Draco Malfoy wasn’t wandering. He was patrolling. On his own orders.
It was a habit that still clung to him, even after all these years. As much as he exploited the position, being an actual prefect wasn’t something he could shrug off so easily, especially not when he couldn’t bring himself to accept the reality of what his life had become.
He wasn’t a prefect anymore—nor was he even a serious contender for Head Boy. That would have been laughable now, with everything that had happened to his family and their fall from grace after the war.
No, he was just another student, returning to finish his N.E.W.T.s. But the wandering after curfew never stopped.
There was something soothing in the routine of walking the corridors, letting his thoughts roam free, away from the suffocating confines of his nightmares. Those dreams of his father’s betrayal, of his mother’s fearful silence, of the dark shadow looming over him, reminding him of everything he had failed to be.
Tonight, like so many others, he needed to escape the terror of sleep. The nightmares had come in waves ever since he returned for 8th year. Every night, they haunted him, twisting him into the same hopeless position under Voldemort’s control. Forced to watch as Nagini inched her venomous fangs over the bodies of the opposition over their dining table and as his father writhed painfully under the cruciatus curse.
That’s why he was out here, past curfew, no better reason than to try and outrun the visions of powerlessness that always plagued him when he closed his eyes.
As Draco wandered aimlessly down the dimly lit hall, his thoughts drifted back to his return for 8th year.
The Slytherins had come back not for glory, not for revenge, but to prove they could still hold their heads high—if only just. They didn’t want to pick fights or continue their families’ dark legacies. They just wanted to finish their exams in peace.
But there was something else—a deep, almost unconscious need to keep whatever pride they had left. Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott, both wizards that had come from grey families, had said nothing to him, continuing to jab and exchange light conversation on the train on their way to Hogwarts. Consciously choosing to move forward. Daphne Greengrass had even began sitting next to him.
Draco Malfoy returned to Hogwarts for his 8th year feeling like an intruder in a place that had once felt like home. The castle bore scars of the battle, much like its students, but the real changes were in the people—old alliances fractured, and no one looked at him without suspicion or contempt. He often thought about Crabbe and Goyle: Crabbe lost to Fiendfyre and Goyle too shaken to even consider returning. Their absence weighed on him, though he wasn’t sure if it was guilt, grief, or both.
Snape’s death left a gaping void; Draco respected him in a way he’d never fully expressed, and he couldn’t reconcile his sacrifice with the betrayal he’d been accused of. Dumbledore, too, haunted him—his death was a stain on Draco’s conscience that no one would let him forget. His Aunt Bellatrix’s fanaticism replayed in his nightmares, her unrelenting devotion to Voldemort a twisted mirror of what he could have become.
And Voldemort… Voldemort was a shadow he couldn’t escape, his mere name a weight on Draco’s chest. Every command, every punishment, every moment of terror had left marks no one could see, but that he felt in every room, every glance, and every memory.
It was just his luck that the wizarding world's savior had testified for his family, the combination of the weight of his words and the most skilled legal representation money could buy allowing them to navigate the justice system effectively.
The Malfoys had slipped away, not unscathed, but in a better position than they could ever hope for.
Their wealth had taken a heavy hit, of course, and the general population more or less had mixed opinions about them. It was a small loss in the grand scheme of things—It certainly beat Azkaban and the Dark Lord's reign on an already fractured system. The Malfoys will recover in time, he'd make sure of it.
He was lost in the thought when a muffled sound broke through the quiet.
A low thud, like something—or someone—moving in one of the classrooms. Draco paused, instantly alert.
He glanced to his left. The Defense Against the Dark Arts room.
Their new professor, Marvolo, had claimed the space, with his eerie presence and charming smile that never quite reached his eyes. Draco had heard rumors about the professor’s strange habits, though he didn’t indulge in the gossip.
It could’ve been nothing. A mishap in class, some imaginary sound, perhaps. But there was something about the noise that felt… wrong.
He glanced at the door, then back down the corridor.
Should he investigate?
The rational part of him screamed to walk away, to leave it alone. But something inside him urged him closer.
Then, through the crack of the door, he heard a voice—a voice he knew too well.
“Tom…”
That voice. That unmistakable, breathy yet distinct octave he’d come to loathe and admire for the past seven years. Harry Potter.
A jolt ran through Draco’s chest. He stepped closer, barely able to breathe as he pressed his ear to the door. Two voices murmuring.
Harry Potter. In there. With someone. Draco’s curiosity overpowered his sense of self-preservation, and he couldn’t stop himself.
The next few words from Harry were just as sharp as the first, but his voice was quieter, more controlled, tinged with something Draco couldn’t quite place. His mind was running a million miles per hour.
“We need to rework the terms. It isn’t enough to stop you.”
The words were heavy, but it was the way Harry spoke them that unsettled Draco. Unconvincing, resigned, moaned through gritted teeth.
Distracted, His pulse quickened. His breath came a little faster.
He edged closer to the door, his heart thundering in his ears.
The reply from the other voice was colder, sharper, yet somehow laced with a deeper, more calculated amusement.
“Stop me?” the voice mocked. “You wouldn’t last a day without me.”
That voice. There was something disturbingly familiar about it. Something that triggered a faint yet recent memory Draco couldn’t quite grasp. The faint drawl, the sounds of chalk looping across the board and the silence of the Malfoy Manor dining room. Unsettling and dark.
It spawned a particular itch under his skin, begging for more information like the Slytherin he was.
Draco took a cautious step forward, just enough to see into the room through the narrow gap between the door and the frame.
What he saw left him frozen.
Messy, jet black hair and the unmistakable scar with green eyes half-lidded in obvious pleasure.
Harry Potter, dressed down to only his white, scandalously unbuttoned shirt, and his school trousers, was sitting on the edge of professor Marvolo’s table, his body angled intimately toward someone. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair. There was something about the way the man stood, something that radiated power, control—and it was so eerily familiar that Draco had to dig his quickly paling fingers into the doorframe when he’d finally figured out who it was.
Professor Marvolo was trailing his lips down the hollow of Harry Potter’s throat like a man starved, and he was letting it happen.
Draco’s eyes followed the movement with an odd sort of shocked yet enthralled expression, lips parting open when he registered the filthy, breathy moans escaping from Harry’s pink swollen lips as he buried his finger’s into their professor’s hair.
It's a far cry from when Draco had last seen him hours ago at The Great Hall, exchanging calm conversation with Lovegood and Longbottom, sipping at his tea every so often with the same full lips that were now connected with Professor Marvolo's in a heated kiss.
He didn't notice anything odd about the other—not that he was constantly watching Potter like an obsessive schoolboy crush, but it's hard not to when it felt like something about him felt different ever since he'd come back for N.E.W.T.s. As much as Draco's head was clouded with his own thoughts about his family and the changes the wizarding world was going through, acknowledging the main catalyst, seated with the Gryffindors every class, was just unnerving and... something he couldn't put into words.
He would never in a million years guess that Potter was snogging their new Defense Against The Dark Arts Professor, however.
It's something that the Draco Malfoy in fifth or sixth year probably would've accused Harry Potter of. Except that he wasn't stupid and no one would believe Draco Malfoy over the literal prodigy at DADA. The professor and the Boy Who Lived don't exchange words often when it came to classes. Harry's been acknowledged as a competent duelist, but that's about it. Any demonstration, the professor often picked just about anybody else in their class. Slytherins and Gryffindors alike.
No implications—although Potter had this particular look in his eye everytime the professor said something he didn't agree with, he didn't outright try to challenge the professor. Just settled back into this quiet, contemplative state that Draco usually associated with someone like Daphne Greengrass, Granger or even Theodore Nott. As if mentally filing things away for later.
And while Draco knows better than anyone how much a war could change you, it's just such an abrupt change in his usually confrontive personality that Draco's actually starting to get suspicious.
It's when he's starting to look through the private memories stored away neatly in his already flustered, overwhelmed brain does the sound of the professor shrugging off his black blazer tear him from his thoughts.
Something suspiciously similar to heat coiled low in Draco’s gut, and everything in him is screaming to leave right now.
It was the way Harry looked at Professor Marvolo that made Draco’s breath catch. The way Harry’s half-lidded, hazy green eyes followed the man’s every move, the way his lips parted as if on the verge of saying something—anything—that made Draco’s pulse spike.
Harry had never looked at anyone like that.
Draco’s mind spun with speculation, his heart racing in a strange, tight rhythm he didn’t quite understand. It felt as if he was running.
What was this? Why do this? Why Professor Marvolo? Harry. Potter.
And then, without thinking, Draco heard himself. His own breath had become shallow, too shallow.
The words looped in his head, repeating with a raw intensity he couldn’t quite shake.
The room became unbearably quiet for a split second, before the next exchange broke through.
“If you want it like that, then,” Professor Marvolo said, his voice soft but dripping with amusement. “Be my guest. On my lap, dear.”
Draco’s cheeks flushed. His breath hitched. He wasn’t sure why, but the exchange—whatever it was—felt like it was pulling him deeper into something wrong.
He couldn’t look away.
Harry had let himself be begrudgingly man-handled, and Draco watched as Professor Marvolo reverently wrapped his hands around Harry’s waist and turned them around so that he’d replaced Harry’s seated position. Professor Marvolo harshly pulled Harry into his lap, the pale moonlight from the window nearby highlighting his sharp, handsome, hungry features now that Draco was finally able to see his expression. Professor Marvolo dipped his nose in that intimate space between collar and shoulder and inhaled. He’d resumed kissing down Harry’s delicious neck in an effort to leave as many marks as possible. Savouring it.
Draco wondered what that heady scent of Potter would have smelled like if he’d been in his professor’s place. The thought made him equally as lightheaded as he was ashamed with himself.
Envy seemed to curl in Draco's chest, the traitorous thing.
Eventually, Professor Marvolo’s persistent hand inched its way past Harry’s waistband, and Harry moaned into the Man’s lips.
Tom. Was that his actual name? Harry looked so ruined.
A disgusted flush of guilt bloomed in his chest. This was Harry. Harry Potter. And yet…
There was a part of Draco that couldn’t look away. A part that, deep down, had always wanted Harry in ways he couldn’t admit—Ever since Draco had watched him effortlessly catch countless snitches in both practice and in games, the way the enticing planes of his body shifted underneath his uniform as he'd stretch in class, the way his messy dark hair would curl around his pretty face just right sometimes. Harry was apathetic at worst, furious with draco at his best. He'd done so beautifully.
When the professor pulled his hand away, drops of precum dribbling from his fingertips that had Draco’s ears burning and his breath getting heavier, Harry had hissed something into the professor’s ear. Draco nearly jumped.
Professor Marvolo only looked amused, mocking, almost. He whispered something back into Harry’s ear as his hand slipped back under. Harry stiffened and his fingers dug into their professor's shoulders.
The tension between them built, and Draco felt his face burn with mortification. He didn’t know what he was witnessing, but it was something intimate. Something private. Something incredibly wrong. Was Harry coerced into this? Or is this just how he’s maintaining his grades in Defense? Not that he needed it. The Boy Who Lived was a prodigy.
A few moments later, Harry made a frustrated sound, ears reddening as he huffs. “Fine.”
Before Draco could process any of it, Harry’s hand slipped into the older male’s sleeve and smoothly retrieved the professor’s wand from its holster. With a muttered spell, he used it to vanish his trousers—leaving the shirt on so only his thighs were the only visible parts of his lithe body—and Merlin, was Harry far from the scrawny boy he’d met in first year.
Draco watched, equally mortified as he was enraptured, as Harry's thighs pressed into both sides of Professor Marvolo’s hips, fingers deftly working the man’s zipper open.
Draco had imagined spreading Harry’s thighs apart, once, in sixth year. He had cast several nasty hexes on Harry and his friends the day afterwards.
His mind screamed at him to leave, to get out of there before he completely lost himself in whatever was happening in that room. The tightness in his pants wasn’t helping whatsoever, and he resisted the urge to palm himself. Self-discipline be damned. Fuck.
Draco caught himself before he’d drifted into the room, distracted. He couldn’t—
“Fuck.” Came Harry’s breathy sigh.
Elegant fingers worked into Harry’s sopping wet cunt with a focused intensity that bordered on filthy. It left the knot in Draco’s gut uncomfortably tight as he watched, unblinking, as Harry rocked back onto those fingers like a bitch in heat. Moans began bouncing off the walls in tandem with the professor’s heavy breathing, a strange glint in his eye as he watched Harry’s greedy cunt swallow his fingers deeper.
It was just downright filthy. So, unapologetically fucking sinful that Draco had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stop a groan from escaping.
There was little to do except watch as the older man worked Harry open, the sight of his pretty pink pussy coupled with his teary green eyes underneath wet lashes nearly sending Draco over the edge as his fingers dug into the doorframe so hard it'd almost cracked. He was so sweet to look at.
He’d absentmindedly casted a notice-me-not on himself at some point, death eater instincts as prominent(at the best of times) as ever, yet it couldn't stop the fear that clawed its way through his ribs at the thought of being discovered watching his schoolmate and professor have sex in the classroom they’d used every week. He’s not sure if he’d be able to keep a straight face the next time he saw either of them.
The professor had fingered Harry for a good few minutes, kittenish moans spilling past his school rival’s lips like an enrapturing symphony. His pink, slick cunt was more than wet by now, the professor’s fingers slipping in and out with practiced ease. The professor had been softly rubbing his now freed cock against Harry’s clit, enjoying how the boy shivered in response. Draco’s fingers ghosted over his bulge despite himself.
Finally, the professor pulled his fingers out of Harry, strings of slick dripping between them. Harry had only pressed his forehead onto professor Marvolo’s shoulder, small murmurs exchanging between them. Heated and demanding.
Draco strained to hear their conversation, but nothing was audible. They paused, and the professor shifted a little so that they were in a better position. Harry then grabbed onto Professor Marvolo’s shoulders, sinking down onto his large cock inch by inch. It left the professor growling as his hands further tightened around Harry's waist. Posessive and grounding.
Draco’s own cock ached in his pants. Begging to be touched. It was only years of carefully honed self-control that stopped him from reaching down because honestly, he may be getting off to watching his long-time crush get fucked by someone old enough to be their father but he wasn't that far gone.
Professor Marvolo gave Harry an appreciative look once he’d managed to bottom out, intense desire pooling in his red—wait, red?— eyes like molten lava.
It may have been a trick of the light. Draco blinked and they were dark brown once again, zeroed in on Harry in a way that felt more like a predator setting its gaze on a particular prized rabbit that it'd just caught. Triumphant and posessive.
With tiny whimpers, Harry began bouncing on the Marvolo's cock, slowly growing confident with the pace as the sounds of their fucking echoed across the classroom, and it felt like Draco's entire body was on fire now. Did they even cast any charms? What if—
"When are you going to fuck me properly?" Harry panted.
"When you start riding me properly." Professor Marvolo replies coolly, despite the fact that he was thrusting up into Harry, matching his pace and hammering into the younger male with a force that sent Harry whimpering.
Draco just couldn't look away.
There was something so artful about the way Harry's messy ink black hair stuck to his forehead in exertion, the minute tightening of his tan fingers in the professor's shirt as pale fingers pulled his waist closer to the other body. His own twitching under the need to do something, touch something. He was guilty of so many things—wanting to watch Harry Potter get fucked by another man was one of them.
Logically, he knew it'd be a million times better to sink himself into Harry instead. Watch those pink lips swallow him whole as Harry babbled on and on about how good Draco was being, how much he loved the feeling of being filled to the brim by his supposed school rival as Draco pounded him into silk sheets. Watch him cum on Draco's touches as he took in Harry's fucked-out, flushed expression and memorialized it in his head.
They wouldn't have spared a glance at eachother the next day, and Draco had the feeling it would've been addicting.
Their breaths grew more ragged as the pace doubled, Harry's whimpers and broken gasps increasing in frequency as the professor reached down to stroke his clit. If Draco had any doubts about his stamina before, all of them were gone from these few minutes alone. They fucked like animals.
Finally, Harry came with a cry, hands digging into professor Marvolo's shoulders as older male continued to fuck him through his orgasm, his hands in a bruising grip around Harry's hips. The sight of Harry's oversensitive, wet cunt being abused so thoroughly almost sent Draco over the edge. He felt his breathing get heavier.
It was then that he'd noticed that the professor was looking at Draco's position now, like one serpent would at a particular threat.
Something like a switch flipped on in Draco’s mind, and he found his hands shaking against the doorframe and his breath rattling.
Crimson red. Serpentine and soulless. Now directed at Draco’s position. Harry hadn’t noticed, head buried into their professor’s collar as his thighs shifted on either side of the man’s hips under the mean pressure of Marvolo’s fingers digging into his flesh, stilling him.
Draco needed to leave, now. With one last glance at Harry’s softly arched form and the man who hadn’t stopped gazing at the door, Draco turned and bolted, the echoes of their voices still ringing in his ears.
He fled down the corridor, his heart racing, his mind spinning in a thousand different directions. What had he just seen? What had he just heard?
But the only thing Draco could focus on as he hurried back to his dorm was the feeling of mortification and heat in his chest. The desire he had buried deep inside for so long, now suddenly impossible to ignore. Harry—and their professor. Marvolo. The man who’d barely spared Draco a glance when he and Harry were duelling.
Instead of the initial loathing Draco had thought he’d seen in Professor Marvolo’s eyes, he now understood it as want.
Everybody had wanted a piece of Potter these days, and the Professor was the lucky pick of the flock. Or perhaps he’d been the starving wolf in waiting that had taken its chances on the weakened lamb after the war.
And he couldn’t decide whether he hated what he just saw or wanted more of it.
He had asked Pansy to Obliviate him the second he got back to the common room a few minutes later.
She had learned not to question him by the end of seventh year, when word got around about how Death Eater meetings at the Malfoy Manor usually went.