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Malfoy's townhouse in Chelsea was nowhere near as large as the manor, but ornate nonetheless: even the front door had runes carved into its rich oak panelling that shifted and shivered in the corner of your eye. Harry was confident none of it was Ministry regulation, because the house wasn't under a charm and faced a very Muggle street, but Malfoy had clearly found some loophole that allowed him to be ostentatiously magical and thumb his nose at everyone who meant to walk past but lingered for a second too long, wondering.
Exploiting loopholes seemed to be Malfoy's primary occupation; they were eight years out of school and he still didn't have a real job, unlike Harry, whose own work more often than not seemed to lead him here. Malfoy's geriatric house elf didn't even blink at the sight of his badge anymore, taking on the air of someone who had become used to this particular aggrievance.
"It can't wait," Harry said, before the elf had a chance to croak out all his usual lines: Master is being indisposed. Please to be returning at a later date. Owl for appointment.
Cloudy, baleful eyes narrowed in his direction, and the elf disappeared with a pop just a little too loud to be polite. The coat rack cringed away at Harry's advance into the foyer, retreating nearly into the wall to avoid having to service him. Lights flickered at the end of the long hallway, drawing him in, but Harry knew better than to venture any further on his own; last time the house had herded him in circles for twenty minutes before spitting him back out onto the street, covered in cold sweat and nursing a pounding headache.
For once, Malfoy didn't make him wait for long. Harry only had a few minutes to entertain himself by acting like he was about to shrug off his filthy Auror cloak and watching the rack quiver in fear before the house elf reappeared.
"Master will see you in the study," he said stiffly.
His ears were back flat against his skull, making his eyes bulge even further. He looked more agitated than Harry could remember seeing him. Malfoy must have been in one hell of a mood.
Harry had never been in the study before, because Malfoy tended to see him in a new sitting room each time. Either he had an infinite number of sitting rooms, or the same one was redecorated and rearranged between visits just to annoy him—both seemed equally likely. He would be sat on a settee that Harry knew from experience was grossly comfortable, and wouldn't rise to greet him, just fold an ankle over his knee and lean back and lift a brow, like Harry was there to ask him a favour. He was always dressed to the nines, even in his own home; buttoned all the way up to his throat, trousers pressed, the sort of foreboding inky black that lint would shudder to touch.
It was what Harry was expecting to see now: Malfoy's pale, sneering face looking out from behind the massive desk in the middle the room, eyeing him up, but there was no one, and not even a fire to warm him.
The room was oddly claustrophobic, for its size. There were no windows, and floor to ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, crawling over even the mantle of the fireplace. Something about them made Harry think that if he pulled out a book he'd find another just behind it, and another behind that. They were nothing like the odd paperback and sentimental collection of Hogwarts textbooks that were collecting dust at Harry's own flat; these books seemed to straighten under Harry's attention, if anything. Preening. It was fitting.
He snorted at the thought just as Malfoy stepped in.
"Something funny, Potter?"
The fire sputtered to life at his arrival and turned his eyes gold. It took Harry a second to understand why his skin shimmered so in the dim light; that it was sweat glinting at Malfoy's temples and the hollow of his throat. He was in a cloak so dark it melted him right back into the shadows. There were no buttons this time—just a thin silver clasp and the air of something thrown on in a hurry.
Harry wondered what he was in the middle of, then cursed himself for wondering. When he looked away, books filled his vision.
"Just wondering how many of these you've actually read."
"I often wonder if you can read at all," Malfoy said smoothly. He wrinkled his nose as he passed Harry, then rubbed at it. For once, Harry couldn't fault him; he was covered in the stench of an illegal potions storeroom blown to bits. Three rounds of scourgify hadn't even made a dent.
Malfoy eyed him from where he'd stopped at the far side of the room, the desk between them.
"To what do I owe the pleasure,"—he rolled the word, and Harry would know the look on his face without looking—"of seeing you twice in one blessed day?"
Harry could mention that the earlier visit was entirely Malfoy's doing. Harry actually worked at the Ministry; Malfoy just showed up as and when he pleased—usually at a time most inconvenient for everyone else–-to make a nuisance of himself, and that's how they found themselves packed into a lift like so many sardines, Harry's back to Malfoy's front, their cloaks kissing with every little shuffle.
They'd spoken, perfunctory, but Harry couldn't remember what was said. The usual things. Malfoy. Potter. Harry's memory of the occasion had now solidified around the odd buzz under his skin and Malfoy's odd, strained scent, something familiar in it that Harry just couldn't place.
It was the same scent that had followed Malfoy into the room now, the one that had been lingering in Harry's nose all day, taunting him. Harry had smelled it before, somewhere. He knew it. He knew—
"Well, Potter?" Malfoy snapped, the faint veneer of hospitality cracking at the first notion of having to wait for something, impatient as usual. "Did you want something? If you're here for a social call, I'm afraid your timing needs work."
There was a flush to him. They had gotten older, but he still turned pink the same, the colour sitting raw on his cheeks and sweeping over his jaw, down his neck. Maybe Harry had interrupted a social call.
The thought was disturbing. Harry shook it off.
"Brumell and Fang. You made a purchase of several Class C's last week. Monkshood, Devil's club, Ashwinder eggs. Sound familiar?"
"No," Malfoy said. He didn't bother feigning ignorance. His brows hitched in challenge. "I don't recall any such purchase."
"Strange," Harry said. "There's no paper trail, of course. But we do have both Brumell and Fang in custody and as of—" He made a show of looking at his watch, squinting at it, just to be annoying, "—two hours ago, they did go on record listing you as a customer. A regular customer, it turns out."
According to Brumell, who'd collapsed like a soggy piece of paper under Harry's blank stare, these particular ingredients as well as a whole host of others had been kept in stock for Malfoy in particular, who paid handsomely for the privilege and their silence. Harry would've been keen to see what Malfoy would do with Brumell if the man was in the room with them now, but he wasn't, so the worst that happened was that Malfoy's mouth flattened and jaw ticked, just once.
"Even if I had made a purchase," he said, after a slow beat. "I don't see what the problem is, Potter. I have a trade licence, as you well know."
"That's what I'm here for," Harry said easily. "If you don't mind, Malfoy. I'll need to verify it's in order. Not expired for over eight months, or anything like that. It's all routine. You understand."
Malfoy's mouth was a thin white line. "They send along Aurors for this sort of thing now, do they?"
Harry didn't let the bland look on his face falter. The truth of it, which he suspected Malfoy knew, was that Harry had offered to go. He hadn't leapt to his feet, exactly, but close enough to it that the memory warmed the back of his neck. Calling on Malfoy wasn't anything that had needed to be done right away; certainly nothing that required the urgency of apparating to Chelsea as soon as Harry had stepped out of the office, forgoing the after-work drinks, forgoing even a bloody shower and change of clothes—and Harry couldn't explain it, didn't know himself what had gripped him as soon as he'd heard Malfoy's name.
"Bit short-staffed these days," is what he said, in the face of Malfoy's cool perusal. "So many Dark wizards, so little time. Licence, Malfoy, if you please."
"I don't know where I've put it." Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "Surely you don't expect me to procure it right this instant."
"No, of course not," Harry said. "It would have just saved some time. Now we have to do the whole song and dance." Harry loved the song and dance. Watching Malfoy seethe was one of the few perks of the job, and he wouldn't pass up a single opportunity. "That purchase you may or may not have made will have to be confiscated. Any non-licensed Class C—"
"You can stop quoting your handbook at me, Potter," Malfoy snapped. Sweat had collected on his upper lip, and he wiped it away with the back of a hand. It was so unlike him that Harry had to stop and stare. "If I had anything—"
"Yeah, right. If Brumell kept any books, you'd be in for every month."
Malfoy turned to face the fire and it shrank. A beat passed, then two. He stayed stubbornly silent.
"Don't make this difficult, Malfoy." Harry didn't mean it. Malfoy at his most difficult was also the most entertaining, and the mullish set of his mouth indicated that was where they were headed tonight. Harry tried not to sound too pleased. "It's in your best interest to cooperate; that whole batch of eggs was counterfeit. They swindled you good. If you'd bought any of this legally, you could have sued them. As you do."
Mafoy didn't take the bait, but the flush receded from his face in a curious way, turning him pale again.
"The what?" he said. "The batch of—"
"Yeah," Harry said, watching him. "The eggs. They're useless."
Something flickered over Malfoy's face. It was there and gone so quickly Harry wasn't sure if he even saw it: panic.
"I never made any purchase," Malfoy said. His voice was as flat as ever, but Harry could see his throat bob on a swallow. That scent he couldn't name brightened, then soured. Shadows along the far wall lengthened as the room got a little smaller. The walls were creeping in. Malfoy's hand went to his throat, long fingers, short nails, bare even of his signet ring. "I don't have anything you're looking for. You can search the place, if you manage to get a warrant."
"Or I could take you in for questioning now," Harry said, and Malfoy's nostrils flared.
"Potter, I—look, I'm not well, alright? I'll answer whatever questions you have tomorrow. Tomorrow. If you—"
He cut himself off and took a step back as Harry moved forward, and that was enough to make Harry pause. Since when did Malfoy back away from him? He did look feverish, now that Harry was looking, really looking: he had gone pink again, eyes bright.
Harry didn't realise he was sucking in slow breaths through his mouth until Malfoy's eyes dropped to watch him, but by then his scent was coating Harry's tongue and the backs of his teeth. Malfoy had smelled wrong all day. No, not—not wrong, but different. Different, in a way Harry knew.
He shook his head like that would clear the smell from his nose. If anything, it made it worse.
Devil's club and monkshood. Ashwinder eggs. Harry had heard of that combination before, somewhere. That'll do in a pinch, he'd heard someone say, but they're not easy to get a hold of, you need to know the wrong sort of people—
Where? He couldn't remember. They weren't the most uncommon ingredients, for being Class C, though almost prohibitively expensive these days—used in both poisons and remedies, but someone, somewhere, had listed the three out just so.
"You get this every month," Harry said slowly. The stock is for Mr. Malfoy.
"Potter," Malfoy said, but there was something resigned to it now, like he knew Harry was a second away from figuring him out.
Monkshood. Ashwinder eggs, said a woman's voice. Both regulated because of their use in aphrodisiacs. Devil's club, a retardant. I'll find a way. Harry's eyes had still been bandaged, but they'd moved him into a different ward to make room for the next batch of Aurors who'd come in cursed. One bed over, there had been a witch, saying, I won't go through this again, not with him, not another heat—
"You've been suppressing it," Harry said, and the click of Malfoy's throat was shockingly loud.
"Oh, well done," Malfoy managed. "Even you can string a few clues together, it seems. Auror Potter."
A nervous sort of tension appeared in Malfoy's bearing. Harry could almost feel it, even though they were still stood on either end of the room.
"For how long?" Harry asked.
Malfoy didn't answer him.
"You should go," is what he said instead. When Harry didn't move, he straightened, threw his shoulders back. Malfoy had maybe an inch of height on him now, but still raised his chin like Harry was caught beneath his heel. "You can gloat some other time. Do come back once you've told your little friends all about it. This piece of news might even keep the Prophet off your back for a few weeks."
It would capture the news cycle for more than a few weeks, and they both knew it. If Harry had read it in the paper, he didn't think he would have believed it—Draco Malfoy, only heir, the poster child for pureblood arrogance and authority—an omega. How could it be? Not him, with the cold eyes and mean mouth, and all his sharp edges—every edge, no respite—nothing soft to him, nothing to draw you in. Every line of his body said stay away, said, I'll cut you. Draco Malfoy, an omega. It was laughable, until he was right in front of you, smelling like he was one shaky step from tripping into a heat.
"I could smell you," Harry said, as he realises it, the itch finally scratched. "In the lift."
He didn't say, I can smell you now, but Malfoy's hand wavered where it rested at his neck. He was so still Harry had to focus to make out the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse fluttering under his skin. The satisfaction of having placed his scent made Harry take in another lungful, a pull so strong he could taste it now: skin warmed under the sun, clean sweat and raw earth. The overwhelming brine of sea spray and the way it tingled on your tongue.
All this on the air between them. What would it be like with Harry's nose to the spot under Malfoy's jaw, in the sweaty divot at base of his skull? And if Harry were to follow the curve of his spine, down—
His mouth flooded with saliva so suddenly he had to clench his jaw against the cramp. Malfoy made a sound. Or maybe it was him.
Harry took a step back. He was hard, he realised a bit dimly. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten hard over Malfoy, but it was certainly the fastest, and over—nothing. Just the way he looked and the way he smelled. Harry had been around other omegas, of course—even met one in the middle of a heat, once, on a particularly grisly case a few years ago—but it hadn't been anything like this. They hadn't smelled like this.
The hand at Malfoy's side was curled into a fist. Repeat customer, Brummel had blustered. For years.
"Have you," Harry started, and didn't know how to finish. His throat was parched. The fire had burned down to nearly nothing, but heat seemed to pulse straight from Malfoy now, waves of it straining for Harry. "Have you had one? Without the suppressant, ever—"
"Yes," Malfoy sayid, clipped. A new tension had collected around his eyes; lost was the easy arrogance with which he'd come into the room, when he'd thought everything was in order, and Harry was just another nuisance to be rid of.
"But not for years." Harry could guess how many.
Malfoy's mouth twisted into something that was more of a grimace than a sneer. It wasn't pretty. He wasn't pretty, with his pale, pointy face, devoid of colour and full of spite. Haughty and unfeeling. Cold, Harry thought, even in the grip of a heat, he'd be cold. Who would want to fuck him? Who would want—who would—
"It might not be safe, after so long," Harry heard himself say like he was apart from his body, a cringing witness to his hoarse voice and stiff cock. "You're not supposed to suppress it. That potion can damage you. It's regulated to medical—"
"Auror Potter," Malfoy spat, "if you're quite finished with the lecture, I really think you should leave."
"Do you have anyone?" Harry wanted to take it back immediately, but he couldn't, so there was nothing to do but forge on ahead. "To help you. Through it. It would be easier."
"What is this, Potter, a bit of friendly advice? Or are you—no, it couldn't be." The corner of Malfoy's mouth ticked up. He swept his eyes from the top of Harry's messy head down to his muddy boots in a blink, and dismissed him just as fast. "Don't tell me you're offering yourself up? To—ah—help me through it?"
"No," Harry said calmly. His heart taken up residence in his mouth. "You couldn't pay me to fuck you, Malfoy."
"You wouldn't know how," Malfoy said, all teeth.
Coming from Malfoy's mouth, every word was a dare. Harry had never before seen so clearly how something could go: in his mind he closed the distance between them and got a hand around Malfoy's throat. They were on the floor, Harry grinding Malfoy's face into the rug, robe bunched up around his waist and arse bare. Harry's cock bullied its way in to the backdrop of Malfoy's punched out breaths, relentless, in and in and in. He slowed for nothing, drove his whole weight behind each thrust, fucked him until he begged, he would beg—
Harry turned to the door. He felt too big for his skin, stretched tight over the bones as a drum. He was one big pulse. He was—leaving.
He stopped at the door, just for a second. Just in case—but no. Fuck. Malfoy wouldn't let him forget this.
"You'll get called in for questioning," Harry said, "after," and then bit the inside of his cheek to shut himself up and stepped out into an unfamiliar corridor. He walked, mindless, and held his breath so he wouldn't lose the scent of him.
He looked back over his shoulder, couldn't help it, to see if Malfoy had come out of the study after him, but the old oak door was already gone. It had been replaced by an indistinct sort of wallpaper, a hundred different patterns in one, and a large mirror that Harry didn't want to look at. He could feel the want spilling from him, blatant, humiliating; he didn't need to see it, too.
Malfoy could have left from another door, of course. There were probably a hundred secret passages in this place; he might have opened one by pulling out a book Harry was sure he'd never read that led him straight to bed. Maybe he would call someone after all, now that he found himself in the middle of a heat he couldn't avoid and wouldn't be able to bear.
Harry knew what circles Malfoy floated in these days: old wizarding families who were wise enough to keep mum through the war, all the purebloods who know better than to refer to themselves as such. Harry had seen him fit right in with those posh, poncey alphas in their prime. Some were familiar to him—Zabini, Montague—and others were nameless, sneering faces with their noses in the air, but he couldn't imagine Malfoy sharing this with any of them. With anyone.
So he'd go at it alone, then. Magicing something to fuck himself with would work while he had some sense left, Harry imagined, but that would be driven away fast enough with no one to knot him, to hold him down, pin him in place with their cock and make him take it—
Harry didn't want to think about that. The house drove him on, walls lined with endless paintings of vast, open fields and stormy skies, a figure in the distance that turned to him and beckoned. How long was this fucking hallway? The floor was breathing with him. Let me out, Harry thought at the walls, the shifting, sinister pattern of the floor, at whatever force was drawing in the shadows and crowding him to turn one way and then another. You want me out, so let me the fuck out.
He came to a door and pushed it open without thinking. It opened not onto the street, but to Malfoy, who stood stiff-backed by his bed.
French doors were flung open wide to a balcony charmed to show sprawling gardens instead of the cramped London streets Malfoy's flat overlooked. A beam of light from the moon on a clear summer night spilled over Malfoy and the bed. It was unmade. Harry's stomach clenched.
The rest of the room was in darkness. How much of that was the house trying to direct Harry again, he didn't know. Smoke still curled from a dozen snuffed candles in their ornate holders, but Harry couldn't smell anything over Malfoy anyway: thick now, cloying, like damp earth and something left to ripen just a little too long.
Harry thought the rug under his feet must move, urge him forward. He hadn't taken a step, surely, but reached Malfoy just the same. Harry stood there, front to Malfoy's back, not more than an inch between them, and didn't touch. Just breathed.
"You've done this before?" Malfoy's voice was sore.
"Yeah," Harry said, and Malfoy's shoulders tensed.
"When? Who?"
If Harry leaned in, he could put his mouth to the back of Malfoy's neck. "Does it matter?"
Malfoy turned to face him. Even in the shadows, Harry could make out the strain on his face, disdain and mistrust warring with the heat-flush. With want.
"It was a man," Harry told him. If he asked one more question Harry was going to give himself away, because his mind had gone blank and it was becoming impossible to speak, much less come up with a convincing lie. Malfoy's mouth looked wet. "I know what I'm doing."
That part was true. Harry knew exactly what he was doing, every nerve alight, every breath propelling him in a singular direction. He was going to fuck Malfoy through his heat, through his fucking bed, right here in the dark, until he had nothing left. Until they couldn't move anymore.
Malfoy was still looking at him like he was trying to figure him out, poised as ever on the edge of doing something while Harry closed his eyes and leapt.
He turned his face to the side when Harry leaned in, breath leaving him on a scoff.
"If I've allowed you to stay, Potter, it's so you can service me," he said, lip curled, nose in the air, like his stupid house, his magic wasn't what had dragged Harry back here. "So don't start thinking—"
Harry never found out what he wasn't meant to think. Before Malfoy could finish his sentence Harry reached out and took a hold of his jaw, squeezed his prissy mouth shut and covered it with his own.
It took only a second for him to open under the pressure, and that was Malfoy through and through—all bluster and threats never to be carried out, empty posturing that fell apart at the first hint of struggle. He folded easy, as always, but Harry had never appreciated it quite like this before, when he swept his tongue past Malfoy's lips and sank right into the kiss. This was what it'd be like to fuck him, Harry thought, token resistance that took barely anything to break through, and then just wet heat pulling him in.
Harry had fucked men before, but not an omega. Never one in heat. Until now, he hadn't thought it would be so different, but his fantasies of fucking an omega had never involved Malfoy, buttoned up and sneering. No—when it was Malfoy, the fantasies were only half-formed—difficult, the way he was. They hadn't been able to get far enough past the history to turn into anything but Harry's hand on Malfoy's throat, in his hair, shoving him down onto his knees and shoving a cock into his mean little mouth to shut him up.
Harry had never imagined he could kiss him. He never thought he could crush their mouths together like this and go dizzy from his scent.
Malfoy didn't kiss him back so much as move with him, mouth open. He tasted bittersweet, citrusy and tart, layers upon layers. Lemon zest, salt, molasses. Musk. Did Harry taste it or smell it? It was one and the same. The kiss was clumsy, too wet, maybe, Malfoy sucking on Harry's tongue in fits and starts, hands on the collar of Harry's robe, his shoulders, his hair. In his fantasies Malfoy never touched him, either—couldn't, because Harry held him down. They were on the field, in the grass, dirt under his nails and smeared on Malfoy's face, in his hair where Harry gripped him and fed him his cock.
He'd had him in the dirt before. Harry hadn't forgotten.
"That day," he had to say, when they separated with a slick pop. "That day, in sixth year—do you remember—"
Malfoy's eyes were slits. "There were a quite a few days. In sixth year."
"After the game," Harry said, "under the stands," but he didn't have to continue, because he knew Malfoy hadn't forgotten either, for all that it had been over before it began, really. Just one punch landing on Harry's ribs and one on Malfoy's jaw, and down they'd gone, Harry's arm at his throat, snarling into his face. Malfoy's colourless eyes gone wide, his face a painful sort of pink. "I triggered it, didn't I? Your heat."
Malfoy laughed against his mouth, soft and mean, but his hand clenched in Harry's hair.
"Your arrogance is staggering, Potter."
He'd been in the infirmary for four days, after. It hadn't been the last time Harry would put him there.
"If you haven't had one since then," Harry said, and watched Malfoy swallow. "If it's been years, it's going to hurt."
"I thought you said you knew what you were doing," Malfoy mocked.
"You'll like it," Harry told him, and the little flinch he couldn't hide was vindication, curling in Harry's chest and making his cock throb. Malfoy didn't like pain, but he'd like this; Harry knew it as he knew any unquestionable fact, with surety born of experience, years and years of colliding and retreating, watching. Waiting.
Against the point of Harry's nose, Malfoy's jaw ticked. "I'm not convinced you even know where to put it."
His cloak was expensive. Thick, but not so thick that Harry couldn't feel the shape of him under it. Malfoy tensed further when Harry's hand slid over his broad, stiff back, to the sweet dip at the base of his spine, then lower, digging the fabric of his cloak between his arsecheeks hard enough to feel him twitch.
"Yeah? Help me, then," Harry said, rubbing over his tailbone, a little lower, not enough. "Help me find it, I can't quite—" Malfoy was pressed up against his front now, the thick jut of his cock at Harry's thigh. Harry's fingers skimmed over his hole and he jerked, a hand fisting in Harry's collar. "Here?"
The cloak had gone damp from slick. Malfoy must have been leaking, standing there in his study mouthing off at Harry about licences and protocol; he must have been hard under his stupid robes, arse clenching at every new roll of heat. Harry rubbed his nose into the spot just under his jaw and dug his finger in further, until he could almost feel the clutch of Malfoy's hole through the sodden fabric.
"Is this it? What do you think, Malfoy? Is this where I put my cock?"
Malfoy jerked away and shoved him back with a hand on his chest.
"Take off your clothes and get on the bed," he said, voice flat but for a tremor Harry only caught because he was looking for it. "Since you seem to need instructions. I don't have all night."
Harry didn't tell him it would last longer than this night. What he knew about heat was secondhand knowledge, but something told him he knew more than Malfoy did. Harry wouldn't have taken suppressants for eight fucking years, for one thing.
Malfoy had backed up enough to put him in the moonbeam again, hair a mess from Harry's clutch, a wild halo around his head. Harry's eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could make out the furious slash of Malfoy's mouth now; his knotted brows; the way his mouth dropped open when Harry shrugged off his cloak and undid his belt and let his trousers fall along with his briefs.
The air stroked Harry's cock like a cool hand and made it jerk. He was wet at the tip already, cockhead glistening when Harry rolled his foreskin back. He got on the bed. The sheets were silk, because of course they were, and Harry fought the urge to sink down and put his face in them, wrap them around him and pull one off, just like that. When he let go of his cock to undo the buttons of his shirt it bobbed under its own weight, blood-heavy and aching.
"Is that it?" Malfoy said, but his hands twitched and Harry could read every thought on his sneering face.
Over the years it had become easier to let Malfoy have the last word. It soothed him, Harry came to find, because he was still a child spoiled rotten to the core, and when he was in the middle of a tantrum it was easy to get under his guard, like now: Harry, silent, pulling at his cock as he watched, an unhurried stroke from root to tip. Malfoy breathed through his mouth, swallowing hard.
The robe fell from him as he got on the bed. He spoke, imperious: "Flat on your back."
Harry laid back and looked at him. Even with his glasses Malfoy was a little blurry around the edges, so pale in the overwhelming dark that he looked like a spectre, shifting, inconsistent. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, and Harry couldn't see his cock the way he was sat, but he could smell him, the salty slap of precome in his nostrils, sharp over the cloying scent of slick that must have smeared all over Malfoy's arse and the insides of his thighs.
When he came close enough to touch, it took only a second to flip them.
"Fuck you, no," Malfoy hissed, thrashing in Harry's grip. The jerk of his head nearly caught Harry in the nose, but he'd been apprehending Dark wizards for five years while Malfoy was lounging about as a thorn in his fucking side, so it was no contest. Malfoy went down as easily as he had that day on the pitch: furious, fighting, entirely impotent. Harry settled his entire weight on him, one straining wrist in each hand, thighs bracketing Malfoy's hips so his cock could drag over the dip of his spine and supple curve of his arse.
"Get the fuck off of me, Potter! I don't want it like—"
Harry bit the back of his neck.
He didn't mean to. He didn't know what it would do, if anything, but some part of him must have, because Malfoy stilled, tense as a strung bow. He was trembling, the acrid tinge of fear colouring his scent and making Harry's gums itch.
"It's good like this," Harry told him, mouthing at his nape. "I—just let me," he said, because trust wasn't something he could ask for. "Just let me, you'll see."
Malfoy's skin was so hot, settling against his like a brand everywhere they touched. Everywhere. Harry rutted against Malfoy's arse mindlessly, nose in his hair, along the sweaty curve of his neck. When he let go of Malfoy's wrists he put one hand on the back of his head and pushed his face down into the covers to give himself leverage, and let Malfoy take the full weight of his hips.
"Stay down," Harry said, and Malfoy's hands curled into the covers, clenched and released. He stayed.
Harry's tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his mouth was too full of teeth. There was a buzzing in his ears that he dimly recognized as his own pulse, so fast there wasn't even a beat left to it anymore. He shifted down Malfoy's body and Malfoy rose with him, legs folding under and arse going up, presenting, so Harry's cock slipped right into the slick clutch.
Harry wasn't selfish—not when it came to fucking, at least. He liked to take his time and learn his lover, explore. Sometimes he wasn't even bothered with getting off, really; watching someone come undone was more release than release. But Harry had never fucked someone through a heat before, and maybe he should have given it more than a cursory thought, because now there was no room in him for consideration, no patience, nothing but the imperative to get in, to fuck and keep fucking until everything unraveled.
The moon retreated behind the clouds. Everything fell to shadow. Harry could only feel his way, and he did, one hand on the base of his cock and the other spreading Malfoy's arse. He nudged up against his hole, furled tight and tender feeling, swollen, and slid in like he was meant to, like nothing could stop him.
Malfoy made a sound, but it was lost to the sheets. He was face down, still—could he even breathe? Harry couldn't breathe. Sinking into Malfoy's body was more sensation than he thought he could take, the height of pins and needles right before it broke. Harry shook with it, bottomed out and saw stars.
Sweat had pooled in the dip of Malfoy's back. Harry wanted to taste it but wasn't close enough, couldn't reach with his mouth, so he swiped his hand through it and brought it up to his face instead. He was moving without thinking about it, short little fucks that turned longer, deeper, hitched them along the bed. His balls slapped against Malfoy's arse and they were both sticky from his slick, the mess of it that coated Harry's cock and dripped down, down.
One of Malfoy's hands was still clenched in the covers; the other was beneath them. Harry folded over him to feel what he was feeling, slipped his own hand down to find Malfoy's curled around his hot prick, jerking himself in time with Harry's thrusts. He didn't let go when Harry scrabbled at him so Harry had to get a hold of what he could—Malfoy's bollocks, drawn up tight, heavy as Harry rolled them in his palms, and then Malfoy jerked, and his arse clenched down on Harry in long, cramping pulses as he came, and came hard.
"Oh," Harry said into the damp, burning hot skin of his back, "oh, you—" and even if his mind had gone somewhere else, lost to the feel of the fuck and the scent of them rising around him like a suffocating fog, Harry's body knew what to do. The slap slap slap of their hips stuttered, slowed as fuck turned to grind, Harry putting his whole weight behind each thrust and holding there, with the base of his cock swelling against Malfoy's rim, threat and promise both.
A few years ago, Harry had slept with a self-proclaimed size queen who was desperate for his knot. By the time he'd gotten it in Harry was exhausted, aching, waiting for it to be over—and then, just like that, it was. An orgasm like any other and the most underwhelming fuck of his life. Harry hadn't bothered with his knot after that, and couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
When it popped inside Malfoy, on the end of one more forceful grind, Harry could hear himself for the first time—like the feeling drove right through his head, cleaved the static there so he could bear witness to his own strangled moan, the choked off, desperate noise that clawed its way out of his throat. Malfoy shoved back on his cock as Harry kept swelling, stretching him, plugging him up. He was cursing, shouting, muffled into the sheets but so loud Harry could hear it anyway: fuck, and yes, and yes, and yesyesyes.
Harry came, but it didn't feel like that at all, no relief, no release. He felt instead like he was held just on the precipice and unable to take another step, the unending swell of pleasure so intense it had tipped right over into pain. His balls ached, pulsed as they emptied, but he was still wound so tight, tension in his back and hips and hands, and he could feel it in Malfoy, too, in the tremble of his back and the white knuckles he had fisted in the sheets.
Harry wasn't prone to panic. Friends would joke and say he never learned how, punted from one crisis to the next. But some kissing cousin of it tightened his throat just then, as orgasm wrenched pull after pull of come from him, as his vision went blurry and his body weak. He didn't know what was happening. He didn't know this could happen. He tried to move away on instinct and couldn't, stuttered out an apology over Malfoy's snarl, because they were stuck, and Harry was still coming, shaking with it, needles of sensation driving in from the soles of his feet and piercing him over and over again.
If he couldn't get away, he had to get closer. He only meant to put his weight on his trembling hands, but they wouldn't take it; he went down, driving Malfoy into the bed with him, knot pulling again at his rim. His arse clenched and that hurt, fuck, Harry was being milked but he didn't have anything left in him, strength draining out along with the come.
"Potter," Malfoy was saying, "Potter, you have to—move, you're fucking—" but Harry couldn't move, didn't he know? "Get off," Malfoy hissed, and he was so stupid, they were tied together, what was he even saying—and then Harry was moving, shifting, being shifted, until he was on his side and Malfoy lined up all along his front, leg up and held over Harry's hip, still tied.
"Done this before, have you," Malfoy said, but Harry barely heard him, because this way his nose was buried in Malfoy's sweaty hair and they were touching from head to toe and it was better, eased the rapid tattoo of Harry's heart a beat at a time. One of his arms was caught under Malfoy's body, trapped there and going numb, but when Harry finally had enough energy to move, he dragged his other hand over Malfoy's side, over his shuddering chest and back down.
His cock was a good handful, even when soft. Harry palmed it absently while Malfoy kept talking, voice hoarse but still pitched to mock him, saying, "oh, what's happening, my name's Harry Potter and I haven't got a fucking clue, is this my cock, I've never seen it before," and, "oh, just let me, it'll be so good. Fucking idiot."
Harry would have protested, but he couldn't speak, because he was busy sucking in slow lungfuls of Malfoy's scent. It was different now, muted and creamy, and it took him a while to figure out that he was smelling himself wrapped up in it. Malfoy was still feverish, uncomfortably hot, but Harry couldn't go anywhere so he had to bear it, let the heat and flutter of Malfoy's pulse lull him. He had stopped coming but they were still tied, and Malfoy shifted every few minutes like he forgot, and they both shivered as they were reminded.
He didn't know when his knot went down and he slipped out. He hadn't slept, but it was something like it, and Malfoy was in the same blur of fever, getting hotter, if anything. It was his squirming that brought Harry back, and the way his cock filled up in Harry's hand.
"What are you doing?" Malfoy said, sharp, when Harry shifted. He sounded like it hurt to talk, but nothing ever could stop him from running his mouth. "Stay put."
Harry didn't answer him. Words were so far from him here. Malfoy could keep talking, but all Harry wanted to do was peel them apart and settle over him, get at his mouth again. He tasted like Harry remembered, sour-sweet, hard bite of salt, and it was good, but not strong enough. So he had to mouth at Malfoy's slick throat and then at his chest, tuck his face under the sweaty clutch of Malfoy's arm and suck in a deep breath.
"Potter," Malfoy said, as Harry nosed at the soft, damp hair, licked at him. "Did you hear me? I'm warning you."
Whatever that meant. Strangely, there was a wand at his throat. When had Malfoy gotten his wand out? Had he had it this whole time? It didn't matter. Harry ignored the insistent dig and resumed licking, biting at the curve of Malfoy's pec and then sealing his mouth over a small, hard nipple. He sucked at it in strong, rhythmic pulls, and Malfoy's chest hitched. The wand stayed but his legs fell open and Harry settled into the cradle of his hips. He was hard. Harry wanted to taste him, so he did.
The sound Malfoy made was satisfying. What had he said, earlier? That it wasn't good? It was, Harry was sure of it, but in case Malfoy wasn't, Harry could make it better. There was a hand in his hair, and he allowed it, sucked Malfoy down and spread his legs wider, held open and notched over his shoulders. It was easy to get a hand under him this way and feel for his swollen, sticky centre. Harry sank in a thumb just to see what sort of sound he would get and Malfoy shuddered all over, arched right into this mouth. Both hands in Harry's hair, wand forgotten.
Good now? Harry wanted to say, but his mouth was full. Two fingers in his arse found Malfoy wet inside, his own slick and Harry's come, and that was enough to make Harry want to stick his cock back in. He had worked so hard to fill him up, was the thing. He couldn't have all that come leaking out now.
Malfoy's eyes were glazed, glinting in the dark.
"This will be even worse," he said as Harry folded him up and nudged his cock where it was meant to be. He was wrong, obviously. Malfoy was always wrong, about everything. Harry wanted to tell him that as he fucked in, but all that came out was a shaky sort of moan.
Malfoy didn't want to be kissed, squirming his face away, saying, "not after you just—" so Harry bit at his jaw instead, nosed into his temple. Their bodies squelched with every thrust, wet, messy. Harry didn't think he would ever get this smell out of his skin. Maybe that was the best part.
"I should've done it," Harry said, an odd sort of clarity returning with Malfoy held under him the way he was. "That day, on the pitch. I should've fucked you."
"Oh, yes," Malfoy panted, "you're just full of good ideas today."
"I wanted to," Harry said, looking down at Malfoy's proud, exacting face. His face that hadn't gone soft at all, not even in heat.
"Fuck me?" Malfoy's smile was not a smile. "No, you didn't."
"No," Harry said, "I wanted to—" hurt him, maybe. Touch him. Help him. Hurt him. "I wanted—I wanted." He just wanted. "Didn't you?"
"No," Malfoy said, still an awful liar, and drew Harry down for a kiss. Harry fell into it, into him, and fucked him with a sort of urgency that shouldn't have been able to find space in him, not after the last fuck, but every press of his cock into Malfoy's body felt like the first time all over again. Some distant alarm sounded in his head and his balls drew up tight, but Harry wanted it, chased it, couldn't imagine not doing this, just this.
Maybe Harry hadn't known what he was doing. Maybe, but he knew now, didn't he? He knew that he didn't want to stop. The moonlight slipped over them and lingered on Malfoy's face like a caress. It wasn't moonlight at all. Harry kissed Malfoy's sharp, awful mouth and shuddered from the feeling, from all the wanting. Malfoy's hand was on his neck, nails digging in, and his mouth slid from Harry's to his jaw.
There was the slightest catch of teeth. Harry wanted to feel them everywhere.
He didn't know he'd offered his throat until Malfoy huffed a short, tight laugh against his skin, the point of a canine scratching his Adam's apple as they rocked with the fuck. He was so hot inside. Everywhere. Harry closed his eyes. Malfoy brought his hand up to cradle Harry's face like a lover, thumb at his lip, gentle.
"Oh, Potter," he said, pitying. His eyes were fever bright. "You don't even know what you're asking for."
Then he sank his teeth into Harry's throat and gave it to him.