Chapter Text
Never arrive at a party when it is scheduled to begin.
Draco’s voice ran a constant loop in Harry’s head, and he checked his watch. Technically, he was already twenty minutes late — though he was starting to wonder if it might be better to ignore Draco’s thirty-minute rule than be found hiding behind the embarrassing marble statue of himself at the age of seventeen outside the ministry’s atrium. He peeked inside once more, watching the Floo for any telltale glint of white-blond hair, but with each minute that passed, the ever-increasing crowd further blocked his line of sight until he could only make out the elegant arrangements of flutterby and baby’s breath that rested on the mantelpiece.
Harry turned to scan the room itself in case he’d missed Draco’s emergence. In expectation of the sweeping numbers the event had garnered last year, the Ministry had expanded the floor space to that of a proper ballroom, and — likely in response to the incidents with the Owls flying overhead — had covered the open skyline with a glass ceiling, charmed to magnify the starlight. Combined with the fairies fluttering their luminescent wings near the hors d'oeuvres tables and between the arches of the balconies surrounding the dance floor, an ethereal glow washed over the entire hall and all of its inhabitants. The effect was delicate and shimmering, inviting, and if Draco could see it, Harry had no doubt he’d be impressed — but the pompous arsehole wasn’t there.
“I have to say, the likeness is truly incredible,” said a low, feminine voice. “To how you looked back then, that is.”
Harry turned, a guilty smile creasing his face when he spotted Astoria. Her dark hair was a glossy curtain down to her shoulders, and she’d chosen to entirely reject wizarding attire with a silky wine-coloured suit; her trousers were wide and fluttering, and the cut of her jacket exposed the bare inner curve of each breast — in a low v, almost to her belly button — as well as the pale skin of her torso. But the glittering buttons clasping her jacket shut, and the wide diamond choker around her throat gave a more serious nod to the formality of the event, and she looked unperturbed by Harry’s quick double-take. She returned his smile and lifted the champagne flute she was holding in a silent toast, then took a modest sip as she waited for his response.
He held up a finger to his mouth. Astoria raised her eyebrows and joined him behind the statue, following Harry’s gaze. “I didn’t realise that taking you on as a client meant that I’d be participating in your investigations,” she murmured, “but I have to admit I’m not averse to it; it’s such fun to have inside knowledge.”
“I’m waiting,” Harry said.
“Thirty minutes?” she guessed, and Harry nodded. Up close, her eyes weren’t the brown he’d thought when they first met, but a softer hazel flecked with green. A faint, conspiratorial quirk lifted one brow, lending to the elegant whimsy of her outfit, and Harry was reminded how much he liked her — how much, really, Draco had done for him. Astoria smiled. “It’s good advice.”
“It was Draco’s.”
“Ah, yes.” Astoria leaned to peer over his shoulder as Harry turned back to study the crowd. “Where has he got himself off to? Come to think of it, I didn’t see you two show up.”
“I came through the DMLE Floos to avoid the mayhem,” Harry said. He grimaced at the perplexed silence that followed. “Draco… isn’t here yet. But he will be.”
Astoria took a step back. “Harry—” She hesitated, fingers rising to toy with the gems of her choker. “Oh, no. Oh, dear. He did agree to accompany you, didn’t he?”
“Well…”
“Harry, Draco is... stubborn when he cares about someone.” She ran her tongue over her teeth, then tsked. “Stubborn enough not to do what’s good for him.”
Uneasy, Harry said, “What do you mean?”
“Well, the two of us, for instance,” she said with a gentle wave of her champagne flute. “It would have worked well in his favour — my family’s reputation is solid, our vaults secure, and he knew I’d give him freedom to live as he wished after we conceived — but he broke our betrothal contracts regardless—”
“Betrothal?”
“—all because of a silly little clause that mentioned an old familial blood curse, and— Oh.” Astoria’s gaze swerved from his, relief settling her shoulders. She looked at him again, smiled. “My apologies. Nevermind.”
“Betrothal?” Harry asked again before his mind caught up. He glanced back at the ballroom, zeroing in on Draco immediately. It was hard not to; he stood out like a beam of light in his solid white dress robes, an almost exact copy to Harry’s except in colour, stretching tight across his chest and the lean breadth of his shoulders, a million gleaming, ivory buttons lined from his throat to his knee. He was chatting calmly with a small group off the centre of the room. Harry blinked once, then again, to make sure he wasn’t imagining things when he realised Draco hadn’t been doused by fairy dust — that the brightness around him was his alone.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Astoria said with a light touch to his elbow. Unable to drag his gaze from Draco, he saw the amusement in her smile from his periphery, but when she spoke, her voice was kind. “I should be getting in there; you’re not my only client here tonight, you know.”
“Ngghpphmm,” Harry got out. At the sound of her light laugh, he shut his gaping mouth with a click and finally looked back just in time to see her walking away. Tugging on the high collar of his robes — it suddenly felt as tight as the crotch of his trousers — Harry took a deep breath and stepped from his hiding spot.
His shoes tapped out a hard click on the polished floors as he strode through the atrium, the sound slowly drowned out by the increasing volume of whispers. But he kept his gaze locked on Draco’s sharp profile, and the crowds in his way parted as if people could see by his expression that he wouldn’t stop for anyone else. He drew to Draco’s side, close enough that the scent of citrus oil lingering on Draco’s skin surrounded him, and pressed his palm lightly to the side of his waist. Draco’s muscles tensed at his touch, but he didn’t pause speaking even long enough to look at Harry.
“—which is why export tariffs should be imposed. The exchange rate of the Benzant has an advantage over both the Galleon and the Dragot right now, but France is the primary hub for what should be considered luxury items. Some of the native potions ingredients found there, for instance, are still revered as exotic and rare, when if you look at any of the curriculum for fourth year Herbology, you’ll find we harvest many of them locally now.”
Harry stared at him and tightened his hand, fitting himself to Draco’s side. His heart was beating fast, the room hazy around them. He heard his name spoken and nodded, watching Draco’s lips twitch, and then Draco suddenly twisted. Harry’s pulse jittered, but Draco didn’t try to move away; he simply leaned out, his hip pressing against Harry’s for a moment, and scooped a glass of champagne from one of the silver trays floating about the room, then passed it over to Harry.
“Excuse him,” he said as Harry dumbly took the drink. “It takes him a few minutes to relax at these events.” He slanted a pointed look at Harry, then at the glass, his expression edging ever closer to a roll of the eyes. But colour was bled high on his cheeks, imperfect little blotches of emotion that told a different story and, almost as if he didn’t mean to, he pressed a little harder to Harry’s side, his hand coming up to rest flat between Harry’s shoulder blades.
“Yes, that’s right,” Harry heard as he contemplated licking the strip of skin visible between Draco’s collar and jaw. “I do remember reading about what happened with the Spanish Minister’s daughter.”
Draco’s hand moved, slid down. Then he poked Harry hard in the spine and Harry started, barely refraining from dropping his glass. He turned to the others, flushing; not only was MACUSA’s Deputy Commissioner of Commerce staring at him with an indulgent smile, three other people he didn’t recognise were exchanging laughing glances.
“Right.” Harry nodded, then narrowed his eyes when Draco poked him again. He pinched Draco’s side in retribution, smug when Draco’s nostrils flared. “Yes. How are you, Ms Martinez?”
“Very well, thank you; it is good to see you again. Please, call me Elena,” she said. She introduced him to her assistant and two lower members of MACUSA’s cabinet. Harry smiled pleasantly, shook hands, and offered them the use of his first name as Draco slid his finger down the indentation of Harry’s spine — a zip of magic, through layers of silk — and then paused his hand at the small of Harry’s back.
“Hopefully we won’t have any international incidents on the dance floor this time,” Harry said, exhilarated.
“If there are, surely you’ll find a way to smooth the waves somehow,” Elena said. “I’ve been reading about the revitalisation of magical pathways since we met. It’s not nearly as common in the States, and I find it intriguing that the flow of magic can be so linked to emotions.” She dipped her head at Draco. “Perhaps your Mr Malfoy wouldn’t mind answering a few questions?”
“My Mr Malfoy would be delighted,” Harry said.
Draco’s eyes widened a fraction, but he gamely launched into a rudimentary description of his work — as though unaware that Harry couldn’t stop looking at him, that he was fighting the inclination to shuffle him onto one of the dark, private terraces that lined the hall. As though Draco didn’t know or could disregard the fact that Harry’s insides felt shaken loose. Perfectly composed, nothing remotely in common with the distracted, horny disaster Harry was currently devolving into..
But then, still talking, Draco began stroking tiny circles over the small of Harry’s back.
And then he splayed his fingers out.
And then he rested the tip of his pinky over the cleft of Harry’s arse.
And pressed.
Harry swallowed the last drops of his champagne and plunked the glass down on another floating tray. “I’m sorry,” he cut in abruptly. “If you could excuse us for a minute?"
Draco shot him an appalled glance, as though Harry was out of line — and ran his pinky down Harry's crack. Back up.
"Of course," Elena said, brow furrowing. "I hope everything is all right?"
"Yes." Harry's cock jerked, Draco's fingers stroking the bottom curve of his bum. He forced a smile and clamped a hand over Draco’s elbow. "I just need to discuss something with my boyfriend,” he said, and dragged Draco away before anyone could protest.
Anyone, that was, but Draco.
“I never agreed to be called that.” He smiled charmingly at a couple of Unspeakables as Harry hustled him along. “I’m not that, not your boyfriend, this is incredibly casual, a first date really, or perhaps we’re just friendly acquaintances, titles are a different discussion and there are several steps someone in your position should— let go of me, Potter,” he hissed, and turned up his toes to dig the heels of his shoes against the floor as if he’d realised Harry was leading him to one of the deserted alcoves off the atrium. Harry growled and tugged on his arm harder, so near he could almost taste it. But then Draco’s heels started to skid, and he huffed and wrenched out of Harry’s grip with a rather manic grin at no one in particular, stopping them in place. “What,” he said under his breath, smoothing down his robes with a nervous hand, “do you think you’re doing?”
“What did you think you were doing?” Harry shot back.
With an air of ‘you idiot’, Draco sniffed and said, “I was redeeming myself with Ms Martinez. I barely got a word in edgewise when we met because you inexplicably decided to grow an inner swot, and I refuse to let her believe you know more about foreign finance than I do. And then I was answering a question she posed, which you heard, before hauling me away. That was unforgivably crass.”
“Oh, but the etiquette of you groping my arse for tomorrow’s papers was a chapter I skipped in Miss Toodlesome’s All-in-One Guide to Wizarding Manners?” Harry asked, snorting.
Draco, lips parted to argue, closed his mouth. Flushed. Gave a flustered glance around and flushed deeper when the flash of another camera went off. He lifted his chin. “A little unsophisticated, perhaps, but it’s not unheard of for people on a date to be seen— touching.”
“I’m glad you’ve at least decided it was a date, because I’m pretty sure friendly acquaintances keep their touching to things like handshakes,” Harry said. He firmed his lips to avoid accidentally smiling, but edged closer and lowered his voice. “You were practically fingering me in front of the entire Ministry.”
“I was simply brushing lint from the back of your robes—”
“Before flipping them up and putting it to me?” Harry asked. Draco’s breath faltered, his gaze roving down the length of Harry’s body in a manner so blatant with consideration, Harry’s erection throbbed.
Draco’s eyes came back up, mouth pulling into the sort of smirk that did not bode well for Harry’s self-control. Without looking away from Harry’s face, he stretched out a hand to the side and snatched up another glass of champagne. He sipped it, gaze veiled, and murmured, “Yes.”
“Good first date activity,” Harry said, mouth dry. He pinched the seam running up the side of Draco’s robes and subtly pulled. Casting a nonchalant look around, Draco took a single step nearer, closing the gap between them, until Harry could feel his breath on his cheek. “You look handsome.”
“I know,” Draco said. “You do, too.” Courtesy met, he swallowed hard. “Come on.”
The alcove had filled up with people as they talked, but Harry was only too willing to go somewhere else — until Draco’s long strides stopped in the middle of the dance floor.
“Wait,” Harry said. “No.”
“After your provocative little display,” Draco said, folding the fingers of one sure hand around Harry’s and placing the other firmly at his waist, “all of the cameras are on us. So smile and don’t plough into me — you’re fine, Harry,” he added quietly when Harry stumbled, “—and they’ll find something else of interest soon enough.”
“You really have a lot to learn about being friendly-dating-boyfriend-acquaintances with me,” Harry said. But he relaxed a little at Draco’s low, warm chuckle and slid his hand to Draco’s shoulder, the rich sound of the string quartet filtering in over the buzz of nearby voices, and found that dancing at an event wasn’t so difficult after all. Draco was a capable lead and kept things simple, relegating them to a small square of space that didn’t intrude on the other dancers. Harry fell into his rhythm, even glancing over Draco’s shoulder a time or two during a turn, surprisingly content to let the desire smoulder between them as more couples joined them on the dance floor for the next number.
Draco finally broke the silence. “Your promotion?”
“Is just my job now,” Harry said, close to his ear. Over the course of the dance, Draco’s hand had slid around to Harry’s back, pressing their bodies together from thigh to chest, the hard length of his prick a tantalising rub against Harry’s hip. “I’d think you, of all people, might take whatever the Prophet reports with a grain of salt. The waiting period before official announcement is standard, but the ink on the contracts was dry by the time I got home Friday night. How many women have you been engaged to?”
“Just two.” One of Draco’s eyebrows lifted, a surprised little quirk. “Been investigating my romantic history?”
“More like been subjected to it,” Harry said. “The women in your life insist on telling me.” Draco sucked his lips between his teeth as though trying not to laugh, and Harry huffed. “I thought it might be smart to prepare myself for the next one. Though I doubt the ‘romantic’ bit.”
“I’m glad to see you’re learning,” Draco murmured. “I’ll be sure to keep you apprised of my marital prospects in the future.” He spun them, once, before Harry could respond to that, a swift, dizzying twirl that slid his thigh against Harry’s heavy erection and blurred together the mix of extravagant robe colours around them, then said, “And your boss?”
“I don’t know yet,” Harry said, eyes refocussing. He caught a glimpse of Kingsley standing with his wife near the hors d'oeuvres, aiming an approving smile towards him, and waved over Draco’s back. Kingsley returned the gesture, and Harry cleared his throat. “Whatever his punishment is, it won’t be enough.”
“From what I gathered on Diagon today, he’s to be heavily sanctioned for exploiting the other Aurors’ schedules, at least,” Draco said, the grimace of a smile pulling his mouth. “And yours above all. I did try to point out—”
“No.” Harry stopped him, stopped them both in place, a swell of urgency rising in chest. “Not to me, or the other Aurors. We — I — made the choice to follow him, to be... taken advantage of without asking the right questions. For what he did to everyone else. To you.”
Breathing shallowly, Draco searched Harry’s face; his lips curved in a small, contained smile. He reached up and tweaked Harry’s glasses, the pad of his thumb guiding the bridge higher on Harry’s nose, and he said, “I might almost feel sorry for him, losing your regard, if he’d been remotely worthy of it. He wasn’t.”
“You are,” Harry said. A conflicted look passed over Draco’s features, and Harry cupped the back of his head, disturbing the fine strands of Draco’s hair with his fingers. “You are.”
Draco hesitated. “Harry—”
“I don’t suppose you mind if I cut in?” They broke apart at Audrina Shacklebolt’s voice, Draco taking a liberal step back and immediately relinquishing Harry’s hand over to her. Her wide, open smile turned a bit tentative, and she glanced back and forth between them. “If you were ready to—”
“Of course, Mrs Shacklebolt,” Draco said with an endearing little half-bow. He smiled, and the tenuous, anticipatory moment they’d shared faded. “It would be a pleasure.”
“For me,” Harry put in, a burbling laugh breaking out of his throat when Draco flicked him an annoyed glance. Harry shrugged and stage-whispered to him, “You could try to make it sound a little less like you were dying to get away.”
“No I couldn’t,” Draco scoffed. But his pale eyes gleamed with satisfaction and his mouth twitched when Harry deftly took her in his arms, keeping a careful distance between them. Draco nodded at her once more, an implicit, Enjoy, and excused himself from the dance floor.
“I apologise if I interrupted,” Audrina murmured as they began dancing. “You two were simply dashing, but dancing with a woman can be a bit different — as you must know, since the—”
“I’m really never, ever going to live that down, am I?” Harry asked.
“It doesn’t seem likely, no,” she said with a sly grin, and Harry laughed and led her deeper onto the dance floor.
* * *
The night progressed, slow as treacle, but Draco had been right; coming with a plus-one saved Harry a host of worries. Though their interactions were infrequent between the festivities and the number of people who wanted to talk to or congratulate Harry, Draco was somehow always nearby: stepping in to make an excuse when Harry couldn’t pull himself away; levitating a plate of appetisers to Harry just as he was starting to realise he was hungry; sliding to Harry’s side and expertly breaking into whatever topic was being discussed when Harry got tired of talking. In between, Harry spotted him about the room, clever and sharp, escorting various people to the dance floor, captivating even those who seemed the most hesitant to talk to him.
“You’re making them want you nearly as much as I do,” Harry said, finally afforded the opportunity to bring Draco a drink when Kingsley got on stage to present his yearly speech.
Draco aimed a wicked smile at him that thickened Harry’s poor, neglected prick for the thousandth time, yet all he said was, “Every person is a potential client.”
But that wasn’t it. Harry hadn’t missed the subtle strategy of Draco’s activities; he’d focussed most of his considerable charm to influence those few Harry would ultimately report to, and a wider circle comprised of those more conservative members on the Wizengamot who might one day decide to question Harry’s judgement.
Harry touched the clasp at Draco’s throat, silver braiding wrapped around a tiny cluster of the same tiny buttons catching the light down the front of his robes. “Pearls?” he asked.
“Moonstone.” Draco’s Adam’s apple bobbed as Harry’s knuckles grazed it, his fingers slipping between cool fabric and hot skin. “They’re— They— go with my robes.”
In a voice he didn’t recognise, Harry rasped, “Yeah. I want to take them off you,” and Draco made a rough sound, his posture softening — a helpless lean into Harry’s body. Tipsy with how much he liked that, Harry said, “Draco. I want you.”
Draco swayed, cheekbones splotched pink, breath coming in short, sharp pants. They were on the fringes of the crowd, the room bustling and alive around them, but they could have been alone for all it mattered. Harry shifted closer, tilted his head up to put his lips against the hinge of Draco’s jaw. Felt the shudder, unrepressed, rip through Draco’s lanky form — felt the telltale twitch of his cock through their robes.
“You can’t leave yet,” Draco murmured. But he said it while nosing just under Harry’s ear, a fevered sort of nuzzle that stole Harry’s breath and stiffened his already aching erection further. “We can’t leave.”
“So we won’t,” Harry said, the heat of his exhale against Draco’s skin warming his own lips.
“Good Merlin,” Draco said. He gave a strained laugh, his hand landing low on Harry’s belly — though not low enough. His fingers paused there, curled just a little into Harry’s robes before exerting pressure. Pushing him back. “And how would it look if we abandon the benefit to fuck over your desk on our first date?”
“I could Apparate home and grab the camera I bought so we could find out,” Harry offered, meaning it. Draco shut his eyes, a hot, tempted look on his face, and Harry said, “But I’m not suggesting my office.”
Someone jostled Draco from behind and his retracting fingers stilled, their tips brushing Harry’s robes. “Fuck,” he said. Then, abruptly, “Where?”
“I already said.”
Draco inhaled, hard and fast. He lifted his drink to his lips and took a sip, glancing around, and said, “Five minutes.” Then he pasted on a bland smile that did absolutely nothing to disguise the blaze in his cheeks or keen glitter of his eyes, pressed his half-full drink into Harry’s hand, and stalked off, robes whipping about his calves in his haste.
Lust-shaken, Harry watched him go. He finished off Draco’s drink in two swallows to wet his suddenly-parched throat, set down the glass, and proceeded in the opposite direction.
The cloakroom was empty of people, the majority of attendees listening to Kingsley’s speech or otherwise occupied — and it was as private and safe a spot as Harry had been able to think of on this level, charmed to release items only to the same people who’d brought them in. It was also a disaster of disorganisation, none of the guests apparently familiar with how to store their own things amongst others; the rows of cloak racks were clogged with items, several of the small tables available for smaller items piled so high handbags were falling off — all of which suited Harry just fine. Fighting his way through the rows, he retrieved his things, stored his glasses in the pocket of his robes, and then waited for Draco to show up.
He did, not a minute later, out of breath and eyes still burning, long legs eating up the floor as he made his way into the room. He shut the door and stopped. Turned around. Tilted his head, expression flat with blind impatience. “Harry, you fucking shit, where…?”
Harry didn’t let him finish, freeing an arm to hook around Draco’s ribcage and haul him between rows, draping his Cloak over both of them as Draco fell back against his chest. Draco’s gasp came out quiet, his fingers scrabbling briefly against Harry’s arm and then relaxing to grip it. Pleased, Harry used his chin to bunch down the collar of Draco’s robes; he bit him there, grinding his cock against the muscles of Draco’s arse.
“They’ll still be able to see our feet,” Draco muttered. But he rocked his hips back against Harry’s nonetheless, head falling sideways as Harry laved the clean strip of skin he’d bared. His hand came down and back, moulding to Harry’s hip to clasp them closer together, and Harry groaned at the unconscious skitter of Draco’s magic bleeding through the fabric of his robes.
“Do you care?” he asked, licking the shell of Draco’s ear. He didn’t — it felt like a year or more had gone by in the week since he’d last got to touch Draco like this, his physical desire a faint echo to what Draco’s thoughtless responses were doing to his heart. No longer tense or guarded, Draco was moving against the fit of Harry’s body as if he belonged there, hips working a slow, rolling beat against Harry’s pelvis, his free hand coming up to sink into Harry’s hair. He twisted his head and brought them nose-to-nose, panting against Harry’s mouth.
“I don’t,” he said, shakily. A confession; an admission of guilt. Something more.
Harry surged against him with a hard kiss, and Draco parted his lips to swallow Harry’s pained breath, to accept the slide of Harry’s tongue into his mouth — slick, hot. His blunt nails scratched Harry’s scalp as he fisted his hand, and Harry turned and walked them forward, tugging Draco’s robes up to his waist as they went until they bumped into the wall. Draco let go of Harry’s hip to steady himself against it, feeding a stifled sound into their kiss when Harry found his erection through his trousers. Draco’s hips stuttering into one hand, Harry used his other to fumble open the buckle of Draco’s belt, to work open his flies. His efforts were rewarded when his hand met soft, curling hairs, when Draco’s bare, heavy cock bobbed out of its confinement into Harry’s grip. Harry tore out of their kiss to press up on his toes, to look down over Draco’s shoulder and watch the fold of his fingers around Draco’s shaft, to see the glisten at the tip when he glided Draco’s foreskin back.
“Fuck,” he muttered with feeling. He fisted Draco’s cock, up, down, tightening his grip around its flushed, leaking head, his own cock throbbing damply against the inside of his pants. “Look at you.” He twisted his hand around the length on a downstroke. Thumbed over the silky precome gathering at his slit, hissing when Draco’s fingers flexed in his hair. “Look at that.”
“You look at it,” Draco said, a breathy semblance of his standard, snotty drawl. He mouthed along the knot of Harry’s jaw, a hard skim of teeth, and thrust into his fist. “If you brought me in here for a quick handjob, I’m more than fine with that. Keep watching and in a minute you’ll uhhhnn, god, see something really impressive.”
Startled, Harry choked a laugh and gave Draco’s prick a final squeeze, feeling Draco’s grin against his cheek. He tugged Draco’s trousers down to his thighs then started on his own clothes, hiking up his robes and jerking his trousers open. Impatient for contact, he wriggled everything down just enough so he could hook the waistband of his pants behind his balls. Draco canted his hips back, Harry’s prick pressed to one well-muscled cheek; he rotated his hips, and let his head fall back against Harry’s shoulder as Harry worked two fingers into the crevice of his arse and muttered a lubrication spell under his breath. Breathing hard, Harry stroked slippery fingers against Draco’s pucker, already twitching under his touch, soft then tense, and soft again. He pushed his fingertips in.
“I forgot the lesson on time management, didn’t I?” Draco said. His hand left Harry’s hair; he flattened his palms against the wall. “Harry. For fuck’s sake, fuck me. You’ll be missed soon.”
Harry glanced up at the tension lacing his voice, but there was no reprimand in Draco’s face; his gaze was heated, heavy-lidded, his brow creased and lower lip wet, hair tousled by the glimmery veil of Harry’s Cloak over them. He looked beautiful, a thousand times more striking than when Harry had first realised he’d shown up to— to be with him, and the last of the oxygen in Harry’s lungs escaped, his heart cracking open in the middle of a tiny, cluttered room that meant nothing to either of them except that they could hide in it together. Ignoring the growing ache in his cock, he reached up to angle Draco’s head and kissed him — slowly, with deliberation, soft and sipping. He pressed his fingers deeper and sucked Draco’s lower lip into his mouth; he flipped his palm down and licked hot against Draco’s tongue. Draco opened for him with a hoarse moan that wrang a small spurt of precome from Harry’s cock, and Harry stroked his thumb down from Draco's hole to his seam, fingers resting on the nub of Draco’s prostate, and applied pressure.
“Let them miss me,” Harry murmured against his mouth. He fucked his fingers into Draco, rubbed his thumb in small circles against his perineum, felt his own massage through delicate layers of skin and muscle. Draco broke out of the kiss, hips juddering, a deep whine humming in the back of his throat.
“Please, oh god, Merlin, Harry, don’t— I’ll— fuck,” he said on one long, rambling breath, “put it in me, do it, I want your cock, please— I need—” He arched to take Harry’s mouth in another kiss, deep, ragged breaths tearing from his chest, then pushed off the wall with one hand and reached between them, stilled Harry’s wrist. He opened his eyes a slit. “Potter,” he said, and tightened his hand.
Harry met his eyes and swallowed. Pulled his fingers out, murmuring another lubrication spell. He lined up, and Draco’s eyelashes fluttered shut again, relief sweeping over his face as Harry pushed inside. Draco’s legs were too close together and he was about an inch too tall for the angle to be easy, but his inner muscles clung hot and sweet around Harry’s swollen cock, a solace all on its own to finally be inside, and Harry buried his face against Draco’s neck and groaned. Fully sheathed by the tight clasp of Draco’s body, he kept his pumps measured, deep, barely pulling away before sliding back in to the hilt, and found Draco’s bobbing cock with his hand once more. He let Draco’s instinctive back-and-forth fucks determine their pace and shuddered out muffled curses into Draco’s skin as he started going faster, the taut backs of his thighs trembling against the fronts of Harry’s own.
“How long,” Draco got out, nearly soundless, “did it take you to wonder if I was telling the truth? When I sent—”
“I didn’t,” Harry managed, not even needing clarification. The lie of Draco’s letter breaking things off felt insignificant; everything but the reason behind it always had. “Not even for a second,” he breathed, gasping when Draco’s palm wrapped around his nape, prickly-hot with magic that streaked down Harry’s spine like the same feeling he got casting a Patronus. “Didn’t you read my letter this morning?” he asked.
Draco didn’t answer, but his back hitched against Harry’s chest, and Harry could taste the clean salt of sweat on his neck — could feel the sporadic, rippling spasm of Draco’s arse around his cock that precipitated his orgasms — and maybe all of that was answer enough. He tightened his grasp on Draco’s shaft as it fucked through the tunnel of his fist, then stroked down to curl his hand around the wet glans, again and again, until Draco was trembling, the head of his prick plumping even harder under Harry’s ministrations. He let out a low, keening sound, jerked his hips forward so far Harry’s own cock nearly popped out, then thrust back and came, spilling warm over Harry’s knuckles. His hand on the wall knotted, the side of his fist thumping into it.
“Fuck. Me,” he gritted out, so Harry went at him harder, lightheaded with his own rising climax, tingling pleasure pulling his balls tight. Draco’s hair was soft against his temple, his cock pulsing against Harry’s palm, his body a bow stretched tight as he came, and Harry yanked his hips back and came too, unable to hold out any longer. The force of his climax tore a moan from his throat, Draco’s inner muscles milking him with a hard, clamping rhythm that made him see stars.
“Dear fucking Christ,” Draco said weakly when it was over, Harry slumped and breathing hard against his back. Then: “If I turn around and there are people staring in our direction, I’m going to claim you dosed me with a lust potion.”
“What?” Harry lifted his forehead from Draco’s shoulder with a gulp.
“It’s an Invisibility Cloak, not a Muffliato Cloak, you idiot,” Draco muttered with a tiny shimmy of his hips that made Harry’s softening prick slip free. “Do you have any idea how loud you just were?”
Harry snorted and kissed his neck. He could hear the muted strains of music and chatter from down the hall, Kingsley’s speech having ended at some point. “Do you have any idea how little I care?”
“And yet you’re so concerned with an innocent brush of my hand over your backside making the papers,” Draco said.
“Innocent?”
“Whatever.” Draco elbowed him away, reaching to pull his trousers up around his hips before twisting to check behind them. Unclenching when he saw they were still alone, he pulled the Cloak off, folded it in quarters, and draped it over the rail of the nearest cloak rack, side-eyeing Harry. “I have no idea how long we’ve been in here, but your absence has almost certainly been noticed by now. Clean us up so I can get back in there. I’ll tell people you had to check something in your department,” he said, shivering a little when Harry cast a wandless Tergeo at him. He cleared his throat. “You can follow in ten.”
He straightened his clothes with brisk efficiency, then huffed and looked pointedly down at the rumpled state of his robes. Harry rolled his eyes despite the warm, glowing bubble expanding in his chest, and smoothed out the wrinkled fabric. Draco gave him a definitive nod, then started for the door — where he paused.
“By the way, where’s my wand?”
“Oh, that.” Harry took his time cleaning himself up and righting his own clothes, tucking his spent cock away and clearing his robes of creases, putting his glasses back on and running a hand through his hair — not that it would do much good — and generally dragging out the seconds until he heard the impatient tap of Draco’s foot.
“I understand that it may seem ridiculous, me keeping it,” Draco said stiffly, “but it’s mine and—”
“It’s not ridiculous.” Harry retrieved his Invisibility Cloak and rolled it into a tighter bundle, then took a moment to hunt for the cloak he’d worn over his robes. He pulled out the little drawstring pouch within it, worked his Cloak inside, and felt around for the brush of wandwood against his fingers.
“For Merlin’s sake, Harry, nevermind, I don’t need it immediately if you’re going to—” Draco broke off, colour washing from his face as Harry pulled the wand from the pouch.
“Are you sure about that?” Harry asked. He held his breath and tossed it to him.
Draco snatched it out of the air, a quick, automatic flick of his wrist, the handle fitting into his grip with familiar ease. He stood there blinking at its restored length, jaw unhinged, and then lifted it, turned it, staring. Staring. He shook his head once, a tight motion of disbelief, his sheened gaze rising to where Harry stood watching him. He gave the wand a small swish, a damp, stifled laugh breaking free when dozens of silvery bubbles floated from the tip.
“How—? What—? How—?” He laughed again, face so lit with joy that Harry took a step nearer to him, wanting to be closer to that look. Draco flicked his wand at the table of handbags and they zipped into a modicum of order; he aimed a flick at the cloak rack and the cloaks shuffled, a fast rustle of fabric righting on hangers, the hangers straightening on the rod. Then he directed that look at Harry and it was— it was even better than touching him had been, hotter and more satisfying, inexplicably more intimate. Draco’s voice wobbled. “How?”
Harry hesitated. Giving in to the temptation of using the Elder Wand still weighed on him a little, despite having made himself accountable to McGonagall’s opinion on the matter. But as McGonagall had pointed out, he was doing it to right a wrong, and with no expectation of power. Using the Elder Wand once every eight years under such selfless circumstances might be acceptable, she’d said, and there’d been no way for Harry to admit that it wasn’t selfless, not completely. Not even a little. He’d known what he was doing was a big thing; he’d known it would be even when the idea first came to him, not quite unlike searching for the Resurrection Stone would have been. It felt entirely selfish, because he wouldn’t have done it for just anyone — and because he was filled with the same happiness he saw mirrored on Draco’s face.
In the short time Harry’d spent falling for him, Draco had done more than revise his wardrobe and take him to task for proper pinky-in-air placement while he sipped his tea: he’d made Harry laugh and want… more; he’d given Harry permission he’d not known he needed to value himself again. He’d reorganised the priorities of Harry’s life before either of them had realised that’s what he was doing, and it made Harry feel good and right, to give something back to him.
“I can’t tell you,” he finally said. He shook his head when Draco’s gaze flashed to him again. “Not here, or— yet. Another time, I promise. And you can’t tell anyone about it who doesn’t already know it was broken. But… it’s yours. No matter what happens between us.” He smiled. Gave an awkward shrug. “I’ve been told what bad etiquette it is to forget someone’s birthday.”
Draco was looking at him blankly. “No matter what happens between—?” His eyebrows snapped together, and he flicked his wand at Harry’s robes, jerking him forward, then tucked the wand into his sleeve and pressed a hard kiss to Harry’s mouth. Stomach fluttering, Harry tried to kiss him back but Draco pulled away too quickly. He grabbed Harry’s hand and muttered, “Fuck this.”
“Fuck— what?” Harry asked, trying to follow his train of thought. The kiss had felt like a good thing, but the temper with which Draco opened the door and pulled Harry out of the cloakroom, and the spiky lift of his shoulders as he dragged Harry along the corridor… didn’t. “Draco, where are we— what’s—?”
“Shut it,” he snarled, yanking Harry into the atrium.
He marched purposefully over to where the journalists were, their avid eyes brightening as they got nearer. He stopped a few paces away, turned and gripped the fabric of Harry’s robes at the chest, and kissed him again — indecently, deep, plunging his tongue into Harry’s mouth with a soft growl that sounded triumphant, lips moving against Harry’s with an urgency that woke up his tired cock. Catching up, Harry kissed him back, winding his arms through Draco’s to press his hands against Draco’s spine and slanting his head to better fit their mouths together. Blood roaring in his ears, it took Harry a minute to realise that silence had fallen around them, that the flashes of light he saw from behind his closed eyelids were photographs being taken.
At length, Draco raised his head. He stared at Harry for a beat, then turned and raised a slightly bewildered eyebrow at the cameras going mad, as if he couldn’t quite figure out why kissing Harry like they were already naked was a matter of public interest.
“Excuse us, we didn’t see you there,” he said smoothly. He brushed his hair back with an arrogant swipe of his hand, then looked at Harry with a confused frown. “Is this the sort of intrusive shit I’ll have to live with as your boyfriend?”
“I—” Harry laughed, helpless with it. He was going to look like the most besotted fool in history in tomorrow’s papers, assuming they didn’t run a special midnight edition. He lifted his shoulders. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” Draco sighed. “Come on, let’s dance before we head to yours.” He led Harry to the dance floor, his long frame invading Harry’s space as they began moving, and this time lowered his voice. “I did,” he said, his cheek against Harry’s. “Read this morning’s letter. Of course I did.”
“Oh.” Harry huffed a glad breath and held him closer. “And?”
“Do you need a bigger response than what I just gave the world?”
Harry shook his head. “What happened to the discussion of titles? The several steps and all the rules?”
Draco pulled back, just enough to look at him. “Well, that’s another lesson,” he murmured with a prickly push of his magic against Harry’s palm.
“What is?” Harry asked.
“Knowing when something’s important enough to let the rest go,” Draco said, lips curving smugly.
“God, Draco,” Harry said. Smiling, because he couldn’t not. “I could have told you that.”