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He has no idea what he’s doing.
It’s a bad idea. All of it. He knows it, too, and has known it from the moment that he’d stepped foot into Knockturn Alley. Coming here, risking the possibility of being seen. He has a glamour on, but that’s never been completely foolproof. Not to reporters, anyway.
But it’s late, and there doesn’t seem to be any here this evening. No one with cameras at least, which seems to be part in part by the design of the place. Besides, he can’t see why anyone would ever expect him to be somewhere like this.
Nobody knows yet, about him and Ginny. They’d been trying to keep it under wraps, at least for as long as they were able to. They both knew all too well how the tabloids picked apart every single thing the both of them did. Ginny is famous enough in her own right now, the best player in the league by a mile. Being married to Harry Potter is barely a footnote in all of her achievements, and will be listed just barely below divorcing Harry Potter, too.
It had been amicable, and perhaps a long time coming. Harry hadn’t been too torn up about it, and neither had she. The most reaction that they’d had to suffer through was of course from Mrs Weasley, but even that had blown over quicker than either of them had thought it would.
An unfortunate, and tragically unforeseen, side effect of being who he is, and of separating from someone in secret, is that Harry, God save him, is unfathomably — insatiably — horny. It rivalled even that of his teenagedom, with what felt like years since he’d been touched. He found himself at a constant ache for the touch of another, for some semblance of intimacy and heat.
And what was he to do? Everyone in the Wizarding World was under the impression, still, that he was in a loving relationship. Pick up a willing witch off of the street, he could not.
So, he’s here.
It is surprisingly less dingy than he had expected it to be before arriving. He hadn’t known much before about this kind of establishment other than the sad-looking souls who frequented it, the jokes made at their expense. He hadn’t thought at any point that he would eventually become one of them, another desperate john in a sea of dozens, scuttling through the entryway because they don’t want to be seen going inside.
There are neon lights lighting up the unwashed floors, dimness covering every corner, as if designed for anonymity. Harry cannot recognise anybody in there, and supposes that that is the point. He can only hope that nobody recognises him, either. So he keeps his head down, brushes his fringe compulsively over his scar and hopes that his glamour charm will last long enough, until he gets out of here.
The bar is where he finds himself, in need of a crutch to get him through the night. Even the barmaid is dressed scantily-clad, showing off her thighs and her cleavage, and he tries not to stare, tries not to be impolite. He orders a stiff drink, downs it, and then orders another.
“Hey, honey,” a voice says, sidling up onto the stool next to him. There are fingers trailing over his shoulder, his upper arms. They linger there. “What are you looking for?”
It is a man, Harry thinks. They look like a man, but have makeup on, lined eyes like the way Tonks used to paint them, and Harry is a little taken by the appearance by it. He hasn’t seen anything like this before. Short hair, tousled and dark, and rouge-red lips that have been over-lined past their natural border. They are smiling at him, and something about it makes Harry’s mouth a little dry. He can’t pin down what.
“I don’t know,” he says, instead of saying a woman because he doesn’t want to offend them. He hadn’t even considered the fact that the staff here would not be just women, hadn’t thought about the possibility of anything else. Then, instead of this, to let them down gently, “Er, I prefer lighter hair.”
“I see,” they say. “I know just the person for you. Expensive, though. You okay with that?”
“Uh.” He gulps. “Sure, yeah.”
“Perfect. Step into room five for me, would you? I’ll send over our Jewel.”
Harry doesn’t ask for elaboration, doesn’t ask for anything. He’s so out of his depth in this place that he just does as he’s instructed, picking up his drink to take with him. He has an odd feeling that he’s going to need it.
The rooms are not hidden, with that same neon lighting up the way, reading ROOMS in big, bold letters above a hallway, somehow darker than the rest of the building. Room five is spacious and curtained, a long, red, velvet-cushioned bench stretching across the back wall. Harry sits down upon it, anxiously twirling his wand and double, triple-checking his glamour is still holding strong. Whoever this Jewel was, Harry knew that it would not benefit him in the slightest to be discovered.
He just didn’t know how truly accurate that would end up being.
When he sees Jewel, as their slender, white legs slowly extend around the bunches of the curtains, Harry’s only reaction is to freeze. Never before has he felt as he does in this moment, caught in an impossible situation, fired up and shutting down all at once, even after everything. The legs are long and they are admittedly beautiful, but all that comes above them is something much more.
Jewel is a man, of that Harry is sure. His skin, body and face, is painted with some accentuating gold speckles and lines, and the clothes that he wears, sparse as they are, Harry has only ever seen before on women. But Jewel is a man. Jewel is most certainly, certainly a man.
He knows that hair, as perfect and light as it has always been. He knows that sharp jaw, and those equally as sharp eyes. He would know this face anywhere. What he does not know is this expression that the face wears now, grey eyes hooded and pink lips turned upwards into a smirk.
He knows that arm, though a sheer green fabric covers it now. He knows this chest, this torso. Nothing covers this. Nothing but a few straps hide the litany of scars that stretch down from shoulder to hip, just barely missing his nipples. There is a slight glamour put over these scars, too, and yet does nothing much. Harry is suddenly a lot more conscious about his own. And about his morality.
He is being pushed over with guilt from all corners of the room. Sectumsempra, the concept of Harry seeing him like this, the imbalance of their identities and the knowledge of them. The fact that Draco Malfoy had been forced into this at all, that this is where he had had to end up. After everything. Could Harry have helped him more?
The scars are a bigger hit to his chest than he’d thought they would be. Seeing them there, carved in sharp, jagged lines by his own doing, a thing that had almost killed him. It would take him out of it, throw him violently backwards and shock him if he hadn’t been overwhelmed with the rest of his skin at the very same time. Too much is happening, too much information entering his mind at once. Draco Malfoy is naked, and he is a sight in more ways than one.
Jewel, Malfoy, seems either oblivious or indifferent to Harry’s inner turmoil. He has that same look in his eye, and he approaches him, the curtain sweeping shut with magic immediately afterwards. Harry can only watch as he steps forward, frozen still. He is not sure where to look.
“Good evening,” Malfoy says, and he sounds so… Different, Harry thinks. His voice is low, deliberate. “I’m Jewel. What would you like me to call you?”
He is standing in front of Harry now, so that he must tilt his head to look up at his face. He is finding it a struggle to keep his eyes there. The man’s body is slim, alluring to a degree that is alarming to Harry. It is decorated with that same aforementioned gold paint, and with green underclothes, tight and rippable.
Harry is half-convinced that none of this is real.
“Er,” he says, unable to answer him. He is afraid to speak, terrified of what will happen if Malfoy recognises his voice.
“Sir?” Malfoy says, and then he’s lowering himself. His hands are on Harry’s thighs and he’s on his knees between them, and then he’s the one looking up at Harry instead. Long eyelashes flutter as they are peered through, pink lips licked and then remaining just barely open. “You look stressed, sir.”
You have no idea, Harry wants to say to him. He has to stop this.
And then Malfoy’s hand is rubbing his thigh. Upwards, upwards. He is shuffling on bare naked knees, closer and closer. His thumb is there, then, stealing all of Harry’s breath from his lungs. Nudging Harry’s cock, stroking it through his trousers. And it is not without shame that he knows that he’s been hard since he saw him.
Malfoy squeezes his cock, then, cupping the bulge in his whole hand. Harry can’t help the way that his legs fall open further, and he truly doesn’t mean it as an encouragement. He doesn’t.
And, yet.
“That’s it, sir,” Malfoy says, almost a whisper, and he sounds so… Harry doesn’t have words. “Let me help you. I want to help you.”
He is leaning his cheek against Harry’s inner thigh as he begins to unzip his trousers, edging his face closer and closer, and Harry has to stop this. He is on almost all fours between Harry’s legs, his back almost arched, as if he is presenting himself for Harry to look at his arse from this angle, too, and oh, God, Harry has to stop this.
“I know just the thing for you, sir,” Malfoy is saying, barely audible over the inner turmoil. “I’ve been told that my mouth is the solution to almost any problem in the world. Would you let me try and help you, sir? Would you?”
Harry wants to tell him to stop, but words are stuck in his throat. Why does he feel so paralysed?
“Or,” Malfoy says, and then he’s pushing himself up off of the ground, positioning his legs either side of Harry’s and sidling himself down into his lap. He feels so good there, so warm, so firm against him. Harry does not pull his hands away as Malfoy picks them up by his wrists, does not protest as he should as they are placed upon his arse, slipping beneath the sparse strings there.
“Is this better? Is this more of what you were thinking?” Malfoy asks, arching himself back into Harry’s hands, and then forwards again, into his crotch. Harry has to shut his eyes, bite down on his lip to keep himself from exploding. His libido is battling logic at this point, asking him, jabbing at him, What would it hurt? Who would ever find out?
But it’s not right, and he knows it. There is an unfair imbalance. Malfoy directs Harry’s hand between his cheeks, presses two of his fingers over his hole, and then wraps his arms around Harry’s neck.
Oh. God.
“Would you like to fuck me?” Malfoy whispers, and he’s so close now. Their noses are almost touching, barely a centimetre apart. “I can feel how hard you are, sir. Merlin, I can feel it. Want it inside me. Do you want to fuck me, too?”
“Yeah,” Harry says, and it’s on impulse. His fingers are moving without his say-so, feeling anything and everything that he can. His other hand takes a squeeze, and he cannot breathe.
“Good,” he says, a whimper. “You’re so pent up, I can feel it in you. You should take it all out on me, sir. Do whatever you want to me, I implore you.”
Harry wants to. Has he ever wanted this before? Has he ever wanted anything? He can’t remember. He can’t remember what he had for breakfast this morning. Nothing seems to exist apart from this, and how fucking hard he is.
Malfoy’s fingers touch his face. And he is there, right there. Looking at him. Looking at each other.
And Harry can’t.
“Wait,” he says, removing his hands from the other man’s body, and a flicker of something shows in Malfoy’s eyes. “I can’t.”
Clearly, he hears this a lot. Malfoy says, “Your wife won’t ever find out.”
“No, I—” Harry starts, but Malfoy is shaking his head again, that same smirk on his face.
“I want your fingers in me, sir. I want your cock inside me. How often does your wife say that to you anymore?” he asks, and now his breath is tickling Harry’s ear. He could give in. So easily, he could give in.
“I can’t,” Harry says again, and this time he places his hands on the other man’s hips to guide him away. “I’m sorry. I just —”
This is met with a scoff. “You’re not like other men, is that it?” And Harry watches his gaze fall to his crotch, still hard, still tenting through his underwear and his undone trousers. “Whatever you say.”
Harry could be terrible. A small part of him, most likely the Slytherin part, is screaming at him to shut up and let it all happen. How many other people had, before now? How many other people had seen him, known him, taken advantage of his new profession? Harry can see it, in his minds’ eye, as clear as day and wholly beautiful.
He can see him in this outfit, or another, perhaps red, resigned to a world of nothing but cock. He can see him bent over from one room to the next, large hands on his back and on his behind, everywhere, all over him. The vision is desperately alluring, and so terribly sad.
Can Harry really settle with being another one of them?
“No, I…” Harry sighs. “I know who you are.”
There is evidence of a falter, then, but it does not change the man’s course. His eyes fall down to his arm before he crosses them across his chest, and then he shrugs. He still looks beautiful, like this.
He says, “Several people have done, in the past. It adds a little something for them. Getting to personally punish a Death Eater has its benefits.”
“Malfoy,” he says, an interruption, and then he can see it. He can see the very moment that it twigs in the other man’s head, the way that his eyes narrow as he processes Harry’s voice say his name. His eyebrows furrow, and he comes ever so closer to him, examining his face.
He looks in his eyes, then. And there’s the confirmation for it.
“Potter,” Malfoy says, stumbling backwards just one step. “What are— What?”
“I’m sorry,” he tells him at once, lowering the glamour as there is no more need for it. “I tried to say something.”
Malfoy’s hand is on his forehead, and he has shut his eyes. “No. No, there is just simply no chance that this is happening.”
Harry gulps.
“Potter,” he says again. “Potter?”
He nods, a bit more than slightly ashamed of himself, and flicks his wand to remove his glamour with a sigh. Malfoy’s face is now unforgiving, a dagger, staring at him with something new and terrifying. He doesn’t know how to adjust to this, and so he doesn’t, sitting there in shame with his trousers still undone.
“I did try to say something,” he mumbles.
“I was going to suck your cock,” Malfoy spits back, almost laughing with disbelief. “Your fingers —”
Harry feels himself heat, but not necessarily from the embarrassment of it all. He’s somehow having flashbacks to mere moments ago, mourning himself for his morality and wishing he’d never said anything at all. He is still hard, and it is all the worse knowing that Malfoy can see it.
“Did you come here on purpose?” Malfoy asks then, suspicion running over his spine like a cat.
“No,” he rushes to say. “I didn’t know you worked here. Of course, I didn’t know! I was at the bar and someone came over and told me I’d love Jewel. I thought you’d be a girl, Malfoy!”
Malfoy sucks his teeth. He has his arms folded over his chest, over the green fabric there, just covering his nipples. “You’re still paying me,” he says.
Harry frowns. “Er, no, I’m not.” If he’s going to spend his money somewhere as risky as this, it’s going to be worth it, after all.
“Yes, you are,” Malfoy demands. “I was giving you my best moves, Potter. I look like this. This isn’t for free.”
“Well,” Harry argues, sitting back with a shrug. “My galleons aren’t for free, either.”
The eyebrow raise that comes from Harry’s comment is not subtle, nor missed. He is teasing him, or so it seems, or perhaps Malfoy thinks Harry is teasing him instead. He knows how it sounds, as soon as it leaves his mouth: Earn it.
“Fine, then. What Harry Potter wants, Harry Potter gets. Did they tell you I’m expensive?” Malfoy asks, and he’s stepping closer to him again, his eyes darker now than they had been when he’d entered the room. The game has changed, Harry can feel it. He is still performing, at least to a degree, but the act is filled with purpose now, instead of that of a numbing routine.
Harry swallows before he answers. He can tell where this is going, can tell by the look in the other man’s eyes, and it feels dangerous. It feels fucking dangerous, and it’s pumping his adrenaline far more than he’d felt in years. He’d not once felt this with Ginny, not even when they had fumbled under the covers in the same house as all of her brothers. It’s been an odd sort of high that he hadn’t known he’d been missing from himself, from his life. It isn’t surprising, somehow, that Draco Malfoy should be the one to return this sensation to him.
It’s for this very reason that he says, with a dry throat, “Yes.”
“And you’re prepared for that?” he asks. He’s walking closer with one foot in front of the other. Then, he adds with that same sarcastic venom, “Sir?”
Harry doesn’t know what is happening. He says, “You know that I am.”
“Of course,” Malfoy says, and then he’s dropping to his knees again. Harry cannot breathe, watching him, staring. Those long, thin fingers are on his thighs again. “Harry Potter and his extended vault. You really do get whatever you want, don’t you?”
No, he wants to tell him, and a part of him, if it weren’t so distracted, would want to point out the ridiculous nature of what he’s saying. Of how, for many years, it had been the exact opposite dynamic between them.
But he can hear the anger there, the envy. He can feel it, too, in the imbalance between them, physical and psychological. Malfoy on his knees, working in a place like this. Again, Harry feels like he should go. He feels like he should stop this, should be the bigger person and walk out.
He doesn’t, though.
“Can I?” he asks. “And what do I want?”
“You told me what you want,” Malfoy says, and he’s rubbing Harry’s legs, getting closer and closer to danger. “Would you have fucked me? You wanted to. Would you have fucked me and let me go on, unknowing it was you?”
His voice shakes as he replies, “No.”
“Hm,” Malfoy hums, and then his hand is on Harry’s cock again, squeezing the bulge as it’s still tenting through fabric. “No,” he murmurs, “You’re far too selfless.”
Harry can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic, but he can also barely tell left from right and up from down at this moment. “Fuck,” is all that he can bring himself to articulate, arching his hips up into the other man’s hand, allowing himself some pleasure in the action now that the guilt is not particularly eating him from the inside, out.
“Good?” Malfoy asks, palming him, slipping those fingers inside of his trousers and holding him through just underwear. “Tell me.”
“Yeah,” Harry has to say. He can’t lie, not now. “Yeah, good. Fuck, what are we doing?”
“I’m trained to do this now, Potter,” he says, and Harry is barely registering the words. His mind, poisoned with its arousal, is forcing himself to focus almost entirely on the dulcet tones that he’s speaking in, soft and, well, like he’d said, trained. He continues, “It’s my job to make big men like you feel good. Powerful men, like you. Tell me I’m good.”
“You’re good,” Harry says, though part of him is still tearing himself apart. Could this really be Draco Malfoy’s life now? The boy who once flew so high and soared without thought for anyone else? “You’re good, Malfoy.”
“That’s it,” he coaxes, and then he’s pressing his face against Harry’s crotch, running his parted lips across the unsubtle bulge in his underwear. “Have you thought about this, Potter?”
“No,” he says quietly. If he’d had dreams, that’s another conversation. Never had he thought this would occur, had never considered it.
“Don’t lie, now,” he says, and Harry can feel the vibrations of his speech against his erection. “A part of you has always wanted this. Always wanted me to be on my knees for you. Always wanted to be the one to stamp me out, and lower me.”
“That’s not true.” He’s denying it with heavy breath, but he’s not sure. Has he dreamt of this? Has this vision visited him before in the night?
Malfoy is rubbing his cheek against him, fingers still splayed over his thighs. He is feeling him, feeling his desire, and appears to want it. But, then, that is his job now. Harry tries not to think too deeply into it, no further beyond the fact that he is being promised a good payment. He hates him. They hate each other. They always have, it has long since been their narrative.
When another barb does not come from the man below him, Harry speaks again. “Are you actually going to?” he asks, mostly because he wants confirmation, something tangible to prove that he’s not insane. Then, “I’m not wholly convinced that you won’t bite something off,” he says, half-joking.
“You don’t want me to use my mouth?” he asks. Then he’s smirking again, licking his pretty, stretched lips. “Are you not used to it?”
He’s not. Not anymore, anyway. Ginny and he have been separated for more than a while, and nothing like this had Harry experienced for far longer before that. He has been insatiably on edge, fantasising about things that he shouldn’t. Is this just a nasty tease, or has Malfoy always been able to read him so well?
“I want to show you what I’m worth, Potter,” he tells him, taking his silence as an answer, or as indifference. Harry isn’t sure. He says, as he pulls Harry’s cock out of his underwear and wraps his fine fingers around it, “I want you to bear witness to how I must earn my living now, as you sit cushty and comfortable in the Ministry.”
And just the sight of it keeps Harry’s breath from sliding out of his mouth, let alone a rebuttal to the claim, something and something about how choices were made, long ago. The view, taking him like an electric shock, forces something inside of him to surge in active want. He is taking Harry’s quiet as consent, and directing his desire right into his mouth, fingertips brushing over his shaft. Everything is on fire. Everything is alive.
His mouth is a heat that Harry somehow hasn’t known before, though this is nowhere near his first indulgence into the activity. Malfoy’s mouth is just something different, something sweet and taking. It is something more akin to sinking into the swimming pool-sized baths in the Prefects’ bathroom, that bliss that overcomes one’s whole body. He does not stop at just his mouth, either; the man beneath him seems to be more than anxious to take him all, to — impress him, almost.
Grey eyes peer up at him, judging his ecstasy, every moan that falls from Harry’s mouth at the contact. His glasses slip down his face every time that he looks down, sweat lubricating the ridge of his nose, but look, he must. How could he not? How could anyone part their gaze from the man that is in front of him, down on his knees and a picture with a mouthful, at that?
And, then. Then. Harry hadn’t been prepared for the movement, the way that his head rises and then falls, lips slipping from base, all the way back to the very tip. His tongue-work is a mastery, going just firm enough to put pressure on his slit, which is already beginning to leak.
“You taste good,” Malfoy tells him. Harry is still struggling to believe any of this is real. He can feel the lush heat of his breath against the fresh wetness on his cock. “You taste just as I’d thought a Saviour would.”
“You don’t—” Harry is struggling to speak again. “You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to talk like that. Not to me.” He says it as though he’s set apart from the rest, and in a way, he wishes that he were. Could this have happened at any other point? A different time, a different place, under different circumstances? He doubts it.
The thought settles over him, then. With how their lives have gone, in such vastly dissimilar directions, this may be the only time. The only place. Inequality and neon lights.
“People pay me to do this, Potter, and you’re no different.” He leans forward again, wrapping his lips around just the head of him and sucking, hard. Harry can’t argue, can’t stress over the fact that he feels like Malfoy has just read his mind. He can’t even imagine speaking.
When he pulls off, he pushes himself back up to his feet, leaving Harry exposed. He looks at him, eyes hard and observant.
He only speaks again as he’s sidling back into Harry’s lap, pressing himself down against his erection and rocking. His body is light, perfect against him. Harry’s hands find themselves back on his hips again just as he opens his mouth.
Malfoy tells him, “I’m giving you my best performance. I’m doing everything you want. Anything.” He rolls his hips, punctuating his words. “You’re in or you’re out, Saviour. You can’t have half of the package. This is what has become of me, and you will —” Another roll, more forceful now, “— Bear witness.”
“Fuck,” Harry says, and he’s not entirely sure that the passive aggressive tone of the room is supposed to be turning him on as much as it is. He takes what is given to him, relishing in the handfuls that have found themselves in his lap. Using them, he pulls the other man down, desperate for the friction that he’s not sure he should be awarded.
“You can fuck me, Potter,” Malfoy tells him, low still in his ear, like honey. “I said, anything.”
“Yeah,” Harry begins, the words spilling out nonsensically now. Reason has left him. “Fuck you. Want it.”
“You want it? Put your fingers inside me. Make me take it,” he is saying, all words that are making Harry dizzier and dizzier. “Fuck me with them, first.”
And so Harry does. He finds his fingertips just where they had been before, burying them within the tight underwear that he wears, and nothing else. At some point, and Harry would love to know which, he must have cast a spell on himself. A single finger slips right inside, aided by a slickness that hadn’t been there before.
Through even all of the confusing haze of these long moments between them, Harry is not entirely oblivious to the irony of the situation. He is angry, Harry can tell. He is more than angry, forcing Harry to face the reality of his life since the War, of what the Malfoy name has had to resort to just to get by, day to day. But there is only one person giving the orders here in this room.
“More,” Malfoy demands, when Harry’s singular finger inside him becomes more for enjoyment rather than preparation. “Unless you want me hurting?”
“Mm,” he mumbles instead of answering, and then two more fingers accompany the first. He can’t see a point in prolonging it further, not when he’s desperate to get inside him, and he may be paying by the minute.
Malfoy appears to like the feeling of his fingers inside of him, but Harry is finding it hard to separate the act from reality. He is preening, moaning against Harry’s shoulder, pressing his face flush into his neck, but there’s no guarantee that any of it is real. He could ask, he figures, could give him a quiet, Do you like it? but how could he ever trust the answer?
He wants him to like it. He wants him to love it, wants to be the best that he’s ever had in a seemingly endless sea of cocks and sex. He wants to boggle Malfoy’s mind, have him begging Harry to come back to this horrible place and grant him with this experience again. He wants him to forget who he is, what he is, make him forget that he’s meant to be alluring and faking ecstasy. He just wants to make him feel.
“I’m going to fuck you now, Malfoy,” Harry tells him. “I’m going to make you cum.”
Harry doesn’t miss the laugh that is spilled into the crook of his neck, and it just encourages him more. “Of course,” Malfoy says amicably, because he has obviously heard this before. “Whatever you want, Saviour.”
He reaches between them then, into the shared heat at their crotches, and would have grabbed Harry’s cock again if he had not stopped him. Harry gently holds his wrist, directing it away before taking hold of him himself. Then he removes his fingers, though regrettably, and with one arm, bodily lifts Malfoy’s body several inches into the air.
“Oh,” Malfoy breathes, having to steady himself against Harry’s chest and shoulder.
“Going to go inside now, Malfoy,” Harry warns him, and their faces are now very, very close. “Is that okay?”
Malfoy swallows. Nods. He says, “You don’t have to ask permission. I’m yours for the hour.”
With narrowing eyes, he can tell that Malfoy knows it is getting to him, getting on his nerves now. That’s the aim, after all. But it’s working.
It is almost a distracting enough frustration to make him forget about where his erection is going, but then he feels it — that warm, tight sheath, the best feeling that he’s ever experienced, on par with Felix Felicis, maybe, — and not even Draco Malfoy could be annoying enough to interfere with this bliss.
“Oh, God,” Harry gasps, the words ripped from him without even his realising. “Mm. Fuck, you’re tight.”
In his daze, he’s half-expecting another sarcastic comment, something stressing how impressive it is when he clearly does this everyday. But there’s nothing, not for this moment, at least. There is nothing but the soft, hurried breathing in Harry’s ear, and the tightening of his arms around Harry’s body.
In the quiet, he lowers Malfoy’s body down, slowly, slowly until he feels himself fully inside, until he can feel the warmth of his behind against his own hips. And he is holding him, still, as well, one arm wrapped wholly around his small waist, and the other splayed over the royal green on his stomach.
When he bottoms out, Malfoy reacts again, a high, cut-off moan that he clearly doesn’t mean to let escape him. Harry can’t help but wonder if it is different already, if he is already a mile better than every other selfish John that Malfoy comes across on a daily basis. Harry wants to think that. Badly, he wants to.
He doesn’t ask Malfoy to move himself, wants him to stay comfortable, so when he rocks up into him, he does so alongside lifting him again, moving them both in a slow tandem. There is sweat dripping down his forehead already, he can feel it. Harry could burst right now, it’s been so long, it’s been such an impressive length of time since he’s felt anything like this.
No, he rethinks. He has never felt anything like this before, and he shouldn’t be surprised. This is Malfoy. This is Draco Malfoy, and their relationship has never been anything below average, always dialled up to a million, even in school.
And could they have done this then, Harry finds himself wondering? No, probably not. But the question is a ringing thing in his head, a fantasy that he will have packed away forever after he has to leave this room and re-enter a less important reality. The idea of it alone has Harry beginning to quicken his pace, fucking upwards as he imagines it, taking the man in the Prefects’ bathroom, or in one of many broom closets that he’s seen others use for their own similar purposes. His mind is not making sense, wondering if he could have fucked this out of him before, wondering if he could have distracted him enough with his cock to make him forget about family honour, and his Dark Lord.
“Potter,” is said quietly into his ear again, and he can feel the sweat on his head, too, pressed against him. He is whining his name, “Potter, Potter,” over and over, as if it is finally, actually sinking in that this is who he is doing this with.
Harry finds himself with his face in his neck, an inevitable thing that has his glasses askew. He doesn’t care. He could be blind forever, for all he cares, because he is littering kisses along the expanse of his throat, everywhere that he can reach.
“Mm,” he hears then, once he begins sucking instead of just kissing. “No, Potter.”
He stops, then. Stops everything, head shooting back to get a full look at him. His hips pause, and so does the rocking of the man’s body in his lap. He asks him at once, “You okay? You want to stop?”
Malfoy looks at him, a vague expression of confusion falling over his otherwise dazed face. He asks him, in a smaller voice now, “What?”
“Are you okay? You asked me to stop.”
Malfoy blinks at him. Then his eyes flutter over his face, as if looking for a sign of deceit, of trickery. “I’m okay,” he tells him. “Just — Don’t leave marks. I’ll get in trouble.”
“In trouble?” Harry frowns. He looks down, stares at the mark that he’d begun to leave on that pale neck, and inwardly wants to immediately spell himself dead. What is more than a shame, than to see this bare, white expanse and not be able to fill it with red and purple?
“I’m an employee here, Potter,” Malfoy has to remind him. “Other men want to think that I’m theirs. I can’t have reminders of other people all over me.”
Harry hates that. He immediately wants to burn the place down, wants to forbid anyone else from seeing him. It’s not healthy. It’s not his place.
Still.
“Fine,” Harry agrees, though through gritted teeth. “Then I can’t have it right in front of me. Can I lay you down?”
Malfoy looks at him, those grey, deep eyes analysing him once more. And then he nods. “Of course, you can.”
The manoeuvre is a quick, slick movement that ends with Malfoy on his back, the colour difference striking him all at once. His white skin and hair, his emerald lingerie against the maroon of the velvet cushions behind him, all of it sends Harry somehow more feral.
He is still seated inside of him, his cock nudging aside his pants to get access to his hole. His long, slender legs are spread, and find themselves quickly over Harry’s shoulders. He is a sight and a half.
“You’re beautiful,” he feels compelled to say, right then and there, and he tries not to enjoy how Malfoy’s face heats up, how he quickly becomes somewhat camouflaged against the red of the velvet beneath them.
“Shut up,” Malfoy says at once. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?” he asks, and then he’s moving again, pulling out slowly before hilting himself back inside. The movement is punctuated by the other man’s continued whimper, the tightening of his legs around his neck. Harry says, “You are. God, you’re beautiful.”
“That’s —” His words are cut off with another thrust. He is attempting to compose himself. “That’s not what we’re doing. That’s not what — Merlin — That’s not what this is, Potter.”
Harry doesn’t necessarily feel like he is under any illusions about what this is, but then, he’s never quite known what it is he’s feeling. Have men never told Malfoy that he’s beautiful before? He finds that hard to believe. He finds it desperately hard to believe, actually, that no man has ever laid him down and looked upon him like this, splayed vulnerable and open, and not thought to tell him the God’s honest truth about how he looks.
But then, maybe they have. Maybe that in itself is the whole difference. Or maybe Malfoy just knows him so well, after all of these years, to know that Harry would have difficulty separating fiction from reality, that he is unable to look past Malfoy’s true self, the one that he has known for forever, and pretend to only see Jewel instead. He’d be right, after all. The only person that Harry sees before him now is that same boy that he’d met once, long ago, in Madam Malkins, and put a sour taste in his mouth. It’s that same boy who had always flaunted his spoilt nature, had used his father’s name as a top-trump in any conversation. It’s that same boy who had been forced into an impossible situation, and who had made the wrong choices when he had not yet even turned seventeen.
He is the same boy that Harry had torn apart with a spell he didn’t know the meaning of, the same boy who had bled on the bathroom floor. The boy who had failed to recognise him in the face of Voldemort’s tightest grasp, and who had gripped him with the force of the ocean when flames had tickled their legs.
It seems more than impossible to separate the two of them. No one else who had visited him here had known him as deeply and long as Harry had, of that, he is almost certain. He is the only person who has come here and laid him down, touched him and seen every version of who he was before this time, this place. It’s a place that he shouldn’t belong in, that the very existence of Draco Malfoy clashes with in more than a million ways.
Maybe Malfoy is thinking the exact same thing, right now. Maybe the lines are getting just as blurred for him as they are for Harry.
Harry stares at him, unsure how to continue speaking his line of thought without stepping outside of the boundaries of this bought agreement. So he just moves, instead. He takes him by his arse and lifts him for a better angle, and he fucks into him without abandon, fucks him until Malfoy is writhing beneath him, moaning pretty sounds that, at least to Harry’s untrained ear, sound real and not practiced.
“Fuck,” Harry says again, as if this one word is anchoring him. “Malfoy.”
“Potter,” Malfoy answers, high still and breathy. He has lifted his arm, placed it over his eyes as if to hide them. Harry can see a dark splotch beneath the sheer green covering his forearm. The man is whining, still, “It’s good.”
Harry swallows. “Yeah?”
“Mm,” Malfoy agrees at once. “Can feel it so — So deep.”
“I love fucking you,” Harry tells him. “Could do this forever. You feel amazing.”
Shall we? he almost proposes. He can picture it, somewhere in those dark depths of his mind. Having him, keeping him all to himself, where these other men, no worse or no better than Harry, are not able to touch him. These are dangerous thoughts to be having at any point. They are deadly now, when Harry is caught up in pleasure and does not know how to keep his mouth closed.
He takes hold of Malfoy’s legs then, moving one to join the other, both upon one of his shoulders. It’s better like this, for whatever reason, and Malfoy seems to agree. His hands are moving without aim now, and Harry can see his eyes again. They are glistening. He is grabbing this and that, whatever he can reach. Once or twice, his nails catch Harry’s wrist or his arm, and the contact, despite their conjoined position, makes him feel high. He wants the scratches, wants to be marked if he cannot mark him in turn, desperate for some kind of tangible evidence that he can hold onto in the aftermath of this.
“I can’t go much longer,” Harry warns, slightly preemptive. “It’s you, you’re just… You’re too much.”
“Cum in me.” The demand comes at once. “Need it. Please.”
Does he say that to everyone? Does he beg like this for them all? Harry’s beating heart aches at the thought of it, though he knows he has no claim, no say over any of it. It’s the first time they’ve even seen each other in — How long? The thought is echoing painfully through his head. Who does he think he is?
Regardless, he can do that. He can grant Malfoy’s requests as they come, and will do so gladly. He reaches around, pokes his fingertips beneath the man’s panties and pulls them down, exposing him for the first time. And this, too, is beautiful, hard and leaking with every time his body bounces back and forth with the force of Harry’s thrusts.
He circles his hand around Malfoy’s cock, jerking it with fervour, desperate to make him finish as well. He would die to see it, the sticky, white mess of his making, all over his chest and his stomach, staining the green and the scars.
“Oh,” Malfoy groans, and his hips are arching upwards, then. “Yes, Potter. Yes.”
“Look at you,” he breathes, more to himself than anything. “My God.”
“Keep going,” Malfoy requests, and his eyes are pooling now, his voice shaking. “Merlin, Potter. Potter.”
He is saying his name over and over, like a prayer or a poem. There is the undeniable influence of who they are, settling over them and lingering in the room, something that they are both finding impossible to ignore.
“I’m going to cum,” Harry says, and this is the sharpest warning that he can give. Malfoy’s identity is ringing in his head, pounding it, gorgeous and shining. “You— I’m going to cum, Malfoy.”
“Do it. Do it, please,” he begs. “Want it.”
And he does. He pumps inside him and then it comes shortly, quickly and all at once, spilling himself as deep within his former arch-nemesis as he is possibly able. It is nothing that he has ever felt before, and he can barely see, white, fuzzy spots clouding his vision.
Throughout, he tries his very best to not cease his movements tending to the man beneath him, his slick hand bouncing as tight as he can around him. Malfoy, beneath him still, is reeling, with it, obviously influenced and encouraged by the sensation of the orgasm inside of him.
“Don’t stop,” Malfoy says again, though Harry hadn’t been planning on it. The glistening in his eyes is bubbling over, and Harry watches a tear fall from each eye. “Merlin, Merlin, Potter. Oh. I’m going to —”
“That’s it,” Harry says, or tries to say, wanting to comfort him. His ears are ringing, and he’s not sure if anything but breath has left his mouth.
When it comes, when he does, it comes hard. It is everything that Harry had imagined, shooting over himself and dirtying himself with the evidence of his own ecstasy. It reaches everywhere, right up to the half-done mark that Harry had tried to leave upon his neck, alongside the painted gold along his body. And it is so, so beautiful.
They sit with it for a while, the two of them breathing heavily in tandem. Harry slides himself out of him when the timing seems right, when it’s been just that little bit too long for him to excuse his ongoing presence inside of him. He fixes Malfoy’s underwear back in place, and grabs some of the provided tissues to clean them both up. He hands one to the other man for the tears that have now dented and smudged the gold along his cheeks, and begins wiping his lingerie. In this moment, he’s forgotten that magic could do this all for them.
Malfoy, throughout it all, seems to be unable to stop staring at him. Clutching the tissue in his fist, not patting his face dry.
He says, softly, “You don’t have to do this.”
And Harry, in the midst of wiping him, looks back. He tells him, “Neither do you.”
Malfoy does not roll his eyes, as Harry had expected. In fact, he looks rather forlorn. “Of course, I do. What other options are there?”
Harry lays beside him, though there’s not much room. He allows his fingers to trace over the man’s arm, and Malfoy lets it happen. He says, “I could help you.”
“You’re not the first man to offer me that,” Malfoy says, but the true bite still isn’t there.
“No,” Harry agrees. “But I’m not every other man, am I?”
Malfoy stares, looking again for that same deceit he must be so used to. “You want to fix me.”
“No,” he says again. “Help you. Get you out of here. Working here, Malfoy, it’s just not…”
“So, it’s good enough for you to visit, but shameful, humiliating to work in?” he asks.
“Malfoy,” he says, and he holds his face, now, as if this could somehow show how deeply he means it. “They’re looking for people in the Department of Mysteries. Your… Unique experience could be a benefit. And you’re smart. You’re so smart.”
There is no answer to this.
“And in the meantime, you could stay with me,” Harry offers. He isn’t thinking, but he doesn’t think he needs to. This feels right. “Not as — I wouldn’t expect anything from you. No payment. No strings attached.”
Malfoy, with the slightest, smallest movement, leans into his hand. “Us? No strings attached?”
Harry shrugs. “Could be possible. Couldn’t it?”
They look at each other, at the disparity of their appearances and the differences of their lives, and they both want to believe it. Harry does, at least. Harry wants it. Not just as a post-orgasm idea, of guilt of what he’s done and what he may or may not have taken advantage of here, today. He can see it working, and if not forever, he can see it working for as long as it needs to.
This is Malfoy.
And he’s looking at him still, with the slightest show of some kind of hope mixed with hopelessness. Not letting himself believe it, not letting himself want it, mixing with his innate knowledge of Harry Potter that he’s had and held for the majority of his life. The fact that used to so badly annoy him; that Harry is a good person, and that if he wants to help, he will make damned sure that he will.
“See me next week,” Malfoy tells him. “If you still want to by then, then I’ll think about it. If not…” He sits up, and still, he looks perfect. “Well. I’ll just have to charge you extra, next time.”