cock twitched in his loose hand, staring up Malfoy’s body at his face as he panted out moans like he were still coming. His breaths were vocal, whimpering things, almost like he was crying. His expression was halfway to it.
Harry looked down, saw his softening cock hanging out of his parted flies, reached up with both hands to fasten them on the front of Malfoy’s thighs as he abandoned all sense of preservation and took Malfoy’s salty cock head into his mouth. Thin fingers threaded his curls at once, Malfoy’s hips bowing forward, feeding Harry his cock and letting out a sob of relief. Harry groaned around him, feeling his own cock twitch, knowing it wouldn’t be long before he was hard again.
He sucked Malfoy’s cock back to life—felt it throb like a creature in his mouth—groaned as he ran his tongue along the veins he had spent too long simply looking at. He had every intention on finding out what it felt like for Malfoy to come down his throat, but before he could, Malfoy sunk to his knees, hands on the sides of Harry’s neck, a sudden appearance of breath and damp, glistening eyes. They were inches apart, Malfoy’s gaze roving his face like it always did, his head tilting forward the barest amount as if he couldn’t control the pull.
“Please,” Malfoy whispered as his breath heaved, and the ache in Harry’s chest thrummed to life as Malfoy called to it, having been ignored successfully for too long. “Please.”
Harry’s pulse beat a hole in the base of his throat, his mind spinning as his emotions warred. His lungs squeezed, feeling dizzy, realising he’d stopped breathing some time ago and struggled to pull in another. It came in like a cool breeze in July. Draco’s cologne soothed the angry heat, clearing the fog from his mind as he shut his eyes and leaned, finding his mouth as if he’d done it a hundred times. Draco moaned softly and wrapped an arm across Harry’s shoulders, leaning into him, allowing Harry to slide his hands up his back.
Relief wove a thick blanket of euphoria that settled around them, years of yearning finally indulged. They tugged off each other’s clothes, hands roving bare skin, feeling drunk with being able to touch him after so long of merely picturing what it would be like. His arms felt weak with pleasure, mind overwhelmed, soft planes of muscle running for miles under his palms. Draco tilted forward, supporting Harry as he was lowered to the floor on a heap of their clothes, naked.
He felt himself shaking—adrenaline rocketing through him—excitement. Slick fingers brushed between his thighs, rubbing against the furrow of skin only he’d ever played with. He nodded against Draco’s mouth, unwilling to part from it, glad he was using his hands to prepare him instead of leaving his face alone where he might gather enough sense to change his mind.
Draco’s first finger slid in like a hot iron. Harry groaned louder than ever, feeling it taper off as he lost his breath, but couldn’t take in another, too full for anything else. The burn was sweet. Greed tightened in his chest as Draco’s finger moved, careful, but firm as it forged its path. Harry wanted more, even before his body was ready for it. He tried to ask, but couldn’t form the words, his mind scrambled, feeling only Draco’s mouth and thrusting finger.
Another soon joined it, bringing with it relief and the realisation that he could definitely come again. His cock was trapped beneath Draco’s hip, too sensitive, feeling each of their breaths. He lifted his knees, feet planted wide on either side of Draco’s body, trying to lift himself to get a better angle for Draco’s fingers—to feel more pressure on his throbbing cock.
“More—” he choked out, and a third finger pressed in, sending his head back as he struggled to breathe, unable to kiss any longer.
Draco’s mouth worked his throat, his shaky breaths loud in Harry’s ear as his fingers found a pace. Harry’s hips rocked into them, thinking this was the best he’d ever felt—wondering if they would ever get tired enough to stop or if they’d have to keep their door locked forever, the aurors who were never seen again because they were too busy shagging. One of his legs came up to hook behind Draco’s hip, pulling him in, asking without words because he’d used up all his effort on the one he'd already said. Draco’s fingers slid out.
Draco’s cockhead felt insurmountably bigger—halting Harry’s heartbeat—making his skull press back onto the hard ground. The pressure alone made pleasure curl tight tendrils behind his ribs, a groan forming in the base of his throat, but unable to claw its way out. His body jolted as the pressure broke and Draco slipped in, his moan like a shout as it tore from his chest, nails scraping soft flesh as he arched up, unsure if he wanted to get away or take in more. Draco’s hips had stilled, his panting mouth dampening the side of Harry’s neck, body trembling. Harry’s heel dug in.
Their mouths met as Draco eased into him, moaning loudly against each other, fastened. Harry’s lungs were ready to burst as Draco’s hips pressed against the back of his legs, filling him to the brim, making him wonder if his body could have taken even an inch more. Draco was gentle as he found his rhythm, one hand holding the side of Harry’s face, his breathing hard and moans desperate. Harry felt himself nod, followed at once by a more enthusiastic thrust—hard enough to make his body jolt, and Harry clung on tighter. His pace was relentless, as fast as Harry’s hammering pulse, making him feel that if Draco stopped, so would his heart. His thrusting hips were Harry’s connection to life—everything he’d been wanting—been searching for—been wishing he could have without knowing it was even real.
The empty ache in his chest was finally tended, like a patch of earth covered and sowed, ready to bloom when the season changed. Draco’s hand fastened around his cock and Harry’s spine arched, hardly able to keep their mouths together as he adjusted to his grip—the soft pads of his fingers, different from his own. It had been so long since someone else had touched him, he’d forgotten what it was like. He gave a moan of warning—the best he could offer, hoping it was a familiar enough of a noise for Draco to decipher. Draco exhaled a knowing breath, tugging faster, and as Harry came, he thumbed his wedding ring and wondered if this might be the last day he’d wear it.