Chapter 9
It was four excruciating days later that Draco found Harry standing awkwardly outside his door. Scowling slightly, he tugged on the maroon button-down, open at his throat and straining at his wide shoulders and arms. With his other hand, he clutched a slightly crumpled bouquet of flowers–sunflowers.
Draco nearly melted.
“Hi,” said Harry shyly. “M’sorry I didn’t call–I had—“
“It’s okay,” said Draco.
Both of them stood there looking at each other until Draco remembered his manners and invited Harry in.
“Sure,” grinned Harry, all teeth. “I thought I’d take you out on that date. You said you wouldn’t call me Harry until I did.”
Draco gestured helplessly to Harry’s black dress pants and button-down.
“You look nice. I’ll go put these in water,” he said, indicating to the lovely sunflowers in Harry’s hand. “And let me go change,” Draco added, reappearing minutes later in a suit he had just bought at a magical Chinese pop-up; pinkish silk with a cream paisley neckerchief
“I figured, you’re one of those posh types. So I’d probably have to look at least half-decent for you to even be seen outside with me–woah, you look–” said Harry, getting up from where he sat on Draco’s sofa.
“Half-decent is an exaggeration,” said Draco snidely, but that had made him think–Pans was going to have to work overtime dispelling the rumours that Harry Potter, saviour of the fucking world, was out with Draco Molfoy, crown traitor, scum filth, etc.
Harry seemed to read Draco’s mind.
“No need to worry about the press–there’s a delightful Moroccan place in Bath that doesn’t even know the War happened. It might not be posh enough for your standards, but it is fucking incredible food.”
The food was, in fact, incredible. Harry ordered for the two of them (“we can share, Draco, don’t be a prick”), and the food came quickly, in steaming bowls and plates: fluffy and golden couscous; spicy salmon tagine; warm harcha stuffed with jben arabi; smoky eggplant zaalouk.
Harry kept Draco entertained with stories of his Auror escapades, of dragons and cursed shoes and even a gorgon that he and Ron had encountered on one of their recent missions. Draco, by contrast, contributed potion fuck-ups, disgruntled customers, and a running tally of the number of Hogwarts allumni Draco had spotted in his store.
“...and you’ll never believe it,” Draco was telling Harry halfway through the meal, “he came in, and his tips were bleached.”
“No!” said Harry, gasping. “Really? Fergus? I thought I knew him!”
Draco clutched his chest dramatically. “I thought so too, but it turns out you never really know anyone!”
The conversation moved on, then, to Hogwarts. Draco smiled over his most fond memories and another cup of spiced khynjal tea as he recounted them to Harry–him and Blaise in the astronomy tower catching fireflies and, if they were lucky, the occasional pixie; the time he walked in on Pansy and Padma Patil snogging in a broom closet after practice; the time Pince came after all of them for figuring out how to get into the restricted section; and that time Draco and Theo found Selkies on the far side of the lake.
Harry countered by sharing his and Hermione’s daring act of breaking Sirius Black out in fourth grade (Draco had always known it was him); the truth about Dumbledore’s Army and the secrets held inside; and the Golden Trio on the run from the Ministry and eating undercooked fish and tasteless roots. It was strange; this felt like meeting Harry for the first time, like they hadn’t spent over half of their lives actively hating each other. He got to learn, really learn, not just speculate, Harry’s favourite foods, what Harry had been doing with Dumbledore all of sixth year, and why Harry had such a good grasp of the Hogwarts map.
“Do you have any stories that don’t involve Voldemort?” asked Draco, mostly as a joke but partially as an observation. He knew immediately he’d said something wrong.
“I don’t know if you knew, mate, but I was defending the castle for the first half of my education and fighting a war the second half.”
“A war I was actively involved in!” protested Draco. “I am very much aware of the effects the war had on all of us–H-Potter, you of all people should understand!”
“Please just fucking call me Harry, Draco. Which side of that war were you on?”
Draco was trying hard not to get angry. He took a deep breath.
“The wrong side, I know that now,” he said firmly. “I was just saying–we were both busy. Claiming that your childhood was so much more stressful than mine isn’t doing us any favours—
Harry looked like he was about to get out of his chair, but the waiter arrived at the perfect time with the dessert menu. Harry smiled tightly at her and ordered something with almond and cardamom–Draco didn’t quite catch the name.
Later, over one last cup of khynjal tea, Draco apologized.
“I’m sorry, Harry. I shouldn’t have brought it up–”
“--no, it’s my bad, I shouldn’t’ve gotten so angry.”
And then, turning rather pink, Harry said, “you called me Harry.”
Draco immediately regretted it.
“Yes, and it was the worst three seconds of my life. It won’t happen again.”
“No, I think that was the apologizing–I never fathomed–Draco Lucius Malfoy, apologizing to Harry James–”
“Your middle name is James?”
“Yeah,” said Harry, smiling faintly. “Why?”
“I didn’t know that, is all.”
“What did you think the ‘J’ stood for?”
“I dunno, something ridiculous, like ‘James Bond’ or ‘Jig’ or ‘Jennifer.’”
“You think I could pull off ‘James Bond?’” asked Harry, leaning in now, softly smiling up at Draco.
“Hm.” Draco thought about it. “With that tux you wore to Granger and Weasley’s wedding, you could do, yeah.”
“When have you seen those photos?”
“I googled you,” said Draco sweetly.
“You’re keeping tabs on me, Malfoy?”
“Seems like I can’t stop, Potter,” said Draco, enunciating Harry’s last name, before Harry finally leaned in and softly pressed his mouth to Draco’s. It was different than last time–slow and silent, like they had all the time in the world.
“Shall we go, yeah?” said Harry quietly. “Your place?” Draco nodded, pulse thundering. They paid the check and walked out into the steadily darkening sky.
They appeared in Draco’s foyer suddenly with a crack. Draco kept hold of Harry’s hand as he led him to his kitchen to make some tea.
“Ooooo, you have a dishwasher? Ron’s been trying to convince me to get one of those for ages,” said Harry admiringly.
“Oh, god,” said Draco, putting the kettle on, “I completely forgot to ask–what happened? Is Ron ok?”
Harry blinked, then said, “oh, yeah! He’s fine–broke a couple of ribs and managed to lose a toe in the process–but they said if he takes some time off and takes the right stuff he’ll be alright in the end, which is perfect for him anyways since he’s retiring anyways to help George with the–well, he was ambushed, somebody must’ve tipped them off, it was a raid gone bad–they were surrounded within minutes–”
“Yeah, I don’t really care,” said Draco teasingly. “I just wanted to be polite.”
“You’re so mean,” said Harry with a smile, backing Draco up until he was pressed against the kitchen counter.
The kiss that Harry gave Draco eclipsed any kiss that Draco had ever received–though it was painfully soft, barely warm air ghosting across his lips, the look in Harry’s eyes and the swell in his achingly tight trousers that was now rubbing against Draco’s legs meant he was serious.
Draco’s arms seemed to have a mind of their own–one was snaked up Harry’s back, a hand buried in the back of his mass of curls, and the other one was on Harry’s chest, already desperate to have it bare again. Harry’s hands were exploring, too–Draco was barely conscious of the hand softly cupping Draco’s jaw, as the other one was once more traveling down to Draco’s arse.
The kisses were getting messier by the second, two boys furiously wiping tongues across lips, tongues on skin, fingers on clothes. Harry had Draco pressed so firmly up against his kitchen counter that Draco thought it might leave bruises, but he was fine with that, because Harry’s mouth was warm and firm, and his lips were swollen and pink and open and grinning.
Draco practically ripped off Harry’s wine-coloured shirt, desperately needing that skin-on-skin feeling, already missing Harry’s bare chest and chiseled, brown arms.
With the first moan, Harry’s mouth left Draco, and instead traveled south, sucking and leaving filthy marks up and down his neck and collarbones. One of his hands, then, was on the belt loops of Draco’s trousers, and as he continued making his way down, his fingers caught on buttons and Draco’s necktie. Draco was, once more, so hard that he could barely even think but keep shoving his fingers in Harry’s hair.
“Off,” muttered Harry desperately, shrugging off Draco’s jacket and waistcoat, ignoring Draco’s orders to be gentle (“Magical silk, Potter!”). Draco realized his intentions as soon as he had started fumbling with the buckle of Draco’s belt.
“Potter–ah–” said Draco.
Harry looked up at him from his knees. His face was framed by his curls and his soot-covered eyelashes fluttered in time to Draco’s pounding pulse.
“Is this okay?”
Draco looked down at him.
God, you’re so hot, he wanted to say. Or, worse, I think I’m in love with you.
But he just nodded his head. Harry resumed undoing Draco’s belt, already smoothing and cupping Draco’s cock inside his pants.
I’m about to receive head from Harry Potter, though Draco deliriously, as Harry pulled down his trousers, and then, finally, his pants, and began stroking and rubbing Draco’s cock. He stopped though, briefly, to put his long hair up in the messiest bun Draco had ever seen, before continuing.
“I need to have my mouth free,” said Harry, grinning up at Draco wickedly.
It didn’t take much for Draco to feel like he was about to explode, apparently, because Harry hadn’t even started mouthing at Draco’s prick and he was seeing stars. But then Harry licked his underside, swirling his tongue around the head and shaft and making soft grunting noises. He tucked a stray hair out of his face and did the action again. Draco let out a slough of praiseful swears, digging his fingernails into Harry’s scalp as he threw his head back.
“Oh, oh god–Potter–” Harry looked up at him from those eyelashes and said, low and husky, “it’s Harry,” before sliding Draco’s entire cock in his mouth. Sucking and lapping and making those sweet groaning sounds, Harry knelt there for what seemed to be a couple minutes, relishing the loud, painful moans that Draco was making. His hands, broad and warm, reached up to stabalise himself. One, back on Draco’s now bare arse, and the other on his thigh, leaving bruising fingerprints as he went.
Draco, being driven crazy by that citrusy smell that had followed Harry since his days of Hogwarts and the way he could still grip Harry’s hair painfully while it was up, started rotating and snapping his hips, furiously canting his hips up into Harry’s mouth, desperate for some leverage, for some friction. And Harry, in his part, took it beautifully, kneading Draco’s arse and burying his nose at the base of Draco’s cock as he worked.
“Did you know,” hissed Draco, panting in time with the rhythm Potter’s mouth was making, “the state you left me in last week? How embarrassing it was to be left on your couch, hard as a rock, in your empty house?”
Harry muttered an apology, but Draco wasn’t finished.
“Do you know the wank I had in the shower that night, just picturing this?”
He was thrusting with more force now, angrily fucking down into Harry’s mouth, because filthy men like Harry who made Draco wait deserved it.
“I thought about the sounds you’d make on your knees, the feeling of my fingers in your hair, the way your pretty mouth would look around my cock, do you know that? I imagined what you’d look like, all flushed, the way you’d choke and gasp as I shoved my cock down your throat, because that’s what you want, isn’t it, Potter–and yes, I will call you Potter for as long as I wish because you don’t deserve to be obeyed, not yet, not until you obey me–”
Harry was whimpering, now, adding his teeth and tongue as he sucked Draco off harder and faster. His knees must have been aching by then, on the hardwood floors for so long, but Draco didn’t care, nor did Harry, it seemed, so enthusiastic with his mouth and his eyes and his shoulders.
“--ah, fuck, oh fuck!” cried Draco, and with one more drag of Harry’s tongue against the top of Draco’s aching cock, Draco knew he was about to come. With the last remaining fibre of his sanity, he tugged Harry’s hair painfully–he needed to watch Harry watch him fall apart. Just as Harry wrenched his head up, and gagged as Draco’s cock hit further down his throat, Draco exploded, his hands flying up to steady himself against his kitchen counter as his thighs trembled and his vision went spotty, and then black altogether. Though every instinct wanted to screw up his eyes or throw out an arm to cover his face, he needed to see Harry. He needed to see the look in Harry’s eyes as Draco spurted come all over his face and bare chest, and once he did, it just spurred on the fire that was quickly building in Draco’s stomach. He cursed out everything he could think of, mostly, especially, Harry, as he came down from his mind-blowing orgasm.
He collapsed on the floor, spent, with Harry in his arms, and kissed him immediately. He soothed down the angry red marks his cock had made on Harry’s face. He tasted himself on Harry’s tongue.
“Bloody hell, that was brilliant,” said Harry huskily, grinning widely.
“You just had my cock in your mouth, and you say brilliant,” said Draco, still in shock.
“Yep. Brilliant.”
“How–where did you learn how to do that?”
“I get around,” said Harry cheekily. “Though I do have to say, in my professional opinion, I’d have to say yours is one of the prettiest cocks I’ve sucked.”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“One of?” Harry gave him another cheeky smile and a wink.
“Ginny Weasley’s isn’t so bad, either.”
Mortified and flushing, yet somehow still alive, Draco rolled his eyes.
With that gentle smile Draco was seeing more and more of, Harry stood up and helped Draco to his feet. Just as Draco reached down and started nuzzling Harry’s neck, a sharp whistle sounded from the kitchen. The water had boiled.
“That water took its sweet time,” said Draco, confused. “Normally it boils quicker than that.”
Harry blushed. “I–er, may have spelled it to delay in boiling until after.”
Draco gaped at Harry.
“There’s a spell for that? Wait–you never even used your wand?”
Harry’s eyes glittered.
“Wandless magic.”
“God, that’s hot,” said Draco, bending down to kiss Harry before padding to the kitchen to fix the tea.