Chapter Text
“I think it should be obvious why I’m here. I don’t want there to be any trouble.”
Kingsley tented his fingers. “No trouble you say?”
“We both know about what: there’s already been an explosion in the press. We’re handling that, but you did tell me that I had an open door here, so now I’m using it to say I don’t want any trouble from the Ministry about me and Draco.”
“It’s funny, I was always a bit of a skeptic when Minerva said you were a troublemaker. I’m beginning to see what she meant.”
Harry could practically hear Hermione’s voice in his head saying, “Do not lose your temper!” Perhaps with a “Harry James Potter!!” thrown in for good measure. He reminded himself how irritating it would be to listen to one of her lectures, which had this way of requiring twenty or more minutes to convey the words, “I-told-you-so.”
That wasn’t enough to stop him from glaring at Kingsley, however. “I have not asked for anything. No special treatment, no rewards.”
“Ah but you are asking now, and not for something easy like a statue or a million galleons. Instead you want a free pass for a boy many believe should be rotting in Azkaban—who willingly took the dark mark, threw at least four unforgiveables that we know of, nearly murdered your housemate, Katie Bell, allowed his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange into Hogwarts… Do I need to continue?”
Harry folded his arms. “No, you do not.”
“Well as it happens, your young man has taken his own initiative.”
“Come again?”
Kingsley held up a piece of parchment with the Malfoy seal—a huge M smooshed into fucking green wax. “He owled me this very morning, as it happens, offering to submit to questioning under Veritaserum.
“The hell he did.”
Kingsley’s smile was a good reminder to Harry that his mentor had built his career by being one of the most feared and effective Aurors—it reminded him of a sleepy dragon. “Read for yourself.”
Harry grabbed the parchment and scanned it, each sentence making him more furious. “No, this is out of the question. I won’t allow it.”
“Allow it? Potter, last I checked he is of age—and thus perfectly able to make agreements in his own name.”
“This is not happening!” He was going to kill Draco. There was a rumbling on the floor, which woke him up to the fact that his magic was out of control--again. At this precise moment, he really didn’t give a shit if he brought the walls down at the Ministry, but he didn’t want to give Kingsley more ammunition.
He got to his feet, only to have Kingsley shoot a spell to lock his door. “Potter! You will not storm out of my office,” he growled.
Harry could break the spell, but a tiny voice of reason, that for the first time ever sounded more like Draco than Hermione, reminded him that Kingsley was by far his greatest ally in the Ministry—which might change if Harry pulverized the wall of the Minister of Magic’s office, especially during business hours after at least seven admins saw him walk in for an appointment he’d scheduled himself. He plopped down, aware that he looked like a sulking teenager.
Kingsley was as angry as he’d ever seen him. “You’ve created a shitstorm here, son. Now, I’ll give you style points for hiring Nero fucking Borgia’s publicist to win over the readers of Witch Weekly, but I can promise you that no one in the DMLE felt the least bit dewy-eyed about your little romance across enemy lines. The general view here is how we’re going to troubleshoot our future head Auror fucking a death eater.”
“I can think of some ways to make that easier for you.”
“The fuck you can, and if you want my help, I suggest you drop that line right now.”
Harry forced himself to nod, but he recognized that this was exactly what Draco had warned him about. Kingsley had plans for him, ones Harry could easily see himself falling in with without realizing he was being manipulated. He didn’t know how he had travelled in the course of three weeks to the point where he trusted Draco, his enemy in the war, over one of his most important allies, but there it was.
Kingsley smiled grimly. “Since you’re so determined, you’ll be pleased to hear that Robards is on your side. He thinks it’s only fair for the savior of wizardom to allow himself a bit of pay-back, and what better way than by fucking Lucius Malfoy’s son, and no question the Malfoy boy is a pretty piece of ass—and a Veela to boot.”
Harry jumped to his feet, wand in hand, and shouted: “Don’t ever talk about him like that again!” But of course he couldn’t keep it to threatening Kingsley in his own bloody office. His magic chose that moment to flare so high every piece of furniture in the room started rattling, and a large crack opened up on the Minister’s solid mahogany desk.
Kingsley cast what must have been a powerful dampening spell—supplement to the already very powerful protection spells that permeated every square inch of his office. Once the shaking stopped, he cast an annoyed reparo at his desk and then gave Harry a disappointed look right out of McGonagall’s playbook.
“When were you planning on telling me your magic is out of control?”
“You set me up!”
“Well spotted. We’ll make an Auror out of you yet—that is if you can keep control of your temper for more than five minutes, which I’d start working on now that you’re publicly dating Draco fucking Malfoy. How long has this been going on?”
Harry scowled but answered, “Since the battle of Hogwarts.” Not a lie, though not the truth either. The real answer was since he dealt with the elder wand, a topic he avoided even thinking about, given his pathetic skills with Occlumency. He, Ron and Hermione had agreed that except for Professor McGonagall, they would keep all knowledge of the Hallows and the Horcruxes out of their accounts, a decision that had just been proven correct. He did trust Kingsley, but this wasn’t the first time he’d seen the way people who worked for the Ministry developed a ruthlessness that he didn’t want anywhere near objects as dangerous as Horcruxes or the Hallows.
Or anywhere near Draco. He met Kingsley’s eye. “Just to be clear: Draco is not going to submit to questioning by you lot.”
Kingsley barked out a laugh. “I admire your optimism, Potter. Now the Malfoy boy’s suggestion will not solve everything you’ve brought on yourselves with this unbelievable cock-up, but it will at least quiet some of the complaints. I can’t stop you from trying to persuade him, but if he comes, he will be questioned and if he doesn’t want you present then you will not be. Are we clear?”
Not even Harry could refuse that tone. “Yes sir.”
“Now about the magic. Who knows?”
“Ron and Hermione. No one else. I’m handling it—it’s been better since I got back to school.” Another half truth: it was better around Draco, specifically his Protego, which seemed able to absorb all but the most intense surges.
“Does the Malfoy boy know?”
Harry shook his head, though there was no way that would last. It had already flared once in front of Draco, who’d seemed to shrug it off like it was the most ordinary thing in the world for the walls of Hogwarts to start shaking because a teenager was throwing a strop.
But the past few weeks had woken Harry to something he’d somehow failed to notice in all the years he’d been obsessed with Malfoy: he wasn’t an idiot. In fact, Draco was one of the top students in their year--like as good as anyone in Ravenclaw. Harry wished he could believe that Draco had undergone some epiphany, but evidence suggested that like with Snape, Harry had been blind to certain very obvious pieces of information—like Draco was secretly a swot who took all the same classes that Hermione did, was better at potions and almost as good at Arithmancy and Charms. Mostly it just fueled Harry’s loathing for Lucius Malfoy, who had nurtured all his son’s worst qualities while doing his best to crush anything that made him not a total git.
Harry’s hatred of his future inlaws was an ongoing problem and did nothing to solve his more imminent dilemma: that if his magic flared again, Draco would notice and not stop until he figured out why.
“Is there a pattern to the surges—and don’t answer if you’re thinking of lying to me.”
Harry knew his face was burning. He really wanted to lie, but Kingsley had already seen it. “When Draco is threatened.” Or when he dreamed that Draco was threatened. Or when he was jealous. Or when he thought about why Draco had created his Protego.
“So this thing between you really is that serious. I had my suspicions. Robards said it was wild oats, but he doesn’t understand how much you hate the press—you’d never have gone public if you weren’t serious.”
“To be clear, I have never been more serious about anything in my life, Kingsley,” Harry bit out.
“Fantastic. You do make my life easy.”
“Because everyone has made mine so easy!”
Kingsley did soften then. “Believe me, son, I know. I want to help you, any way I can. You’re convinced he’s changed?”
“I know he has.”
The dragon smile was back: “Excellent. Then you won’t stand in the way while he’s being questioned.” Kingsley flicked his wand and his door flew open. “Spinnet, Potter is done.”
* * *
Harry had planned to meet Hermione and possibly stay with her and Ron--he’d not yet had the chance to actually talk to Ron since the news about Draco had gone public. But after the meeting with Kingsley, he was in no temper to deal with either of them. More importantly, there was a certain Slytherin crup who had tried to outmaneuver him, and seriously had it coming. Normally he’d apparate to Hogsmeade, but he didn’t trust his magic right now, and anyway, his current temper made even the walk from the village back to Hogwarts seem unacceptable. He asked Kingsley within the hearing of his entire admin staff if it would be possible for him to take the floo directly to school. Kingsley grunted but nodded at Alicia Spinnet, Harry’s old teammate and apparently now one of the Minister’s top aides.
The only working Floo at Hogwarts went directly to the Headmistress’ office. McGonagall raised an eyebrow as he stumbled in. “I was expecting you tomorrow, Mr. Potter,” she said.
“Er, yes, sorry about that, Headmistress. Uh, something came up.”
“Did it now?”
“Yes, I was hoping I could return tomorrow and finish up my meetings?” he said, far too tentatively. Wasn’t he the savior of wizardom and all that?—funny how it never seemed to score him points with McGonagall.
“I see,” she said. Before he could make for the door, she added, “Mr. Potter, I believe you are aware of the importance of N.E.W.T.s. for future employment.”
“Er....” Did she have to pick right now to upbraid him for skivving off class? The only thing he cared about was dealing with Draco.
“Indeed,” she continued drily, “a top score on the N.E.W.T.s can open many doors that might otherwise be closed.”
If she was trying to guilt him into going to class, she’d need some better arguments. As far as their world went, only one qualification of his mattered: that he had defeated Voldemort. “Yes, Headmistress,” he said, hoping he sounded sufficiently meek.
Apparently not. She eyed him narrowly. “Once passed, those credentials stay with you for the rest of your life. No misfortune or change in circumstance can take them away.” He stopped himself from waving his hand for her to get on with it. “It should be clear that none of this applies to you, Mr. Potter.” Harry gaped at her. She said sharply, “Your situation is unique. My statement applies to your classmates. If I see evidence that they are being distracted from their studies by those less industrious, I will not be pleased and I will take action.”
She was worried about Draco? Harry wanted to scream. First Kingsley and now McGonagall. It was ridiculous: his boyfriend was top of their class, not to mention that he spent plenty of time studying—hours and hours! Draco insisted that he have Sunday afternoons for getting work done and then when Harry tried to sit with him in the library, he’d threatened to withhold sex if Harry didn’t go find something else to do.
“Are we clear, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
“Good. I will see you tomorrow then.”
Translation: if you’d like to keep going to London against explicit school policy, you will heed my warning.
He supposed he should count it as a win since she wasn’t insisting he attend class or Merlin forbid withdraw altogether, but Harry just felt more irritated. Only one thing in his life made any sense: his need to protect and provide for Draco, and everyone, Draco included, kept throwing up these ridiculous obstacles.
Some part of Harry warned him he should take a walk, cool off before he confronted his boyfriend, but he ignored it. As soon as he left McGonagall’s office, he pulled out the Marauder’s Map and confirmed that Draco was in the Room of Requirement.
He walked, jogged, and ultimately sprinted to the seventh floor. It was almost dinner. The Moonriders would have dispersed, but he had a feeling Draco knew he wouldn’t be able to wait to have it out with him.
Harry opened the door as quietly as he could and slipped into the room. His recent behavior notwithstanding, Harry could actually be patient when the moment called for it. He waited by the door, watching, allowing his anger to ripen.
Draco was there, sitting in the far corner, back against the wall, immersed in writing something on the parchment sheets they used for the “Saga.” No doubt it was some new adventure for fucking Mercury. Harry felt a kind of savage amusement that Draco fancied himself the villain in all of this.
In truth Draco bore a strong resemblance to every member of Lunatique, all of whom were slim, pale, platinum blond, and preternaturally pretty. But even Harry conceded that the likeness to the fellow Veela, Fury Moonrider, bordered on uncanny. Of course, Draco was in complete and hilarious denial, often complaining to Harry about how everyone made such fuss about his “vague resemblance.”
Hah.
The first time he’d had come to Moonriders, Harry had spent the first minute convinced that Malfoy had created some bonkers of cult of himself, half Slytherin and half brainwashed Hufflepuffs.
What else could he make of entire walls covered with photos of Malfoy dressed in strange swirling blue clothing, often with the moon looming massively behind him, hair long enough to cover half his face. A closer look revealed the differences: no one could look at Draco and not recognize him for a complete toff, and it wasn’t just the clothes. Moonrider had none of that…pointy refinement… elegance, Harry supposed, and the singer’s expressions had none of Draco’s intelligence or humor, favoring variations on a theme of emo: emo/pouty, emo/sultry, emo/tortured soul who wrote Demon Eyes, and emo/recently shagged.
Still, there were moments when the idea of a cult of Draco felt less bizarre than the reality of his vice presidency of the Fury Moonrider Fan Club.
When Draco finally looked up, he let out an incredibly satisfying squawk. “Salazar! How long have you been there?”
“A bit.”
There was something remarkable in watching how fast Draco’s face could go from startled to wondering to aware to nervous, and finally to bracing for the fight he knew was coming. He swallowed and got to his feet, hands opening and closing like he wanted to draw his wand.
“Do you think I would hurt you?” Harry bit out.
“Of course not.” Draco rolled his eyes. Harry was too angry right now, but he did recognize that later he’d feel relieved that Draco wasn’t afraid of him. “I’m feeling an almost overpowering urge to hex you right now.”
“You want to hex me? You’re the one who went behind my back.”
“Yes, well judging from your fit of temper right now, that was the right choice.”
“Did it occur to you that if you couldn’t persuade me, then maybe it was because it was a shitty idea.”
“Not for one second,” Draco shot back. “But it did occur to me that if I suggested a plan in which anyone other than the great Harry Potter suffered a moment’s discomfort or embarrassment, that you would pitch a fit—and here we are.”
“I seem to recall you making a huge to-do about my not rescuing you, and yet you’re throwing yourself on your sword to pacify some idiots at the DMLE who should keep their fucking noses out of my love life.”
“Well, we all know you’d prefer to do all the saving, but I’m afraid you’ll have to give the rest of us turns, and I can vouch that being questioned under Veritaserum is a soothing massage compared to being split open by a curse.”
Harry shuddered at the memory of that horrific day, but right now it just fueled his anger. “You seriously just went there.”
“Darling, I’m a Slytherin; I am just getting started,” Draco said with an almost manic smile that managed to enrage and arouse Harry in roughly equal proportions. “But maybe you thought I was faking that day as well.”
“You mean like the time you tried to kill Buckbeak?”
“I could have lost my arm,” he said, pretending to sound wounded.
Merlin’s beard, he was infuriating! Harry couldn’t quite make sense of it but there was something exhilarating in how nasty Draco could get, how hard he hit. Harry’s temper had always been worse than most people realized—at least people not named Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger--and there was a deep, perverse comfort in knowing that Draco was not the slightest bit intimidated by it. And unlike Ron, Draco wouldn’t storm off in a days-long sulk, and unlike Hermione he wouldn’t desperately try to solve all of Harry’s problems.
Speaking of problems: Harry had been riding the edge all day, and he felt his magic rise dangerously, far beyond what he could hide from Draco. Fuck! “You know I really can’t deal with you right now,” he shouted, hoping against hope that Draco would storm off.
“Hilarious—so that’s why you rushed back from London and immediately sought me out here!”
“Bloody hell, Malfoy, get out!”
“You leave!” he sneered.
“Draco—shit! My magic….” He could see the room of requirement shifting—the Moonrider paraphernalia vanishing, to be replaced with the magic absorbing material that protected the room during training. “Before I fucking hurt you!” He tried to reach for him to shove him out the door, but the stubborn git just slipped out of his grasp.
“What is happening to you right now?” Draco demanded.
“Fuck—your Protego!” he gasped out. The whole room was shaking now,
“What about it?”
“Activate it—full power.” For once Draco just did as Harry told him without a fucking debate. The effect was instant, siphoning off just enough power for the shaking to stop, and for Harry to get his temper under tentative control.
When he was sure the flare had died back, he finally ventured to look up at Draco who was standing, arms folded, not pleased. “When were you planning on telling me this?”
Harry grudgingly acknowledged that from some perspectives—not his own, mind you—his behavior might be subject to the charge of hypocrisy. Of course, Draco managed to convey an entire Hermione Granger lecture on the topic with a single lift of his blond eyebrow. And it wasn’t just Draco who was pissed at him. Harry felt a little nudge in his pocket that he already knew was a gift from the Room of Requirement. He banished it, not interested in the Room’s solution to his problems.
Harry opened his mouth to say something, but Draco cut him off. “Don’t. If we start apologizing to each other it will never stop.”
Harry smirked at the idea that he’d been planning to apologize—he hadn’t been, at all--but then remembered that Draco had just had to use a powerful spell to protect himself from Harry’s magic. “Are you angry?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t mind your thinking I can actually help—that you could come to me, like you do with Granger or Shacklebot.”
“I know you can help—I’ve let you help me,” he protested, stung. “But I don’t understand why you would offer something like this.”
Draco sighed. “I assumed that if Shacklebot at least were sure, he’d defend you with the Ministry. You said you trust him.”
“I trust him, sure, as far as it goes. But he spent 20 years in the Aurors. He’s ruthless and he won’t waste this opportunity; you’re the only son of the most prominent death eater to infiltrate the Ministry. This won’t be like the trial. Being questioned in front of the Wizengamot—they could only ask you about things you were specifically charged with. But they’re not going to agree to any limits now—they’d be mad to. They’ll chain you to a chair in a windowless room and keep you as long as they fucking feel like—they’re going to rip out every secret, Draco. They’ll want as much dirt on you as they can get to build a proper file in case they need leverage, over you or over your mother, stuff that didn’t come out before.” Though it was almost physically sickening to bring it up, he forced himself to name the only argument he thought might possibly convince Draco. “They’ll force you to incriminate your father—any chance he might have of winning leniency in a few years, they’ll make sure that’s impossible.”
Draco closed his eyes and laughed bleakly. “You actually just tried to convince me I should withhold information from the Ministry to buy my father a lighter sentence.”
“Believe me it was painful,” Harry tried to match his tone.
Draco closed the distance between them so he could kiss Harry lightly on the mouth. “If I doubted you loved me before…”
“Did you—doubt me?” Harry said. Draco made one of his annoyed pouts, which in no universe should be adorable—but somehow was in the one Harry currently inhabited. Harry went for his kill shot, nibbling Draco’s earlobe, making him groan. “Let me be there with you,” he murmured.
Draco flinched and tried to shove him back. “Oh, bloody hell!” he shouted, furious again. Harry tried to move in again, but Draco activated his fucking Protego, forcing him to let go entirely. “So you can bring down the walls of the ministry the first time your magic flies out of control? It would defeat the entire purpose of my going through this.”
“I’d control it,” Harry said, a blatant and frankly pathetic lie.
Draco’s eye roll was epic. “You do realize I wasn’t a virgin before you—how are you going to react when they start asking about every blow job that took place in the Slytherin common room.”
Draco really was a fucking git. “Great: a sex show starring Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini—I hope you at least sold tickets.” The room shook for a second, but Draco flashed his Protego and it subsided quickly.
“You get that you’re making my point for me, right?”
Harry winced. He absolutely was making Draco’s point by acting like a jealous prick. Why had this been so much easier with Ginny? He remembered thinking it kind of cute and a healthy sign how she was still such good friends with Dean.
“Someone else then,” he finally said. He hated, loathed, detested everything about this ridiculous plan, but the last few weeks had taught him some of Draco’s faultlines. Draco was beautifully pliant and willing to submit while they were shagging, but he could turn mulish on virtually any topic, even the most ludicrous—exhibit A being weeks and weeks of furious arguments with Lucy Borgia on an obscure plot point concerning a fictional Battle of the Bands. It was clear that he’d dug in on the Veritaserum—attempting to order him now would backfire spectacularly.
“About that,” Draco said. “I had an idea.”
Draco was being way too cautious. Harry was not going to like this idea.
“Oh, really?—I suppose I should feel grateful that you’d discuss it with me ahead of time.”
Draco actually looked a tiny bit chastened, so at least one of Harry’s hits had landed. “I didn’t do this to keep secrets from you.”
“It just happens to have that effect.”
“Well, I might feel guilty but as you were keeping a pretty massive secret yourself, I don’t think I’ll bother,” he said nastily.
“Draco, tell me your idea,” Harry said in a tone he usually reserved for when they were shagging.
Draco’s eyes glazed for a moment, but he managed to throw it off. “Don’t!” he warned. Harry smirked and moved on him. Draco skirted back, again looking dazed, before recovering. “I’ll say it, Harry.”
Harry put his hands up and backed off. He’d never pushed Draco that far and a kernel of sanity lodged deep in his brain recognized that forcing his lover to safeword over this really would be proof of any point Draco cared to make about Harry’s mental stability.
Harry opened his mouth, but Draco caught him. “I already told you. Don’t apologize. I thought that perhaps Granger—Hermione….” Draco had the good grace to look horribly awkward saying her name, which helped keep Harry from saying something horrible and disgusting—like “don’t you mean my ‘mud---” best friend.” He managed a rather snide wave for Draco to continue. “Just, she’s in the Department of Mysteries.”
That was unexpected. Harry grunted. “What gave you that idea?”
Draco huffed. “Well obviously I suspected. Hermione Granger would be the top recruit for the DoM in any year due to her academic qualifications, and then you add to her resume more hands-on experience investigating dark magic than the rest of the department combined. But you confirmed it when you told me she’s working for the Ministry but somehow failed to specify a department.”
“You realize this is just giving me more reasons to forbid you from undergoing this questioning.”
“It’s incredibly hot that you think you can forbid me things,” Draco said. “Anyway, it occurred to me that the DoM might be interested in the Protego.”
“No! Merlin, Draco. After… No!”
“You trust her—offer it, to let her study it—just her--and in return ask her to sit in on the questioning.”
Harry couldn’t stop himself; he grabbed Draco and kissed him deeply. It was mental, and so fucking Slytherin, to even conceive of a plan like that—to offer up the deepest, most painful events of your life as part of some crackpot bargain. Did Draco really not understand that Hermione would go in a heartbeat if Harry asked her—would do her best to protect Draco because she would consider it the right thing to do?
But trace through the ridiculous twists and unfathomable turns of Draco’s unique brand of logic, and Harry found that his lover had come up with the idea to offer up the secret of a horrific trauma to make Harry feel better about the fact that Draco was undergoing yet more invasive questioning in the hopes of—once again—helping Harry.
It was moments like these that Harry recognized the unnerving distance between them. Draco talked like this all the time: as if his whole life was made up of multilayered bargains and tallies of favors mostly of things that could not properly be traded—and yet clearly to Draco, and let’s be honest, Slytherins, they were.
Case in point: the oh-so-happy memory of Narcissa fucking Malfoy leaning over Harry’s body, newly awakened from BEING DEAD, with Voldemort and dozens of Death eaters standing twenty feet away, and murmuring out an offer of trade: his second life in exchange for information on her son.
Seriously: who does shit like this? Answer: members of Slytherin House.
Harry couldn’t help saying, “You do realize she’d do it if I asked her, right?”
Draco looked genuinely horrified at the prospect of Harry’s best friend in the world doing something that helped his boyfriend. “I don’t want to owe her that kind of favor!”
How did this even work? “Then I would owe her the favor!”
“You don’t deal in favors!” Draco snapped out, sounding outraged. “It boggles the mind how you three would even keep tally!” Draco looked like he was getting a migraine just trying to work out the sums.
Harry knew a Draco black hole when he saw one and wasn’t about to let him get lost down it. “Can we get the fucking bed! Now!” he barked at the room. Not especially romantic, but fortunately Draco really did not seem to crave hearts and flowers from Harry. “How about we finish this after I fuck you—you would like that, wouldn’t you Draco?”
To Harry’s intense satisfaction, Draco’s eyes glazed and he shuddered as the room dutifully provided a large bed that seemed to have resolved on a combination of Gryffindor and Slytherin motifs—carvings of snakes and lions chasing each on other over every square inch of its wooden surface. He vanished Draco’s clothes and then pushed him down on the bed and climbed over him. Of course, the room, which was proving itself a pushy, managing bitch, chose to materialize a certain box—only into his hand this time, not his pocket. That made twice in one day. Harry wondered if the room would start withholding the bed or lube or other things he required if Harry persisted in ignoring its “suggestion.”
Harry banished it, but not fast enough to hide it from Draco. “What was that?” he murmured.
Harry wasn’t going there right now. He shifted to his most dominant tone: “Do you want me to fuck you, Draco? Answer.”
“Merlin…yes.”
“Good boy,” he said, which invariably caused Draco to groan.
But the events of today had caught up with Harry: it wasn’t panic, precisely, but something humiliatingly close. He gripped Draco’s wrists, hovering over him so that Draco was pinned by his full weight, and then leaned down to suck a livid mark on his neck. The urge to mark his boyfriend never quite went away, but it had not been this urgent since that first time they shagged.
Today he couldn’t fight it any longer. He began sucking mark after mark, while Draco writhed under him, begging him incoherently.
There was a lurking terror that Harry could hardly allow himself to acknowledge that Draco would decide this was too much—that he didn’t want to deal with a boyfriend who was this desperate and needy. But at least today, it was moot. Draco was dazed and groaning, his cock already leaking as he tried to pump his hips. On a better day that would have calmed Harry, but today it was license to just let go. After mottling Draco’s entire torso and neck with marks, he abruptly flipped him over, and still pinning his arms, began marking up his back, his thighs, his arse.
He realized that Draco was pumping his hips into the bed. “Don’t you dare cum,” he growled, giving a hard smack to Draco’s arse.
Draco practically yowled, but then snarled over his shoulder, “Then you’d better get on with it.”
“Behave yourself,” he ordered, giving him another smack, relishing how Draco’s entire body shuddered. The frenzied marking did seem to take enough of the edge off that Harry felt in control to move to the actual business at hand. He unbuttoned his trousers and slipped his shorts down before sliding back so he could pull Draco up by the hips, using a clever lubing charm he’d been saving up that Charlie had taught him over the summer for those times when he didn’t have the patience for a slow prep.
“What the…” Draco groaned. Draco got up on his elbows and turned his head like he was going to start questioning him. Harry was having none of it: that need to dominate, to possess, was riding him hard. He gripped Draco’s neck and applied enough pressure that Draco got the message and lowered his head, turning to face the side. He was groaning and shuddering like he always did.
“Fuck, Potter,” Draco snarled, as Harry slammed into him, wondering at the almost animal noise he was making. He managed to keep himself from ordering Draco to say out loud that he was Harry’s, feeling like he’d exposed this insane possessiveness enough for that day.
But he did reach over to grab Draco’s cock. “This is mine—you cum when I say.” So not exactly showing a lot of subtlety. Draco was leaking, his cock hard as goblin iron—he must be close to coming. Harry squeezed the base, to hold him back. “Are you going to obey me, Draco? Answer.”
“Fuck!” he groaned, trying to pump his hips. He tried to slip his hand under his hips, but Harry caught him, and slapped it away.
“Fine—you’ve made your point!” Draco shot back.
“This is mine,” Harry repeated. So maybe he wasn’t managing the possessiveness quite that well tonight.
“Yes, it’s yours. Now let me cum, you controlling prat.”
Harry slapped Draco’s thigh, but then gave a few sharp pulls to Draco’s cock, until Draco was convulsing under him, moaning like he was out of his mind. He felt the frenzy abate just enough so he could let himself go, giving a few hard thrusts to cum himself. He didn’t pull out but lay on his side and pulled Draco against him, keeping his arms pinned, and resting his teeth against his neck.
“I should send you to London more often,” Draco murmured. Sex always left him sleepy and mellow, like a contented kitten—it didn’t matter how rough or demanding Harry had been.
It was an enduring mystery how easily Draco had accepted this side of him—especially given that there really was nothing easygoing about Draco Malfoy. Harry’s boyfriend, to put it in the gentlest terms, was a high-strung, hypercompetitive, downright pugnacious prat. Obviously, it helped that Draco found the “domination games” erotic. But it went further: Draco never seemed to experience any angst or worry, no sense that Harry was overstepping or domineering or being too desperate. He showed no sign of being surprised or put off. It was more than acceptance: Draco acted like it was the most expected thing in the world that Harry Potter would regularly put on displays of frantic possessiveness while shagging, like it was a part of Harry that Draco had always known was there and was glad to see come out.
Nonetheless, Harry kept worrying the issue like a splinter he couldn’t remove, because even the hint of this had been enough to destroy his relationship with Ginny. Growing up with six older brothers, the last thing Ginny wanted was another male trying to control her. The sex had been fine, but she’d made very clear that Harry could keep that nonsense away from her. He’d shoved it down, but far faster than he, she’d grasped that something was seriously wrong, especially after Harry’s nightmares started causing magic flares that nearly destroyed their room. After a month of trying to get him to open up, she’d called it off and practically shoved him into her brother, Charlie’s, bed.
Only Bill and Ginny knew that Charlie liked men. Harry tried not to judge him about the secrecy—it was Charlie’s life, and Harry did understand that being gay wasn’t accepted among the Romanian dragon community. It was still slightly scandalous among the more hidebound sectors of the wizarding world, more so than in muggle society. The possessiveness never surfaced with Charlie. Charlie liked rough sex and didn’t mind bottoming, but he was totally clear that he was only interested in casual relations, friends with benefits who he could fuck while in town with no drama. Once they started, they’d gone at it every chance they got. Everyone in the Weasley family, Harry included, was reeling after Fred’s death; sex might not have been the healthiest outlet, but it was probably better than abusing dreamless sleep or muggle narcotics, both of which Harry had considered.
He’d worried that Ginny would hate him, or be mad at her brother, but she’d gotten her payback by guilting both of them into spending virtually every daylight hour that summer helping her train for the Harpies tryouts. Faster than he could have believed, he’d gotten back to his quasi-sibling friendship with her—though now that the whole world knew about Draco, he anticipated defending against her vicious hexes when they finally had that conversation.
He nuzzled Draco’s neck as his cock slipped out, finally loosening his grip so that Draco could move. Draco rolled around, looking a little wary, “Uh, there was something else I needed to talk to you about.”
Great. Yet another plan Harry wasn’t going to like. “Out with it.”
Draco didn’t cringe, but he looked nervous and almost apologetic. “It’s just—now that the Witch Weekly went live, well I know it’s a sore spot, and I completely understand if you’d prefer not to….”
Wow—that was incredibly inarticulate. Harry was usually the one stumbling, while the Slytherin ran verbal rings around him. But then something occurred to Harry. “Draco, is this about your mother?”
“She’d like to meet. I’m not supposed to travel—without permission from the DMLE--but she’d come here on Saturday. Of course, she’d understand—we both would—if you’d prefer not to.”
“Draco, it’s your mother. Of course I’ll see her.” What kind of question was that? Though in fairness, his feelings towards Lucius were somewhat less than cordial. To be strictly accurate, Harry wouldn’t have crossed the road to piss on Lucius Malfoy if he were on fire and the bastard was welcome to rot in Azkaban for the next century. But Harry had testified for Narcissa Malfoy and had always understood that he would have to deal with her. For some reason Draco looked almost panicked at his ready agreement. “Are you worried I’ll insult her or something? I promise I won’t. I’ll even let you pick out my clothing if you’re so worried about it.”
Draco buried his face against Harry’s shoulder and murmured, “No, that’s fine. Wear what you want. Thank you.”
“Glad we have that settled then.”