Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It certainly is a pity. Divorce seems to be de rigueur nowadays; all these young couples getting married so early, without any sense of commitment.”

“It could also be from the lack of sex. Or the lack of good sex, at any rate,” Draco drawls. He lifts his snifter to his lips, taking pleasure as Edgar Treverton chokes on his bruschetta, his face turning a lovely shade of puce. “Of course, everything has a silver lining. As one of the largest family law solicitors in the country, Boggs, Wessing, and Treverton must see its share of filthy lucre.”

The ends of Treverton’s mustache quiver indignantly. “One must serve where there is a need, Mr Malfoy.” He takes a careful sip from his glass, the red ghost of the currant rum clinging to the edges. “Speaking of which, my condolences on the unfortunate end to your own marriage.”

It’s a cheap shot, but given the fact that Draco had celebrated the the finalisation of his divorce in the most salacious and satisfying way, he lets it pass. “The only thing you have to apologise for is the exorbitant number of Galleons your firm requests each month to maintain my ex-wife’s standard of living. Aside from that, we are both far happier in our current state.”

“Ahh.” Treverton looks down at his drink. “And that happiness extends to young Scorpius as well?”

Draco’s lips press into a thin line as his eyes change from amused to something brittle. “His welfare seemed to mean little to your firm when you were assigning weekends and holidays. I can assure you, I place my son’s well-being above all else.” He relaxes marginally after seeing Treverton’s contrite expression. “Scorpius is currently in his first year at Hogwarts, and enjoying it very much.”

The change in topic seems to ease some of the tension. Treverton raises his glass in a conciliatory gesture. “Familial love. Is there anything better?”

Draco thinks of his father, a shattered shell of his former self after his stint in Azkaban. “I can think of a few things,” he says, finishing the rest of his drink with a grimace. Somehow, the last of his Campbell’s Finest goes down a bit too smoky and harsh.

He looks round impatiently for any passing waitstaff. It’s not even half past eight, and he’s already wondering how much longer he needs to be present before he can make a graceful exit.

It’s been twenty years since the end of the war, yet he still feels the need to attend nearly every high-profile function. Twelve years ago, he had gone out of sheer gratitude. He won't ever forget his first Ministry event—the way his hands had shaken when he’d received the invitation, the inky-black letters of his name indelibly scratched onto the thick, ivory vellum. It hadn’t mattered that it was merely a luncheon for a small, local trust, or that he himself had been one of its largest benefactors. Nor did he care that the witch who had been tasked with delivering his invitation did so with pursed lips and a pinched expression. The fact was that with that fateful invitation, Draco Malfoy—no matter the opinions of the publicae—was no longer officially considered persona non grata.

It had opened other doors as well. Connections were forged, and nowadays his elite position within the Ministry itself ensures that such events are a Sickle a dozen. He’s finally distanced himself from the pall of his father’s hatred and his own youthful folly. And with Astoria revelling in her status as a new divorcée and Scorpius safely ensconced within Hogwarts’ hallowed halls, there really is no reason for Draco to continue to attend every single dinner or ball.

Well, almost none.

Treverton’s boisterous laughter bursts through Draco’s reverie. He places his hand on Draco’s shoulder and turns him around. “Now you see, Malfoy?” Draco winces at the unwelcome familiarity. “There’s a man who’s committed to the concepts of marriage and family.”

The object of everyone’s attention sweeps in, looking resplendent in his robes. Their design certainly isn’t the most elaborate of the evening—no doubt British instead of French, yet he has no need for the additional adornment. His lines are gorgeous, and the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist hint at his understated power. He draws people to him like moths to a flame, his confidence and charisma radiating from every pore. It makes him nearly impossible to ignore, even if one weren’t aware of his legendary past. But how could anyone glimpse his magnificence and not realise they were in the presence of the Chosen One? The Saviour of the Wizarding World?

Harry smiles and nods, then turns to the woman at his side with a fond expression, placing his hand along her back as he guides her through the throngs of well-wishers. Her dress is cut low from behind, the material draping softly over her bared flesh. The years of professional Quidditch are evident in her toned frame, as is the fire in her eyes as she tilts her face towards Harry. They look every bit the Golden Couple—the newly-anointed Minister of Magic, and his loving spouse.

Draco’s fingers whiten as he grips his glass. A part of him aches; he’s spent too many of his childhood years being envious of him, and now he seems destined to be jealous of those at his side. He spins on his heel, furiously thinking of an excuse to end the night, but is called back by the weight of Harry’s gaze.

He may be halfway across the room, but Draco knows the second those green eyes catch his attempted escape. He turns and arches a brow, fighting back the purr of satisfaction which blooms in his throat when he sees the faint flush colouring Harry’s cheeks and his partially-open mouth.

~***~

Draco grunted as the gears to the lab rotated to a sudden stop, their loud clangs resounding throughout the tiled room.

“Outsider at the gate!” Fitch yelled over his shoulder.

“No way, Blackthorne.” Draco carefully transferred the distillate into a clear tincture bottle. “I got the last one. It’s your turn now.”

The pounding on the door increased. Two seconds later, the handle jiggled, to no avail.

“Damn. Whoever it is, they’re a persistent bugger. I’ll bet it’s some first year trainee sent down to collect Robeson’s work.”

“Nope.” Dahlia Robeson looked up from where her nose was buried in the latest Archives of the British Society of Pragmatists. “I handed in my findings last week. I’ll bet it’s some department head. You know they’re always looking for some excuse to snoop around.”

Draco smirked; the fountain of Amortentia that sat in the middle of the room was quite the draw. “Make it takeout from The Fluffy Beak, and I’ll take that bet from you both. I’ll bet it’s someone mid-level—new enough to be unaware of the proper protocol to enter, but not so new as to be discouraged at the first sign of defeat. Now go on and let the poor sod in. I’ve got ten more reagents to mix, and all this noise is disturbing my concentration.”

Fitch rolled his eyes. He tidied up his workspace and cast a quick Disillusionment spell over the area as he stood from his bench, the heels of his brogues echoing throughout the room. Draco turned his attentions back to his station, drawing up several microliters of the sample and solvent within a microsyringe before placing it within the vaporisation chamber.

“Oh!” The shock of whoever was at the door caused Fitch to fall temporarily silent. Draco heard the rustling of robes, followed by a throat clearing. “Auror Potter! What brings you down to our humble abode?”

Draco stiffened, then mentally chastised himself for it. He hated his reaction; it was as if the seven years since he’d left Hogwarts had melted away. He found himself reduced to being that vain yet uncertain schoolboy once more, always found wanting in Potter’s judgment.

Too late, he realised that he had forgotten to put up his own Disillusionment Charm. He kept his back towards the door and his eyes firmly trained on the gas chromatograph in front of him. Perhaps Potter would be quick about his business...

“Erm—I was hoping you could help me with one of our cases. Someone’s been using a type of Entrancing Enhancement to get their victims arrested for misdemeanours.”

“Misdemeanours?” Fitch drew his brows together. “What, like shouting obscenities in public?”

“Think bigger. The last one involved public indecency and a pair of Common Welsh Greens in the middle of Diagon Alley during lunch hour.”

“Wish I could’ve seen that,” Dahlia remarked. “Entrancing Enhancements generally fall under the categories of Mania and Eros. That would be Draco’s department,” she added, jerking a thumb towards the back of the room.

“Malfoy?!”

Buggering fuck. Draco made a show of stowing away his reagents before turning around.

“Apparently our visitor is neither a first year nor a head, so I win,” Draco said to his colleagues, rudely avoiding Potter’s own tactless greeting as he tried to regain his bearings. “And don’t come back with a ploughman’s lunch, either. I want something sinful and decadently expensive. Potter,” he finally acknowledged, arching a brow.

Potter shook his head, as if suddenly realising that his mouth was half-open. “I didn’t know that you worked in the Department of Mysteries. I mean, I’ve seen you a couple of times on the lifts, but… huh.”

“Are you sure you didn’t? The Obliviators aren’t the only ones granted that privilege, you know,” Draco drawled as Fitch sniggered.

“Unspeakable humour, Auror Potter. Draco’s taking the piss.” Exasperation was evident in Dahlia’s tone, before she dissolved in a fit of giggles. “Well, sort of.”

“You’re a strange lot,” Harry grinned. He surveyed the room, then gawped as he came back to Draco. “I didn’t know you wore glasses!”

Draco felt his face heat under the scrutiny, his own taunts of Potter’s challenged vision ringing in his ears. “They’re protective eyewear,” he huffed, taking them off. “We all use them.”

Harry looked at the larger, wrap-around goggles impregnated with several protective charms that sat on Fitch and Dahlia’s desk before returning to Draco’s delicate wire frames. “Yeah, well, you may want to get some of the guys down in Inventory and Supply to take another look at yours.” He pointed to the small lenses. “Not sure how much protection those would give you in the event of an explosion.”

Draco felt the redness in his face deepen. “Sadly, not all of us have your impeccable track record in Potions. Just how many detentions did you serve with Snape?”

“Haha. Very funny, Malfoy.” Harry walked over to where Draco was working, looking at the rows of phials and peering at Draco’s notes with more than a casual interest. Draco was proud of his work; when it appeared that Potter’s curiosity was genuine, he took advantage of the distraction to look over his childhood nemesis.

Potter looked… better. He still had the dark circles under his eyes that seemed to be the trademark of nearly all of those who’d fought in the War, but his previously underfed and scrawny frame had filled out, becoming broader and more powerful. Or perhaps it was the cut of his Auror’s robes, sleeker in design than their predecessors, or the shininess of those black, dragonhide boots which lent him an edge of danger.

“What are you working on?” Harry asked, staring intently as various colours began to appear as peaks on the parchment.

“Despite the leniency shown you by the DMLE, you should know that you have no jurisdiction down here without the proper security clearance.” Draco held out his hand. “Do you have your papers?”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry’s face scrunched up as he rummaged through the pockets of his robes, his eyes lighting up once he found them and handed them to Draco. Their fingers brushed, and Draco cursed his Black genes for bestowing upon him a complexion that was so telling.

He made a show of reading through the forms line by line, even though he knew them by heart. When he saw Harry shift impatiently from side to side, he continued to read for just a bit longer.

He handed the papers back to Harry. “I guess I’m on your team,” he said with a dramatic sigh.

“Yup. You’re mine,” Harry agreed, seeming to take delight as Draco rolled his eyes. He folded up the parchment and stuffed it back in his robes. “Congratulations, by the way. I heard that you and Astoria are going to be parents. Ginny told me; she’s part of Astoria’s ‘Mums to Be’ group,” Potter explained upon seeing Draco’s flummoxed expression.

“Ah. Although to tell you the truth, Astoria’s probably far more prepared than I. The thought of being a father…”

“It’s terrifying. But it’s also one of the most incredible things ever.” Harry’s eyes softened, and Draco felt his stomach swoop as Potter graced him with a brilliant smile.

“I was talking more about nappies and such,” Draco snapped. He must have made a face, because Potter laughed. “Astoria doesn’t wish to relegate any of the baby duties to the house elves.”

Harry moved to Draco’s side, craning his neck in order to look over Draco’s shoulder. He smelled of mowed grass and honeysuckle leaves, flavoured with the hint of Ministry coffee. It was a combination that should have been appalling but was intoxicating instead, reassuringly familiar.

“So what did Robeson mean? When she said that Entrancing Enhancements would fall under your field of study?” Potter asked.

“You’re in the ‘Love Chamber.’”

“Yeah, so?” Harry frowned. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Malfoy.”

“What is it that you think we investigate? Or do you think we just sit around and sniff Amortentia all day?”

“Of course not.” The corners of Harry’s mouth twitched. “Although maybe that would explain why you’re so easy-going and charming.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “If I were to ask you what love is, what would you say?”

Potter hesitated. “That it’s a deep and powerful emotion. Having an intimate connection with another person.”

“I believe you shared a relationship with the Dark Lord once that could be described in exactly those terms. Yet I doubt you would consider that love,” Draco observed drily. “Love doesn’t have to be romantic in nature. You can love a poem, have your heart moved by a piece of music, or fall in love with a particular food. You can love your parents, your friends, your children, or your partner.”

“Or partners.”

“Or partners,” Draco agreed, shooting Fitch a quelling glance. “You can love your fellow man—”

“Or woman,” Dahlia added.

Harry winked. “Or both.”

Draco raised a brow. Perhaps the Saviour wasn’t as vanilla as he’d thought. “My point is this: the type of love which exists in all those instances is not the same. Philosophers over the centuries have categorised and studied the different types of love. My work focuses on Mania and Eros—otherwise known as the Obsessive and Erotic forms of love. ‘Entrancement,’ by definition, is the feeling of extreme pleasure and satisfaction. Therefore, the enhancement works to recreate the feeling of a preoccupation so great that you could lose your sense of self to the needs of another.”

“That’s not love,” Potter protested, his lips thinning.

“Not all love is baby Kneazles and Crups. And only in rare instances is love truly selfless and unconditional.”

“That would be me, here,” Fitch said. “Malfoy and Robeson are too cynical to dedicate themselves to the study of Agape. That’s my area of specialty. Well, that and Philautia.”

“Otherwise known as ‘Self-Love,’” Robeson added. “Or what Fitch here does every night.”

“Bint.”

“Wanker. Literally.”

“Merlin, will the two of you do us all a favour and shag already? My ears will bleed if I have to listen to another minute of this.” Draco turned towards Harry with an exaggerated sigh. “That, Potter, is an example of Ludus. A playful and teasing love, with just a hint of Eros.”

“Don’t be jealous of me and Dahlia here, Malfoy. Just because you’re old and married and have grown properly responsible and boring.”

Fitch ducked as Draco flicked his wand, sending a heavily engraved paperweight flying in the direction of his head. Fitch deflected it neatly, reversing its direction with a counter spell.

“I’m not proper, nor old. And how dare you call me boring,” Draco responded, even though his eyes were alight with mischief.

Harry grabbed Draco’s wrist before the next spell could be cast and thrust out his hand, his brilliant Seeker’s reflexes still intact as he intercepted the projectile mid-flight.

“Come on, Malfoy. Can we talk about the case? If I wanted to babysit a bunch of ankle-biters, I would’ve stayed at home.” He started to set the brass weight down on the desk, stopping when he noticed the inscription.

“Corinthians Thirteen?”

“It’s a passage from a Muggle book called the Bible.”

“It’s become the mantra for our department,” Dahlia supplied helpfully as Harry began to read:

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing.

When he gazed upon Draco, his eyes were curious, and the deepest green.

Draco shrugged.

“It’s also a reminder to myself.”

~*~

Even after all these years, the one thing Draco Malfoy can never be accused of is his ability to heed the wisdom of good judgment.

“Ginevra.”  He’s grateful for the years of etiquette that allow his face to remain impassive as his lips brush her cheek. Her skin is soft, and he can’t help but wonder what Harry must think when he does the same. “It’s been awhile.”

The freckles dusting the tip of her nose and cheeks are admittedly charming, and the smile she gives him looks almost genuine. Having children of a similar age, especially ones that get along surprisingly well, and her considerable practise in playing a politician’s wife does wonders for dulling the jagged edges.

“Although I hear we might be seeing each other more often. There’s a rumour that we are to be neighbours.”

Astoria. “That remains to be seen. I’m still in the process of looking for just the right flat. Finding one with enough privacy and space, and in a location which is convenient to my… activities, is proving much harder than I’d thought.”

Ginny fixes him with an unreadable look. “According to the Prophet, you’ve been quite busy.”

“A bachelor once more,” Draco admits. “One of the perks, post-divorce. I see no reason to deprive myself of the things I enjoy for any longer.”

“Hello, love. Malfoy.” Harry joins them carrying two flutes of champagne, one of which he hands to Ginny. He eyes the two of them warily. “What’d I miss?”

“We were just talking about my extracurriculars. That, and the fact that we were nearly neighbours.”

“Draco’s been looking at residences in Islington.”

“Oh, really?” The intensity of Harry’s gaze stirs something hot and dark within Draco.

“Amongst others districts. But Islington certainly has its attractions.”

“Well, perhaps we’ll see more of you, regardless. Albus speaks so highly of Scorpius. We should arrange a visit for the two boys over the hols.”

Draco inclines his head and graces her with a brilliant smile. “That sounds lovely. Who would have thought that a Malfoy and a Potter could get along so well?”

~***~ 

“I need it now, Malfoy. Actually, scratch that; I need it yesterday.”

Draco felt his temper flare. Ever since he escaped from the demands of his father and the Dark Lord, the thought of giving in to someone’s ultimatum—especially when it conflicted with his better judgment—made him stubborn and defensive.

It also happened to be worse when that person was Potter.

“You can’t rush these things,” he said, gritting his teeth. These days, their interactions seemed to be constantly fraught with tension. “We’re not talking about a simple enhancement charm here. This is a potion, and a dangerous and complex one at that. If I hasten the analyses you’ll get a result, but chances are it will be false.”

“Fuck.” Harry struck the top of the workstation in frustration, causing the wooden frame to wobble. Draco eyed the teetering phials cautiously. “I need something from you, Malfoy. Anything. This is the twelfth overdose in two weeks. The third in as many days.” He looked at Draco and growled. “Is it because you’re balls-deep in Sharma’s Veela case as well?”

Draco snorted. “That’s rubbish and you know it. You’re down here checking up on me so often that that chair has your arse print permanently ingrained in its leather.”

Harry seemed to bite back a retort. He paced the length of the room, the tension in his shoulders eventually lessening as he let out a long sigh. “The latest victim was fourteen. Fourteen.” His eyes were uncompromisingly sad. “She wasn’t much older than our own kids, Draco. She should’ve been out playing Quidditch, or preparing for her O.W.L.S. Getting excited about the Yule Ball. ”

“Or she could’ve been risking her life in a Triwizard tournament rigged by an evil madman.”

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “We fought the War so the world would be a safer place.”

“There will always be bad influences, Harry. The enforcement of the law is important, but so is providing the tools to fight ignorance and hate. Believe me, I should know.” He pulled back his left sleeve, flushing as Harry immediately honed in on his Mark.

Harry reached out and traced the damnable outline. There was something wonderfully forgiving about his touch. “You can’t erase it, Potter,” Draco said. He let out a shaky laugh as Harry withdrew his hand. “Look… I’m yours,” he said as he rolled down his cuff. “I’ll let Blackthorne take the lead on Sharma’s project if things become unmanageable, but I give you my word, I’m making this my top priority.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’d be great.” Harry gave Draco a conciliatory grin. “So what’ve you got so far?”

“Realise that the analyses is incomplete. We’ve isolated the base, but the more esoteric ingredients may take longer to identify, especially since we suspect that the potion originated from outside British soil. Possibly Eastern Europe.” Draco swallowed; he hated reporting his early findings since they were potentially misleading, but he was willing to throw Potter a bone. “What we do know is that Amortentia is its main component. Or at least, something resembling Amortentia, since the distributors don’t appear to have the skill nor the patience to brew it properly.”

He showed him a second distillate. “This was what we extracted today. Within it, we were able to discover traces of shrivelfig, wormwood, porcupine quills, and sopophorous beans.”

“ The ingredients in Euphoria," Harry said, letting out a low whistle.

“Yes,” Draco said, his eyes giving off an excited gleam. “And the addition of Euphoria would be consistent with the anecdotal reports of those who’d taken the potion. Nearly all describe the happiness of love, without the obsession that can occur with an unadulterated and perfectly-brewed Amortentia."

Harry stroked the stubble along his jaw as he mulled over the revelation. “You told me you were running several more tests. What else are you looking for?”

“In addition to the porcupine quills, we’ve found small amounts of hellebore. No signs yet of any unicorn horn, but Dahlia thinks that it could be the Draught of Peace.”

“Bloody hell. So not only would that increase the addictive potential, but the distributors may also be endangering a protected creature in order to manufacture the potion itself.”

“Exactly. Which is another reason why I need more time to run all the tests properly. This case may infringe upon more international statutes than we had previously suspected.”

Harry slid forward and stared at the purple, pearlescent fluid that filled the stoppered container. The movement caused his shirt to strain across the width of his shoulders.

Draco stared, wondering when Potter had grown so rugged.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” Harry said softly, settling back in his chair as Draco exhaled. “I know how hard you’ve been working. I don’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate everything that you and your team are doing.” He looked around the windowless room and frowned. “What time is it, anyway?”

Draco cast a Tempus. The numbers glowed: a quarter past one.

“It’s late. You should be at home with your family.”

Draco shrugged. “Astoria and Scorpius are at her parents’.” He didn’t feel the need to tell Potter that the arrangement was starting to veer into something more permanent. “So aside from a comfortable bed, there’s not much else waiting for me at the Manor.” He took off his glasses, wincing as he rubbed his eyes.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Ginny’s on the road covering Pud United, and Arthur and Molly have the kids.” He stopped, his eyes widening. “You know, we should—”

“‘We should’ what, Potter?”

“Well I was thinking. Maybe the next time our wives are out of town, we can meet up for a pint? You know… keep each other company.”

A slow smile spread over Draco’s face. “If this is an ill-conceived attempt to get me pissed in the hopes of extracting additional information, I’ll have you know that the Malfoys are famous for holding their liquor. It’s going to take a lot more than a couple of pale ales for you to have your way with me.”

“Right. So that wasn’t you singing Crazy Little Thing Called Love with a feather boa around your neck during the last holiday party?” Harry teased.

“That was a dare. There’s a difference.” Draco attempted a haughty sniff.

Harry chuckled. The levity faded, however, as he picked up the sample. “So if it does contain the Draught of Peace, then taking too much or mixing with alcohol could be potentially fatal.”

Draco nodded. “Plus you have the issue of the hellebore. If the distributors were looking to cut corners, they could use a cheaper and more easily obtainable species—ones that would be poisonous in larger quantities.”

“What kind of quantities are we talking about?”

“Depending on the species, I would estimate a phial a day over the course of a fortnight would be enough to produce a fatal accumulation in an otherwise healthy wizard weighing eleven-stone.”

Harry frowned. “I can see why something like this would be popular in the clubs, but it’s the use in schools and the home that baffles me. First, it’s expensive. Second, Amortentia and Euphoria in and of themselves are not addicting. There’s got to be something else that keeps them coming back. To want it more and more, despite knowing the dangers and risks.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong. That is enough. This is a potion that taps into our deepest desires—a magical substance that gives the user the illusion of happiness and fulfillment.” Draco waved his hand around the room. “Of what it means to be in love.”

“You once said that there were different types of love. How does one potion appeal to so many then, and over such a wide range?”

Draco hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s similar to the way we respond differently to the smell of Amortentia. The potion may act on the same pleasure centre in our brains, but what we feel is influenced by our past experiences and the things that drive our desires. So ‘love’ may symbolise feelings of support in a person who otherwise has little familial or social interactions. Or it could mean finding acceptance with oneself, in someone who lives with self-hate. Or it could mean carnal lust in someone whose sex life is dull and unsatisfactory.”

Harry made a choking sound. “But the potion is merely an illusion,” he ground out. “Wouldn’t that grow tiresome after a while?”

Draco let out a laugh. “Once they have a taste, I imagine it’s the sort of thing that people would be willing to risk everything for. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my years as an Unspeakable, it’s this: Love is the most tempting and addictive magic of all.”

~*~

“I heard that you’re on the Board of Directors at Thunderbolt, Draco. Anything you can share about the rumoured line of the Thunderbolt VIII’s that the American team is said to be eyeing?”

Draco graces her with a knowing smile. “Ever the reporter, Ginevra. Unfortunately, my lips must stay secured so that my seat on the board may remain the same.”

Ginny let out a laugh. “That must make for interesting times on the homefront. Didn’t I see you making the rounds with Taylor Millard?”

The Chaser for the English National Quidditch team had proven to be a surprisingly wonderful dalliance—someone who had fulfilled Draco’s need for maintaining a carefully cultivated profile of a societal gadabout while keeping his true profession a secret.

Draco lets out a low laugh, one that’s silky and loaded with meaning. “Your employer certainly seems to think so. I’ve lost track of how many times our photographs have appeared in the Prophet. One of the perks of being single—so many places to go, so many people to do.” He takes a sip of his wine, the glass ineffectively hiding his smirk as Ginny’s mouth turns down slightly while Harry’s noticeably tightens.

“Yes, Malfoy. You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself.” There’s a low vibration that underlies Harry’s words, one that Draco now knows means that he’s on the verge of losing control.

“My ex-wife is currently gallivanting around the French Riviera. Should I not be allowed to have some fun as well? As it turns out, however, Mr Millard and I have recently parted ways, for I have found someone even better.”

“Oh?” The tidbit of gossip seems to spark Ginny’s interest, and she leans in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it someone who we know? Do tell.”

Draco bites his lower lip, relishing the moment as both Harry and Ginny seem to hold their breaths. “I wish I could. Sadly, he values his privacy, so I’ll just have to keep him all to myself.” He hands his glass to a passing waiter and straightens out his cuffs. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be making my rounds.” He leans forward to kiss the back of Ginny’s hand, his eyes never leaving Harry’s.

There’s a moment as he leaves the pair where his steps almost falter. When the sight of Ginny—her face slotting against Harry's, with precisely the right tilt and at exactly the right angle—sends an ache through him so great that it actually hurts. It’s visceral, a punch in the gut that steals his breath and forces his heart into his throat.

He strides towards the bathroom, his long legs eating up the distance at an increasing pace. He doesn’t need this—there’s no question that even at the age of thirty-seven, he still cuts a striking figure. His cheeks are sharp, his jawline lean, and the silver-grey of his eyes unusual and fascinating. The Malfoy line, despite all its myriad faults, has gifted him with an undeniable beauty. He still inspires covert glances on the streets and not-so-covert ones in the clubs, and a lazy smile from him often draws coy looks and fluttering lashes.

He doesn’t need this, he repeats to himself as he enters the empty loo. The tap runs cold, the splash of water against his face doing little to settle his nerves.

Minutes later, the door opens, then clicks shut as the newcomer casts a series of powerful Muffliatos and Colloportus spells. Draco feels the anticipation curl in his gut as the footsteps draw closer, despite the knowledge that such infatuation and desire could be the downfall of them both.

~***~

“So how are we supposed to distinguish Volodin from any other potions dealer?” Draco groused, looking around. “Half the people in here are hopped up on euphoriants.”

Harry tapped the object in his hand, transfigured to look like a Muggle cellular. “We have the remnants of his magical signature from the curse he cast during the last raid. Plus intel says he’s vain about his hands—it’s the one part of him that he won’t glamour. Multiple witnesses have reported an unusual tattoo circling his fourth finger.”

Draco looked down at his own transformed fingers, curling their new, shorter lengths along the sides of his glass. He took a small sip of his drink and pursed his lips in annoyance when he tasted the residue of Polyjuice on his tongue.

“Is this some form of retribution, to have me looking like this, while you’re…” Draco waved his hand at Harry’s lean figure before looking down at his paunchier one. His hair was a pallid brown, while his arse was stuffed into a pair of jeans that could hardly be considered flattering.

“Don’t blame me,” Harry sniggered. Several strands of his now-blond hair framed his face from where they’d fallen from his bun. “I let you choose your own phial.”

“But you’re hot, and I’m…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You know I could pass for your younger doppelgänger right now?”

Draco glared. “We’re supposed to be a couple having a wild night out. How is any of this believable?”

“You don’t think two people who appear outwardly different could be attracted to one another? There’s a Muggle saying: ‘It takes all sorts.’”

Draco grumbled under his breath, looking out at the sea of dancers writhing beneath the flickering lights. A dark-haired bloke with pretty eyes and a well-toned and barely-clad body quickly captured his attention.

“I don’t know. I seem to be pretty set on one particular sort myself.”

“Hmmm. Let me guess.” Harry sipped his drink slowly, squinting as he watched a woman drape herself all over her partner. “Tall. Brunette. Gorgeous and well-spoken, with a fabulous pair of tits and an even more fabulous arse.”

Five out of six. Draco raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Merlin,” Harry whispered distractedly as the woman dropped to her knees right in the middle of the dance floor. “Everything seemed so much easier when we were younger.”

Draco snorted. “Right. Because thirty-six is positively ancient.”

“Could you imagine, though? Getting back out there? Trying to find somebody to pull?”

Unfortunately, with Potter’s body pressed against his, Draco could imagine it only too well. “As it turns out, I might be doing exactly that. Astoria and I have filed for divorce.” He turned his head slowly, lifting his eyes until they met Potter’s.

“Wait, what?” Harry spluttered. “I mean… fuck. I‘m sorry, Draco.”

“Don’t be.” Draco set his drink down on the bar. “We tried to make the best of it, but in the end, marriage to each other isn’t what either of us want.”

“So what is it then? That you want?”

Draco turned; somehow, it was easier to this way, to unburden himself while wearing another man’s face.  He angled himself carefully as the push of the surrounding bodies threatened to send him directly into Harry’s space.

“Don’t get me wrong. I adore Astoria—love her, even. I don’t regret getting married because without her, I probably wouldn’t be where I am in the world and I certainly wouldn’t have Scorpius.”

“But if you love her...?”

“Ours is more of a pragmatic love.” Draco hesitated, then barrelled ahead. In for a Knut, and all that. “You may think it selfish, but even though I’m relatively content, I need Eros in my life. I’ve denied that part of me for far too long, and I don’t want to depend on a lad mag or a series of meaningless one-offs to get it.”

“Ah. Well, I guess it’s not selfish if both of you are—oh.”

“Yes, Potter. As bent as a hair pin, as my attempts to create a lasting marriage with Astoria have shown. It doesn’t matter how smart or beautiful or accomplished the witch—when it comes to sex, I crave something quite different.” Draco looked pointedly at Harry's cock with a lascivious grin.

“I see.” Harry choked as he downed his drink too quickly. “And do you have someone in mind? To experience all this... Eros?”

Draco’s grin grew wider. “Perhaps.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me it’s Davidson down in records. He’s a right prat.”

“Honestly, Potter. Just because Davidson’s gay doesn’t mean we’re compatible. He’s a pillock with an inflated ego and the manners of a philistine. Come to think of it, he sounds like just your type.”

“Not mine either.”

“Why? Because he’s a bloke?”

Harry took a deep breath. “More like because he’s a brunette.”

The blood pounded in Draco’s ears, rendering him momentarily speechless.

“Why, Potter. How very egalitarian of you,” he drawled.

Harry looked away. “So when can I expect to see the photos of you and your new paramour splashed all over the society pages?”

Draco made a moue. “First, he would be my amour. And I’ve no need to broadcast my love life for the enjoyment of others. When I’m ready to be in a relationship, it will be for my partner and myself. Besides, it’s not like I have tonnes of time to date.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “This bloody case has taken over my life. If I’m not spending time with you and the Aurors, then I’m on the Floo with Kingsley or St Petersburg. I’m rarely home, and Ginny’s threatened to…” He stopped suddenly, as if realising he was divulging something too personal. Draco bit back his curiosity. “Anyway, I’m thinking that it might be nice to have a place somewhere closer. Maybe somewhere like Islington.”

“You’re the Head Auror. Long hours and middle of the night emergencies come with the territory. Meanwhile, I’m an Unspeakable and not part of your normal purview. Yet why is it that every time a requisition comes across my desk, your name’s invariably attached to it?”

“You know that your expertise is crucial, Draco. Everything hinges on the identification of these substances, and the time and manner in which they were brewed. Without it, we couldn’t possibly—”

Draco waved off the protest. “I know how invaluable I am. But I hardly think that the discovery of the fifth derivative of Amortentia warrants the direct involvement of the Head Auror himself. Shouldn’t you be sending one of your underlings? Wouldn’t your time be better spent overseeing coordinates, or planting moles, or conferring with Russian intel?”

Harry’s lips thinned. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. You won’t have to worry about me much longer. Once this case is over, you’ll be rid of my company soon enough.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Salazar, don’t be so thin-skinned. I’ve grown to tolerate you. Even if it’s only in moderate doses.”

“You’d think that after all these years, I’d grow used to your arseholery,” Harry muttered, giving Draco an eye roll of his own. “It’s not that. I met with Kingsley last week. He’s retiring at the end of this term.” He leaned in as apprehension filled Draco’s gut. “They’ve asked me to run in his place.”

Draco drew himself upright. “You’re leaving. You’re leaving the Aurors to go into politics. To be the fucking Minister for Magic,” he said flatly.

“Yes. So you can go back to doing what you’ve always wanted—running your studies, writing your articles. You know. Normal Unspeakable stuff.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco hissed. He threw a tenner down on the counter and pushed Harry aside as he bolted towards the door. The briskness of the outdoor air was a welcome respite from the heat of the club, the bleating car horns and city lights seemingly muted after the booming noise. Draco ducked into a nearby alley, preparing to Apparate when he felt a firm grip on his bicep, hauling him back.

Harry cast a Disillusionment charm that was so powerful, it camouflaged them both. “Care to tell me what the fuck that was all about?” he ground out.

Draco’s eyes glittered with anger, his chin trembling as he tried to hold on to the last threads of his composure.

"Ten years, Potter. You’ve been monopolising my services for over ten years, in a way that no other Auror has ever demanded of an Unspeakable.”

Harry looked chagrined. “You know how huge this Amortentia case has grown. And crimes of passion are the second most prevalent types of—”

“You’ve requested my assistance in cases that’ve had only the remotest connections to my field of study. And of those, half were ones that the Robeson-Blackthornes or Finch could easily handle.”

“It was easier to go through you. We already had a working relationship, you were familiar with the sensitive details of the case, and—”

Draco advanced, his anger and frustration overtaking him with each step until he had Harry’s back against the wall. “Did you know that I turned down an offer to teach at the Ministère de la Magie for six months? I love Paris. And all because you told me I was indispensable.”

Harry swallowed as the tension swirled between them. “You are, Draco. You’re the best there is. You’ve been as important in exposing Volodin as the mastermind behind the potions ring as anyone else.”

“No. You’ve made yourself indispensable to me. No one bothers to request me for their team anymore because it’s a foregone conclusion that you won’t sign the authorisation. And now you’re running for Minister for Magic! Where does that leave me?!” He fisted the front of Harry’s shirt. “Why couldn’t you leave me alone and just let me do my job like everyone else?”

The silence crackled between them. Harry licked his lips, his next words leaving him in a rush.

“I like working with you. I like the way you think. I like the fact that our solve rate is the highest of any team in the entire department. I like seeing the real you, when you’re all rumpled and irritated and swotty after a long night’s work.” His voice lowered to a near whisper. “And I can’t stand the thought of you working that closely with anyone else.”

The words caused Draco’s breath to stutter. “What exactly are you saying, Potter?”

“Fuck, Draco, do you really need me to spell it out?  I always thought you were fit,” he admitted as Draco’s face brightened, “but truthfully, you were also a bit of an arse. And then—I don’t know, I got to see all these other sides of you after we started working together, sides that I really liked. And if I were any kind of a friend, I should be happy for you, happy that you’re moving on and doing what you’ve always wanted with your life. But instead…”

Draco sucked in a breath. “You’re jealous,” he whispered with a hint of glee.

“Fine, alright?” Harry bit out angrily. “I’m jealous. The idea of you dating someone else, especially another bloke, is driving me spare!”

Draco watched as a dull flush crept up along Potter’s neck. He took in the lighter skin, the delicate slope of his jaw, and found himself missing all the rough and bold edges that had always defined Potter. The same ones that had haunted his dreams.

“I don’t know what to be more upset about,” Draco drawled, pressing closer as the pulse jumped visibly at the juncture of Harry’s collar. “The fact that you’ve moved on from messing up my career to messing up my life.” He placed his left palm against the wall, caging Potter in. “Or the fact that you’re so bloody oblivious.“ He pushed forward with his hips, a groan escaping them both as he encountered Harry’s growing erection. “Or the fact that the kiss I’ve been fantasing about for over ten bloody years is finally about to happen, only it’s with someone else’s face.”

They met in a clash of lips and teeth. Harry’s hands snaked around the back of Draco’s neck, drawing him deeper as their lips parted. He tasted of whisky and cloves and despite the unfamiliar countenance, smelled of home. Draco’s tongue plundered the sweet warmth as Harry let out a moan, the helpless sound sending sparks of excitement that shot white-hot throughout Draco’s body and straight to his cock.

“So ‘fess up,” he demanded, because he’d never been able to censor himself, at least where Potter was concerned. “How long have you been thinking of this? How long have you wanked to the idea of fucking me?” He ground against Harry’s length, delighting in its thickness, and wondered just how much it matched the real thing. His hand slid down the front of Harry’s trousers, cupping and stroking his prick as Harry whimpered.

“For years. For as long as I can remember. And it was of you fucking me.” Harry lowered his head until his lips settled against the crook of Draco’s neck. His breath hitched and his hips thrust forward as Draco pressed harder with the heel of his palm. ”Fuck.”

The thought nearly made Draco come on the spot. “That could be arranged,” he panted. He withdrew his hand, his lips curling upwards as Harry whined. “I guess I should be flattered. All this time I thought you were being unreasonably selfish and demanding with your work, when it turns out you were just being selfish and demanding of me.”

“And all this time I thought you were just an impossible prat, doing all you could to get a rise out of me when… well.” Harry let out a low laugh. His hands travelled down Draco’s backside and settled on the curve of his arse, pulling him against his rock-hard erection. “I’d say you’ve bloody well succeeded.”

“Let me see you,” Draco gasped. Harry gave his buttocks a firm squeeze before making his way to the front, fumbling with the fasteners of both their denims. They met each other in a flurry of hands. The metal of a buckle snagged against Draco’s skin as he tried to open it quickly, but the pain was quickly forgotten once Harry pulled down his jeans.

“Merlin. Oh fuck.”

They both stared as Draco’s cock jut forth proudly, pink and hard and flushed. “If you like the look of that, wait until you see the real thing,” Draco smirked. He lowered Harry’s briefs, rucking the fabric around the top of his thighs so it cradled his balls. He wrapped his fist around Harry’s prick, delighting as the mere brush of his knuckles against Harry’s belly caused those muscles to flex. It wasn’t what he'd envisioned for their first time, pulling each other in a dark alley like a sad cliché. But when he felt Harry’s hand over his own, displacing it so that they gripped both their cocks, their heated lengths sliding against one another in the circle of their fists, he knew it wouldn’t—couldn’t—be limited to just this.

You’re mine. The thought flitted into his consciousness as their hands sped, growing more frantic. “This is just to take the edge off, Potter. Then I’m going to take you home and fuck you good and proper.”

“Shit, Draco, I’m going to… fuck...” Harry’s eyes glazed over as he bit down on his lower lip. Draco forced himself to hold back as he drank in Harry’s expressions—the fluttering of his lids, the hard line of his throat, his half-open lips. The helpless cry that escaped him as he shuddered and came, the thick splash of his release coating their hands.

Harry’s come slicked between their dicks, the pearly fluid obscene against the swollen head of Draco's prick as Potter gasped through the remnants of his orgasm.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Harry said as Draco came.

Their pulls slowed, the waves of pleasure which wracked his body causing Draco’s legs to nearly buckle. “You're mad,” he said when he was finally spent, the spots of colour deepening on his already-flushed cheeks. “Have you taken a good look at me lately?”

“I have. Every day that we're together.” Harry pressed forward, stealing a kiss. It felt hopeful, a confession of sorts. Draco felt something bloom inside his chest.

“We need to get back,” he said reluctantly. He frowned at the stains and wrinkles in his shirt as he tucked his shirttails into his trousers.

Harry muttered a quick cleaning spell, the warmth of it enveloping Draco. No sooner had they straightened themselves out when the transfigured cellular began ringing madly.

“Shit. Come on,” Harry said, pulling Draco out of the alleyway and around the corner. “Volodin must be close by. If we hurry, we may be able to get back to the club before—”

Harry’s next words were cut off as he collided headfirst with a passerby, knocking him over.

~*~

The marble feels cool against his palms, but Draco’s skin is burning, his heart racing with a heat that threatens to consume him. Harry’s energy sparks through the room, its power nearly spilling over the edges. He’s changed his cologne in the last several months; it’s more sophisticated now, smelling of sandalwood and vetiver, along with the hint of desperation.

“Thought you broke it off with Millard months ago,” he says as he draws near, his voice a dangerous rumble.

“Your jealousy is showing, Minister,” Draco drawls as he tries to suppress a shiver. “Isn’t this all a bit pot-kettle?”

Harry opens his mouth, but closes it when Draco’s truth stifles any appropriate rejoinder. He fidgets, his hands clenching and unclenching in a manner that broadcasts his uncertainty. It’s an unusual look for the person who just hours ago has become wizarding Britain’s most powerful and influential man.

“You look good, Draco,” he rasps finally.

“This old thing?” Draco angles himself to the side, showing off his stunning profile. A smile creeps over his face as he takes in Harry’s greedy expression. He knows how incredible he looks tonight. There’s no one else who comes close, except perhaps the guest of honour himself.

“That ‘old thing’ must have set you back a considerable amount of Galleons.” Harry’s eyes linger on the curve of Draco’s arse. The sprint towards the final days of the election, followed by the events leading up to his inauguration, have curtailed their rendezvous. And Harry now looks like a man who is starved for Draco’s attention.

“Only the best for Britain’s finest. Congratulations on your victory, by the way. It was quite the landslide, although perhaps not completely unexpected.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Harry takes one step closer. “You know that it was Volodin’s successful prosecution that tipped things in my favour.”

“Anyone with the most rudimentary runic knowledge could have deciphered that tattoo. One must have quite the ego to think they could get away with showcasing a brand like that in such a visible location.” Draco sighed at the irony, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and bemusement. “Who would’ve thought? Ten years of meticulous investigation and planning, and it all comes down to a stroke of luck.”

“Even if we hadn’t barrelled into him that night, he would’ve been caught. Why begrudge the way it happened?”

Draco lets out a snort. “So says the man who’s won some of his biggest battles with a well-timed Expelliarmus.”

“Things tend to happen for a reason.”

“And what would be the reason for following me into an unoccupied loo in the midst of your own celebration?”

Harry laughs. “Perhaps it’s because I miss your sparkling wit and sarcasm.”

Draco arches a brow. He moves closer, taking pleasure in the way Harry’s eyes darken, their green rims thinning with his desire. “We both know it’s not conversation that you’re after, don’t we Potter?”

Harry reaches out, fingering the fabric of Draco’s robes. “I want you, Draco. I’ve missed you.”

Draco sneers. “I’m tired of this dance.” The cashmere slips out from between Harry’s thumb and forefinger in a whisper as Draco steps away. His voice tightens as anger and frustration colour his tone. “You want me, you miss me, you can’t do this anymore. It’s bad enough that I have to play mistress to Ginevra; I’m certainly not going to play it to your conscience.”

“I can’t stop thinking of you.”

“I’ve heard it all before. Heard your excuses, your reasons, your pleas. Everything as to why you can, or you can’t, short of getting on your knees.”

Harry’s eyes flash with indignation. “Is that what it’ll take, Draco? You want me to beg?”

A delicious image crosses Draco’s mind of the last time Potter was on his knees, naked and bound, whispers of Please, fuck me spilling from his lips. He remains silent, letting the tension stretch out, the awkwardness laying thick between them.

Draco is the first to break, gripping the front of Harry’s robes and spinning him around so he’s facing the counter.

“I think you know that I’ve no need to resort of threats to make you beg,” Draco hisses. He slides his hand to the front of Harry’s robes, his well-practised fingers easily loosening the clasps. The silk and wool slides across the breadth of Harry’s shoulders, slowing as it encounters the muscular shape of his buttocks and thighs before puddling to the floor. He makes quick work of the delicate row of buttons on Harry’s shirt, exposing more of his perfect flesh until he encounters a small bruise right above Harry’s right shoulder. The margins have started to fade, yet it’s still the perfect match for Draco’s mouth.

Draco brushes a thumb over the mark, trying to keep his heart steady as Harry arches into his touch. “You never healed this one,” he says, slightly awestruck.

Harry shakes his head. Despite his powerful physique and the silver which has started to thread his hair at the temples, he looks surprisingly young. Vulnerable. “I’ve been so busy preparing for the transition, I wasn’t sure when I’d get the chance to see you again. I... I like it there,” he adds softly. “It reminds me of you.”

Draco’s breath catches. “Careful. If I didn’t know better, that sentiment could almost be considered sweet.” He presses down along the bruise’s fading edges, watching in fascination as pink blooms against the tanned skin, suffusing the mottled, yellow-purple memory of their last encounter. He repeats the movement with even more force, as if willing it to create a lasting impression.

He flashes back to the first time he’d ever seen Harry naked. He’d expected a torso that reflected Harry’s history of sacrifice and loss, something to match that famous scar. Something that hinted at the Harry he once knew, one that befitted the tribulations of a brave and scrawny boy. But Harry’s skin is perfect—perfectly smooth, perfectly golden. The perfect cover for a doting father and a faithful husband.

Perfect enough that Draco wants to ruin it with his presence.

“Draco. Please.” Harry twists his neck around, trying to capture the edges of Draco’s mouth. “Kiss me.”

“I will. But not in the way you want to. Not yet.” He removes the shirt from Harry’s body, then sends it along with Harry’s robe to the hook on the back of the door with a flick of his wand. It’s not that he cares so much as to whether the garments get sullied; rather, he doesn’t want anything getting in the way of what’s to come.

Harry burns under Draco’s lips, his skin tasting of musk and spice. It’s distinctly different from the dark, floral scents that Astoria used to favour, and the boldness and utter Harryness of it drives Draco wild. His cock fills, driven by Harry’s whimpers and the sight of his magnificent body stretched out over the sink, those broad muscles flexing, firm yet pliant as they yield to Draco’s teeth.

He’ll never get enough, he thinks as he palms the sides of Harry’s hips. Of the sharp angles of Harry’s limbs, the firmness of his arse, the coarseness of his hair, or the wiriness of his strength. Of the way that everything seems to soften when Harry presses into him. Of the way he surrenders himself to both their pleasures, entrusting himself to Draco’s hands as Draco’s tongue licks down the curve of his spine.

“You want it so badly, don’t you?” he murmurs. Harry whines in agreement, the voice that commands the loyalty and affections of a nation reduced to something quivering and speechless.

Harry shifts in response to Draco’s question. It’s almost imperceptible, the way he widens his stance, putting pressure on the balls of his feet and lifting his arse. It looks like an offering. Or perhaps an open invitation.

Draco undoes Harry’s belt and in swift succession lowers the flies, his briefs and his trousers. The round globes of his buttocks gleam warmly despite the brightness of the overhead lights. He stares, transfixed as gooseflesh dots the skin.

Harry’s magic curls up around them as the muscles in his jaw twitches with impatience. “Dammit, Draco,” he groans as he wiggles his arse and clenches his fist. “Fuck me already.”

“Wouldn’t want to keep the Minister waiting, would we?” Draco purrs. He places his hands on Harry’s buttocks, his thumbs digging into the flesh as he pries them apart. The ring of puckered flesh winks up at him, clean and loosened, glistening with the hint of lube. The thought of Harry prepping himself in the bedroom that he shares with her before slipping into his five-thousand Galleon robe makes Draco’s mouth water.

“Look at you. So needy for me,” Draco says hoarsely as he lowers himself onto bended knee. The rest of his words are lost as he plunges his face between Harry’s arse cheeks and Harry lets out a keening wail.

His licks are rough and possessive—not soft, kitten licks that circle the rim with the tip of his tongue, but flat and long and hard, thrusting and jabbing ones that plunge into the loosened heat. It’s not the gentle kiss of a lover, in that most intimate of spots, but of someone who wants to mark. To fill and take. To make sure he’s never forgotten.

Harry’s pressing back, his thighs shaking as the filthiest of curses spill from his mouth. Draco steps back and stands, staring at the swollen and gaping flesh, marvelling at the way it twitches, at the way the skin folds back into itself as if protesting its emptiness. At one point he must have loosened his flies, because his cock is out, its hard length heavy in his hand, nudging impatiently against Harry’s opening.

He wraps one arm around Harry’s waist and leans over to kiss him on the mouth. Harry opens eagerly, his tongue pushing into the warmth, exploring and licking, tasting Draco, tasting himself.

“Fuck me, Draco.” It’s both a demand and a plea.

Draco buries his head into the crook of Harry’s neck, muffling his laughter.

“Greedy bottom,” he chuckles as he slides into the welcome heat. He looks down; he’s barely halfway in before Harry starts to move. The room fills with the sounds of Harry’s throaty moans, the flesh of his arse jiggling with every forceful thrust. Draco’s fingers dig in, their crescent-shaped marks deepening along the sides of Harry’s hips as Harry bares his neck, asking to be taken once more.

Draco acquiesces, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh. It’s sure to bruise—just one more to add to their collection, a replacement for the one that’s started to fade. It’s a claim of ownership, but it’s a temporary thing, for there’s someone else out there who has him by name.

He wonders which one of them has him by heart.

The realisation twists something deep inside, leaving him with a bitter taste.

“God, yes, Draco, keep going, fuck!”

Harry’s cries bring him back to the present. Draco watches their reflections in the mirror—his own hair mussed, chin spit-slicked and pink lips swollen, Harry’s eyes, wild and blown. His heart stutters when Harry meets his gaze, his expression one of uninhibited adoration.

This was supposed to be Eros, nothing more. Draco snaps his hips, the movements quickly turning angry and brutal. Potter’s prick thumps against the counter with each push. When his hand reaches for it, Draco slaps it away.

“You’re mine,” he says, his hand curling around Harry’s hard length as he tugs and pulls.

“I’m yours,” Harry chants, his face melting into a look of bliss. Something loosens inside Draco and then he’s coming, filling Harry’s arse with his spunk, his vision blurring with something more than just the haze of his orgasm. His wrist speeds until he feels the tell-tale signs of Harry’s own release, the way the back of his thighs stiffen, his arse clenching around Draco’s cock as he spurts into his hand with a sob.

I love you, one of them whispers.

Draco gives two more feeble pumps before slipping out. He watches as his come drips from Harry’s arse and onto his softening cock.

“Draco?” Harry asks, his voice wavering. He tilts his head up, the pleasure in his eyes now marred by expectation and question.

Draco runs his left hand along the angle of Harry’s jaw. It’s his favourite look; clean-shaven, but with the barest hint of stubble. He thumbs the corner of Harry’s mouth, memorising the redness of his lips, the feeling as they part for him, so eager and soft.

Harry turns his hand over, pressing kisses along the ridges of his knuckles right before taking Draco’s thumb in his mouth. The gorgeous green of his eyes go cloudy when Draco withdraws.

Draco sucks in a breath. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispers.

“Draco.” The second syllable rises in pitch, adding to the panic in Harry’s tone.

“I can’t,” he says sadly. “I’ve spent so much of my life hiding. From my family, from Dumbledore and Voldemort. From myself.” He lifts his gaze, determined to hold on to the tears that threaten the corners of his eyes, refusing to let them fall. “I’ve wanted you for so long that I thought this would be enough. But the more that I’m with you, the harder it is to let go. The harder it is to pretend that you’re nothing more than a…” He lets out a shudder. “I deserve better than this. We both do.”

Harry surges forward. Draco lets himself be taken, welcoming the desperation in Harry’s kiss. There’s a part of him that still hopes it’s not good-bye.

“Is there anything I can do?” Harry asks, his face already a mixture of longing and regret.

“Yes.” Draco steels himself as the emptiness washes over him. “Don’t follow me unless you mean it.”

He mutters a quick Scourgify and sets himself to rights. He casts one last look at Harry, drinking in his rumpled form, the delicious arch in his back, the sheen of sweat on his skin. The way there’s a tension in his pose, as if he’s warring with himself.

Whether to go, or stay.

What type of love will win the day.

Draco turns, his heels clicking against the tiled floor. As he pushes the door and exits, he tries not to listen too hard, or wait too long, for the steps which he hopes are coming.