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Harry stood in the courtroom, hands in his pockets, ignoring the eyes that kept darting to him. He’d given testimony on all three Malfoy’s, heard their defences, and the accusations of their victims. The trio stood in front of the Wizengamot, awaiting their verdict, while a small crowd watched from the sidelines.

Harry watched the small family, their rumpled appearances, their hollow eyes, the way Narcissa clasped Draco’s limp hand, clearly more worried for her son than herself. Harry felt a pang at the display of love. He wondered, for not the first time since The Final Battle, as the papers were calling it, what his mother and father might have done if they were here. Would they agree with his decision to testify on behalf of the Malfoys? Would his mother stand beside him, like Narcissa with Draco, and hold his hand while the Wizengamot made their ruling? Would his father offer to go flying with him afterward, as a way to distract him? He could still see the ghostly images of their faces, hear their voices, and while he never wanted to use the Resurrection Stone again, he couldn’t help wanting the impossible.

It was over now, Voldemort was done, the trials were coming to a close, and… He felt lost. Ron and Hermione had both mentioned they thought he was spending too much time alone. So here he was, mingling with other witches and wizards, being seen in public, and feeling a creeping itch under his skin to escape, to go back to Grimmauld place, lie on the sofa, close his eyes, and imagine a world where none of it had happened. A world where his mother might call him down for dinner, a world where his father might come home grumbling about the Ministry. A world where his godfather would drop by, and bring gifts they’d hide from his parents.

“Lucius Septimus Malfoy, with all testimony considered, we, the Wizengamot have decreed that for your crimes, you shall serve a sentence of no fewer than ten years in Azkaban Prison. After ten years, you will be subject to parole for a term of five years, after which, if you have committed no further crimes, you will be granted your unconditional freedom.”

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly dry as the room feel totally silent for the judgements. He didn’t think the punishment was too harsh for Lucius’ crimes, but it make him a bit nervous on how Narcissa and Draco would fare.

“Narcissa Malfoy, with all testimony considered, we the Wizengamot have decreed that for your crimes, you shall serve a sentence of five years under a Home-Detainment charm, during which you may not knowingly interact with any person convicted of crimes relating to the Death Eaters, outside of your direct family. You will not be permitted to leave your residence for up to five years, with reasonable exception in the case of emergency, or licence given by the Ministry. After five years, the charm will be lifted, and if you have committed no further crimes, you will be granted unconditional freedom.”

Harry watched as the woman’s hand squeezed Draco’s, and her eyes clenched shut, as though warding off tears. Five years seemed quite a long time for house arrest, but he agreed it was better than Azkaban. A small smile tugged at his lips with the knowledge that his own testimony WAS making a difference. He made a mental note to check on the woman during her isolation.

“Draco Abraxas Malfoy, with all testimony considered, we, the Wizengamot have decreed that for your crimes, you shall serve a sentence of two years imprisonment or conditional parole. If you choose imprisonment, your two-year sentence shall be served at Azkaban Prison, after which time, you will be granted your unconditional freedom. If you would like to apply for parole, you may do so at any time during your imprisonment, and the remainder of your sentence will be served outside of the prison. The terms for parole are as follows: Draco Malfoy may not knowingly interact with any person convicted of crimes relating to the Death Eaters, outside of his direct family, and he must be hosted by a Ministry approved guardian for the duration of his parole. The aforementioned guardian must be of sound mind and judgment, must be able to cast defensive charms, and must willingly accept Draco Malfoy as their responsibility. Should this guardian relinquish responsibility over Draco Malfoy’s parole, his sentence will resume within Azkaban Prison unless and until another guardian comes forward. For the duration of parole, Draco Malfoy will remain under a Home-Detainment charm, unless accompanied by his guardian.”

During the brief pause, Draco’s eyes flicked to his mother, and Harry saw a spark of hope flash between them. If Malfoy got a decent wizard to host him, he could potentially visit her at the Manor. Harry felt a small wash of gratitude for Kingsley, positive that he had been the one to make sure the wording was just-so. It didn’t seem so bad, and if someone agreed to take him in after the trial, he wouldn’t have to spend any more time in Azkaban at all.

“Do you understand your sentences as they have been laid down, or do you have questions before the conclusion of this trial?” The Wizengamot representative spoke from his seat, looking down at the trio with something approaching disdain. Harry guessed he must have hoped for stricter sentencing.

Lucius and Narcissa shook their heads, but Draco looked up at the council, face set in a stony, determined expression.

“So, I only get parole if someone agrees to take me in? Why not just sentence me to prison, since it’s not likely anyone you approve of will volunteer.” His tone was icy, more judgmental than the man reading their verdicts, and Harry felt a wash of understanding. He was right. No one would take him, and if he convinced someone, they still had to be ‘Ministry Approved’. They could claim any number of reasons to disapprove of someone. Harry felt the fire of indignation light inside of him. Surely Kingsley could see that it wasn’t fair to tease Malfoy with an impossible chance at parole? He looked to the bald man sitting amongst the Wizengamot, but Kingsley seemed focused on answering Malfoy directly.

“The Ministry is willing to make an announcement on your behalf, and you are welcome to petition anyone you would feel comfortable living with. It’s very likely someone will agree.” He said with a small, hopeful smile. Harry looked back to the Malfoys. Narcissa was whispering something to Draco, but he seemed to shake her off, his grey eyes flashing as he stepped forward. An Auror stepped forward, too, lifting his wand, ready to stun Malfoy if he got violent.

“An announcement? Like an ad in the Prophet, begging for pity? No thank you.” He said, and Harry felt his stomach lurch at that arrogance. Even here, having spent a month in prison already, faced with going back, Malfoy seemed to hold onto his ridiculous pride, that internal fire that had always urged Harry to act stupidly. Harry looked at Narcissa, the way the woman looked distraught by her son’s inability to accept what he viewed as pity. He thought of his own mother. He looked back to Malfoy’s hard glare up at the Wizengamot, the sneer that silently told them to get bent. He saw blood-soaked tiles, and a tear-streaking face reflected in a dirty mirror.

“I’ll take him.” His voice sounded like a thunderclap in the silent anticipation of the room. He stood, and looked directly at the Wizengamot, looking each member in the eye. “If he wants parole, I’ll accept Draco Malfoy as my responsibility, and host him in my house for the next two years.” It sounded insane, even to him, but looking at their surprised faces, the way the spokesman floundered as if trying to come up with a reason Harry wasn’t good enough, Harry knew he couldn’t back down. The war was over, but the Ministry still had a lot that needed changed. He looked at Malfoy, and saw those grey eyes looking at him in silent assessment. His eyes drifted to Narcissa, and as their eyes met, she gave a single subtle nod of thanks. He nodded back, and turned once more to the Wizengamot as Kingsley spoke up.

“Mr. Harry Potter has offered to host Draco Malfoy’s parole, is there any reason given that he is unsuitable?” A brief pause filled with pregnant silence, and Harry couldn’t help but smirk at the floundering spokesman who glared at him, unable to voice a single word against him. Harry committed his face to memory, sure that he would try to cause trouble in the future.

“Very well, with the unanimous approval of the Wizengamot, Harry Potter’s petition is accepted. If Draco Malfoy would like to file for immediate parole, he may leave here today under Harry Potter’s supervision.” Kingsley looked down at Malfoy, and lifted a brow pointedly. Draco seemed to get the point, and stood up straighter.

“I would like to file for immediate parole, and I accept Harry Potter as… as my guardian.” He choked over the final part, but got it out, and Kingsley nodded.

“Court scribe, make a note, conditional parole for Draco Abraxas Malfoy has been approved on June eleventh, nineteen ninety-eight at three o’clock in the afternoon. He will serve his sentence henceforth under the care of Harry James Potter, approved for duty by unanimous vote of the Wizengamot, and agreed to by both parties.” The court scribe scribbled furiously, then nodded, and Kingsley sat down, looking pleased with himself. Harry sat, too, and watched as Narcissa pulled Draco back to her side, and gave him a small squeeze of assurance that wasn’t quite a hug.

“Any further questions or concerns regarding this trial, or the sentences given?” the spokeswizard asked once more, his tone unmistakably bitter.

When the question was met with silence, he waved his wand, vanishing the shackles that held Narcissa and Draco.

“Then this court is ended, Aurors, please conduct Lucius Malfoy back to Azkaban, and take Narcissa Malfoy to the holding cell to await her escort and Home-Detainment charm. Draco Malfoy you are free to join your guardian.” The man decreed with a look as if the words tasted rotten on his tongue. Harry stood by watching while Narcissa hugged Draco, and kissed his cheeks.

“Behave, don’t start any fights. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.” She promised, as if sending him off to school. The young man allowed her fussing until an Auror stepped toward them, and gestured for her to follow. She managed to get one last squeeze of his hand in before she was forced out of the courtroom. Harry noticed that she didn’t even seem to spare a glance for her husband as he was practically dragged off, and wondered silently at the combination of her ignoring him, and testifying against him. He very much doubted that their marriage would last the ten years of his prison sentence.

His thoughts were interrupted by the thin blond that approached him warily. He wore faded regulation prison clothes, dirty at the hems, and mere slippers on his feet. His face was pinched, as though he’d eaten something sour, and Harry watched his hands ball into fists as he stood there, biting his lip for a moment, before he finally managed to speak.

“Thank you for volunteering.” He bit out, less than graciously. Harry smirked, and he could almost see the image of Narcissa hovering behind him with a firm grip on his arm, forcing him to be polite.

“Sure.” Harry grunted back, trying not to smirk at the imaginary image. “Come on.” He nodded, and led the way out.

Malfoy had been silent the entire time Harry had given him the address, and shown him around Grimmauld place. He’d muttered another ‘thanks’, when Harry had offered him the shower and clean clothes. Kreacher, on the other hand, wouldn’t seem to shut up. Harry wasn’t sure where the sudden poetry was coming from, but he was starting to regret taking Malfoy in just for the house-elf’s unwarranted loquaciousness.

“Potter, you’ve gotten fat.” The voice from the kitchen doorway startled both Harry and Kreacher into silence, and Harry turned to see Malfoy standing just inside the basement kitchen, wearing an overlarge shirt and holding a pair of jeans.

“What?” He asked dumbly, eyes seemingly stuck to the long slender legs that were bare underneath the shirt. It came to mid-thigh, and he could see the slight bump where Malfoy’s privates hid underneath.

“You’ve gotten fat, your trousers are huge.” Malfoy complained, holding out the offending garment. The stretch of his arm lifted the hem of the shirt, and Harry’s gaze was drawn from the offered jeans, back to pale skin. He swallowed, and forced his eyes up.

“I’m not fat, Malfoy, you’re just rail thin. I’ll see if I have anything smaller.” He announced, and stood to go searching. Malfoy glared at him, and refused to move out of the way as Harry approached the door.

“Are they going to be these uncomfortable muggle things, or do you have PROPER clothes? If not, you can keep them.” Malfoy huffed, pushing the jeans into Harry’s limp arms. He managed to grab them just before they fell, and watched as Malfoy turned and left the kitchen in an arrogant flutter of cotton. He couldn’t help the way his eyes watched the shirt shift around milky skin, and briefly outline the shape of his arse.

Harry closed his eyes and counted slowly to ten, trying to control his breathing, and the unhealthy thoughts that had popped up. He could NOT be attracted to someone who acted like such a prat. Regardless of how pleasing he was to the eye. He sighed, and resigned himself to a life of strangeness with Malfoy for the next two years. It was inevitable that he’d suffer, best to make peace with it now. He went to find a different pair of jeans for the insufferable blond.

“Mate, when we said you needed to spend less time alone, neither of us meant you should take in stray Death Eaters!” Ron was vehemently arguing through the Floo. Harry sighed.

“I know. And it’s not like I expect living with Malfoy to be loads of fun, or really anything except a right pain in the arse, but… There was nothing I could do! I owe Narcissa my life.” Harry argued back, and saw Ron sigh more than he heard it.

“Well, I guess there’s that. Just… Let us know if it’s too much, yeah?” Ron encouraged. Harry agreed easily, and bid his friend farewell, before the head disappeared from the Floo. Harry sat back on one of the kitchen chairs and let out a breath. It had been less than a day, and already his friends had heard, and decided he was losing his marbles. He thought of the way He’d stared at Malfoy’s legs. Maybe he WAS losing it. He ran a hand through his hair and wondered if he’d really notice if he began to lose it. If nutters ever felt like they were going crazy.

“Master Harry is in the way. Kreacher cannot start dinner if he sits there like a lump, taking up the entire hearth with his huge-”

“Alright, alright, I’m moving.” Harry grumbled, scooting the chair away from the fireplace as he stood. One thing he was glad for was how Kreacher’s behavior had continued to improve since he’d given him Regulus’s locket. Even with their disappearance after letting Death Eaters accidentally into Grimmauld Place, Kreacher was much more civil and helpful. Even if he did still mutter to himself, and insult Harry on occasion.

He trundled into the parlor and flopped onto the couch. His fingers plucked at a loose thread while he lay there, bored until dinner.

“Potter, I’ve seen your house-elf.” Malfoy’s voice from the doorway made Harry groan. He closed his eyes, threw an arm over his face, and did his best not to just say ‘go away’.

“I know. I was there when you met.” Harry answered, hoping Malfoy got to the point quickly.

“Yes, so I know you HAVE a house-elf.”

“Yes.” Harry answered shortly. Malfoy huffed in noisy irritation.

“So what is with the state of your house? You ENJOY living in a run-down hovel?” Malfoy finally asked, and Harry sighed.

“He’s old. And I don’t feel like cleaning.” he dropped his arm and glared up at the surprising sight of Malfoy’s face leaning over the back of the couch, glaring back down at him.

“He’s old? He’s an elf, Potter. Age doesn’t matter, they just need direction.” Malfoy sneered. Harry pulled a face in return.

“Fine, then give him direction. You’re here for the next two years, make yourself useful.” Harry challenged. Malfoy’s nostrils flared, and his eyes narrowed. “I’m sure Kreacher would LOVE for ‘the noble Malfoy heir’ to boss him about.”

“Well, if you have no idea how to handle an elf, I just might.” Malfoy sniffed. Harry sat upright in an instant, eyeing Malfoy with suspicion.

“You’re not allowed to hurt him, or order him to hurt himself.” Harry quickly decreed. Malfoy’s face pulled in confusion, and Harry elaborated. “I knew Dobby. I won’t have any house-elf in my care treated like that.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s face went a bit pale, and he swallowed. “Dobby. That was… Father’s elf, yes? The one that got you lot out of the Manor?”

“Yeah. The one your aunt murdered.”

“Oh.” Malfoy seemed taken aback at that, at a loss for words as he looked at the fabric of the couch. “Erm…” He shook his head, as if banishing unwanted thoughts, and refocused on Harry’s face.

“Father WAS unnecessarily cruel to his elves. Mother and I disagreed, but… He WAS Lord of the Manor. Not much to be done, since it was his house.” Malfoy’s lips twisted in a smirk. “Though I doubt he’ll be much of anything after his prison sentence.”

“You think he’ll lose the plot?” Harry asked, and Malfoy shrugged.

“Whether he does or not, Mother won’t tolerate that he chose the losing side. She said she was already speaking to a Ministry Official about the terms of a divorce.” He answered, looking as though it were boring gossip, inspecting his nails. Harry nodded.

“Well, anyway. You can try to get Kreacher to clean anything you want, but he’s not very cooperative. More than he used to be, but, still… difficult.” Harry tried to explain. Malfoy scoffed, and leaned back.

“Likely just a lack of firm handling. You’ll see.” He pronounced with a haughty look as he turned to leave. As he stepped away from the couch, Harry saw what it had been hiding.

“Put some bloody pants on!” He called after the blond, who pretended not to have heard him on his way out the door.

It was a miracle. Or a curse. Harry couldn’t really decide which. It had been a week since he’d agreed to take Draco in, and true to his word, the slight wisp of a man had managed to convince Kreacher to do as he was told. When it was Malfoy doing the telling, anyway. He’d started with the front hall, and under his explicit instruction, Kreacher had it spotless and shining, and had even removed the troll-leg umbrella stand. Now, instead of gloomy and ancient, the front hall looked warm and welcoming, if a bit outdated. The pattern on the rug was faded, and the wallpaper was hideous, but at least it was clean. Next, he’d overseen the kitchen being tidied, and had started on the parlors. Harry wouldn’t admit it, but he was impressed. He was even more impressed that like an elf, Malfoy seemed to make himself scarce unless he was bored.

Malfoy being bored was not something Harry had ever really thought about, and after a week, he decided it was to be avoided at all costs. So far, Malfoy had pilfered every decent book in the house, instructed Kreacher to clean the parlor that Harry was relaxing in three different times, and seemed to have declared an unofficial war on trousers. Harry was one thin strand of sanity away from a complete mental breakdown over it. Books, he could do without. Kreacher cleaning, he could suffer through. Malfoy apparently being allergic to anything but the finest silk was unbearable. He was sure it was only to mess with him, sure that his insistence for Malfoy to wear trousers only encouraged the blond to do otherwise, but he couldn’t simply sit by while Malfoy wandered past in another overlong shirt, or sat with his legs sticking out of a dressing gown. It was torture, plain and simple.

At least the house was getting properly cleaned…

“Oh come ON!” Potter shouted around a mouthful of stew. Draco lifted a brow, and pulled a face of disgust at his poor manners as he took a seat across the table.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, it’s disgusting.” He admonished a glaring Potter. He hid his smirk in a spoonful of his own dinner, and by the time Potter had chewed, swallowed, and engaged him once again, Draco had managed to school his features into an impassive mask.

“It’s been two weeks, Malfoy. You have pants. You know how they work. Are you just not used to getting dressed by yourself? Do you need help? Can’t figure out the zipper?” Potter ranted glaring, his eyes falling pointedly to the table that hid Draco’s bare legs. Draco let his lips stretch in a smirk.

“I can dress myself just fine, thank you. When you provide real clothes, I’ll wear them. Until then, I’ll stick to the night dress you’ve given me.” He answered, plucking at the large t-shirt. He’d doubted at first that the shirts were Potter’s, that he had outgrown Draco so far that he would drown in the borrowed clothes. But he’d seen Potter wearing the blue shirt he currenlty wore. The little pocket on the breast, the tiny hole near the bottom of the left seam. It had fit him perfectly, and on Draco… It might as well have been a dress. The fact had made him furious with envy at first, but then he’d caught sight of the way Potter stared at his legs, he’d seen the glazed look that came over his face when he thought Draco wasn’t paying attention. He’d imagined what sorts of things a large, frustrated Harry Potter might be capable of.

It was only natural for him to provoke Potter further. The discomfort of not wearing pants had been easily outweighed by the satisfaction of making Potter equally uncomfortable. After a week, it was almost natural to have his legs uncovered. He’d found that living in Grimmauld Place with Potter was strangely freeing. No one to tell him to mind his manners, no one breathing down his neck about acceptable behavior, or his role as a Pureblood heir. Not a single pair of eyes to judge him besides Potter, who already hated him, and thought he was a wretch, if a pretty one. It was wholly enlightening to wander around a house nearly starkers, to know another man was watching him, and allow himself to imagine what might happen.

He’d never allowed himself to admit to anyone before that he didn’t want a wife, and duty. Here, with Potter, there was an unspoken tension that was more heady than any fight he’d picked previously, and more comfortable than he’d ever expected them to be around each other. He was getting more bold, making himself be seen more, despite the way walking into Potter’s field of view with his arse practically hanging out made his heart hammer, and his veins flood with adrenaline.

“It’s just a bloody t-shirt, Malfoy. Not a nightie.” Potter growled, and Draco deigned to lift one brow.

“A shirt? Hardly. Maybe if you’re obese.” He muttered, taking another bite of soup. Potter growled wordlessly in frustration, and Draco marked another win for himself on his imaginary scoreboard.

“It’s not my fault you stopped growing at fifteen. If you’d put on some damn pants, we could go shopping.” Potter tried to cajole. Draco scoffed.

“I have grown, just not as much as YOU apparently have. What are they feeding you, Skele-Gro? Magical plant fertilizer? And anyway, I’d need pants that don’t fall off before I could go into public.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. You know, I never realized how small your whole family is, until I saw them in a group of people. Your dad’s, what? Five-eight, five-nine at most?”

“Not everyone is six feet tall, Potter. Five-foot nine is a perfectly respectable height.” Draco glared back, and Potter smirked.

“So what’s that make you? Five-foot six? Is that respectable, too?”

“Shut up.” He knew it was a lame response, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. Potter was right. He was fairly short. And stupid Potter, being at LEAST six-feet tall, and broad-shouldered, and fit… He was a very different man from the boy he’d first been when he appeared at Hogwarts.

Potter’s smirk told him he thought he’d won. Draco glared, gathered his usual haughty demeanor about himself like a cloak, and stood from the table, taking his bowl and spoon with him. Potter’s eyes fell immediately down, to the bare skin below the shirt. The pink tongue that darted out to lick his lips went unnoticed by the owner, and Draco waited just long enough for Potter to regain control, and begin looking away.

“I think I’d rather eat alone tonight.” He announced as he turned on his heel to march from the room. He didn’t dare look back, but in the hallway, he heard the telling moment of silence, the clatter of a spoon, and the sound of grumbling. He grinned to himself and went to finish his dinner in the formal dining room. Kreacher wasn’t entirely done with it yet, but it was much improved. Draco made a mental note to ask Potter about the budget for household renovations. The place NEEDED new carpet and drapes, if nothing else.

“I’m warning you, Malfoy. Put some bloody pants on, or else.” Potter’s voice was low, and Draco might have mistaken the tone for fury if he hadn’t known better.

“Or else what, Potter? They’re just legs, for Merlin’s sake! You were on a quidditch team, surely you’ve seen your fair share of bare legs in the changing rooms.” Draco argued without turning around. They were in Potter’s favorite parlor, the one across from the stairs to the kitchen, and the one Draco had taken to calling ‘The Golden Parlor’, simply because the Golden Hero was always in there. He was holding up sample swatches of fabric to the window, comparing the colors with the dim lighting, very aware of how high the shirt was riding in the back, and entirely too aware that with his arms lifted, his cock was on display, only hidden by his back being to Potter.

“You know, Malfoy, you living here makes it VERY hard to have anyone over?” Potter’s voice was still low, but growing louder, the sound of movement telling Draco that he was walking over. Draco lowered the swatches so that his shirt was covering his cock once more, and let out a theatrical sigh.

“You can go visit the Weasleys, or Granger, you know. I won’t burn the place down.” He said, and the sound of Potter’s chuckle from right behind him made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“I meant, you being here makes it hard to have anyone stay the night, Malfoy. I’m not a saint, you know?” He was too close, closer than he’d ever gotten before, close enough that Draco could smell his soap, feel the warmth of his body so near, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. “I have the same needs as every other man our age.” At that, a warm hand slid over to rest on the side of Draco’s hip, and he nearly jumped out of his skin, the heat sinking right through the thin shirt material while breath tickled his ear as Potter leaned ever closer. “If you keep parading about like a massive cocktease, I may have to find a better use for you than fixing up my house.”

Draco found all words had fled him, all sane thought abandoned in a rush of pure suspense. He couldn’t seem to look away from the window, couldn’t turn to see what face Potter was making to go with those deliciously threatening words. He could barely breathe through the thick tension in the air.

“Put on some bloody clothes.” Potter growled right into his ear, and Draco could SWEAR he felt the lips brush against his skin. Just as surprisingly as Potter had come over him, he backed away, his footsteps echoing to the door. “Or else.”

With that, he was gone, and Draco nearly collapsed under his shivering nerves. He found a chair and sat down, ignoring the way his cock bobbed in his lap. That had been a surprise. He’d seen hints of a darker edge to Potter, the way his eyes glinted with desire when he caught sight of Draco, the brooding way he would stare at the ceiling for hours, but this… Draco hadn’t imagined Potter had it in him to THREATEN him. And so sensually, too. He palmed his aching cock absently and wondered if Potter had any idea of the effect he’d just had on Draco, or if he’d been trying to simply scare him. Draco imagined it again, Potter grabbing him, rutting against him.

A door upstairs slammed shut, and Draco wondered if Potter was wanking to the same image he was. He nearly moaned at the thought.

His shirt was easy enough to push out of the way, and he gripped himself more solidly, tugging firmly at his hardon. He imagined Potter pushing him into the wall, mouthing kisses down his neck, sliding his hand under the shirt to jerk him off. He imagined the hard length that would press into him from behind. The way Potter would rub it needily, up and down. He’d be just rough enough to be terrifying, Draco thought. Just enough biting in his kisses, just enough force as he pinned Draco, and just enough assertiveness to ignore Draco’s half-arsed whinging.

Draco let out a soft moan as he imagined Potter taking what he wanted. He’d want to be dominant, to fuck Draco, and watch him like it, despite claiming otherwise. At that thought, Draco slid an experimental hand between his legs, beneath his testicles, his fingers gently prodded, exploring, testing. He bit his lip, one finger circling the taut muscle of his arsehole, and his breath came in shaky, half-controlled pants. Pressing a bit harder, his finger met resistance, and he moaned again at the feeling. It was new, and awkward, but… good.

He pushed harder, and felt his finger pop into himself. It was tight, and warm, and… strangely amazing. He wiggled his finger, his other hand jerking quickly at his cock, and in moments, he came, splattering cum across his shirt and bared stomach. He pulled his hands away, and relaxed into the chair, trying to regain some semblance of practical thought.

He had to clean himself up before Potter found him. Part of him considered just lying there, collapsed in the armchair, until Potter DID find him. Maybe it would be the moment that really broke Potter? Draco shuddered at that as his rational mind caught up. Barely one finger he’d managed, and he was already so eager to goad Potter into actually jumping him? He’d need more practice, first…

Maybe he WOULD wear pants… just for a while.

Harry was surprised when Malfoy appeared at dinner wearing baggy denim trousers that he had to keep pulling up. He looked none too pleased with them, but Harry sighed in relief. He hadn’t been sure that threatening to take advantage of Malfoy would work, and was glad to see it had.

“These are horribly uncomfortable, and they fit like shit.” Malfoy wasted no time in complaining. Harry shrugged, and happily ate his dinner, pretending to focus on cutting up his carrots rather than the memory of being so close earlier, of TOUCHING Malfoy, and then having to back away. It had taken a long, cold shower, but he’d managed to get his desire under control. Living with Malfoy was doing strange things to him. Living with a Malfoy that was intent on being a massive tease was even worse. He’d never before imagined sex with another man, but Malfoy was pretty, and half-naked far too often, and Harry hated to admit it, but there was something about the way he always seemed so proud, so bloody arrogant, that made him want to defile him. Drag him down into a dirty, messy, human encounter. It was thoughts like that that made Harry think he was going insane. He wasn’t inherently violent, he wasn’t DARK, but something about Malfoy made him think things that were sinister and unmentionable. Malfoy had always had a horrible effect on his self control, had always seemed to scramble his ability to make any sort of rational judgment.

And now he was driving Harry certifiably insane. Harry almost wanted to ask Hermione if it was normal, wanting to shove someone you were pretty sure you hated across the arm of the couch and fuck their brains out. He hadn’t asked her because he was certain she’d know exactly who he was talking about, and deem him irreversibly barmy. Likely have him locked in the Janus Thickey Ward. He was fine being in denial about his declining mental state for a while longer. Especially if Malfoy was going to start wearing proper clothes.

“Potter, your elf is being difficult.” Draco announced as he entered The Golden Parlor, holding up two identical cloth swatches.

“I DID warn you he would be.” Potter’s voice sounded from the other side of the sofa, sounding entirely unsympathetic. Draco leaned over the back of the couch, his heart already thumping madly in his chest, though he knew Potter couldn’t properly see him.

“He said- Potter, LOOK. He said these were the same, but they’re clearly not. Now, I can’t decide between the ‘honey gold’, and the ‘amber dream’.” He held up the swatches for Potter to scowl up at. “What do you think?”

“I think they’re the same.” Potter monotoned, and closed his eyes. “And I think you’re one pop-tart short of a full crayon box.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Draco asked, thoroughly distracted by the mocking smirk on Potter’s lips before he huffed out a breath, and forged ahead. He stepped around the couch and held them up to the far window, so Potter could see them on display.

“For the windows in here. ‘honey gold’, or ‘amber dream’?” He shook the left, then the right, and heard the springs of the sofa creak behind him. His breath stuttered in his lungs, and he forced his head to tilt, as though considering the color conundrum.

“What did I say, Malfoy?” Potter’s voice was that low, threatening purr that made Draco’s skin tingle. He bit his lip and smirked.

“You said they’re the same, but they are obviously different.” Draco said, tilting his head the other way. “You and that elf just have no fashion sense.”

“What did I say about you dressing like that?” Potter’s hand slid over his hip, ventured lower, fingers traced the edge along his thigh, and Draco’s breath caught on a gasp.

“You, erm… you said… Something. Several times, if I recall.” Draco was displeased with how breathy his voice came out, but when Potter’s fingers inched up beneath the shirt, and traced his bare hip, Draco thought he might combust.

“What I said was ‘don’t’.” Potter growled, and Draco shivered. He forced his lungs to breathe, in, and out, and in, before he spoke.

“No, you said ‘or else’, but you were very vague on that.” Draco said, pleased with his ability to nitpick under duress. “Or else, you’d… what? Wank to thoughts of me, like a pervert? Lock me in my room while you go carousing?”

Draco steeled his nerves, set his face in a mask of disdainful challenge, and turned to face Potter. The dark haired man loomed over him, emerald eyes darkened, cheeks slightly flushed, but gaze determined. His hand stayed on Draco as he turned, tracing his lower back, and tightening on his other hip when Draco came to a rest. His other hand came up to slide around the back of Draco’s neck, up into his hair, where it tightened into a loose fist, just a hint of danger, doubled in that dark gaze.

“I thought I was pretty clear, Malfoy.” Potter rumbled, eyes flicking down over Draco’s face, his thin, borrowed shirt, the legs that protruded beneath. “Keep prancing around half-naked, and I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight.”

The vulgar words snaked their way around Draco’s nerves and he struggled not to tremble under the force of them.

“I don’t think you’ve got it in you, Potter.” Draco antagonized with a smirk, and watched as Potter’s gaze narrowed at the clear challenge. The hand in his hair tightened, and Potter stared into his eyes for one moment longer, searching for something.

“You’re going to regret that, Malfoy…” Potter warned, and yanked Draco forward. Draco stumbled under the sudden force, and though he braced to collide with Potter, Potter moved, let him stumble forward, and before he could catch his balance, had pushed him down onto the sofa. Draco gasped, trying to catch his breath as the weight of Potter suddenly landed on top of him, pinning him down. The large body was warm and heavy, and Draco closed his eyes, savoring the sensation.

He felt one warm hand slide up his back, pushing the shirt up before it slid back down, leaving blazing trails of electricity in its wake. Draco muffled a soft moan in the cushion beneath his face, and hid his blazing cheeks as Potter firmly squeezed his arse.

The sound of a zipper made his back arch with anticipation, and he held his breath, waiting as Potter pulled out his cock. When the warm shaft pressed between his arsecheeks, Draco tilted his hips, teasing Potter just a little more. Potter growled, and a hand pushed his shoulder down, properly pinning him to the couch as the head of his cock found Draco’s entrance.

Draco felt like his whole body was thrumming with anticipation, with desire, and unspoken need. He needed this. He needed Potter to push into him, and finally resolve the tension that had been building between them from the moment he’d stood up in that courtroom. He needed Potter to be the one to take him, to make him give in, and come apart. Potter had always been the one to make him forget what was expected of him, what was ‘proper’. It was only fitting that it be Potter pressing him down, invading his senses, mind, and body.

The slow push of Potter’s prick was dry, and hot, and burned perfectly. Draco groaned, his hips tilting more, welcoming the initial discomfort that he’d gotten used to with his own fingers. Potter was bigger, but he’d been counting on that. He was ready.

His body gave in quickly, relaxing under the slow burn of pleasure, and dragging Potter deeper.

“Fuck…” Potter groaned, pulling out to thrust back in, and Draco grunted, doing his best to meet the motion with his hips. It was perfect, the hot way he filled him, the weight of his body, the press of the hand on his shoulder… Draco turned his face to the side, gasping for air, and let out a moan as Potter drove deeper.

Potter seemed happy enough to fuck him without talking, and Draco was glad for that, glad that he didn’t have to try and answer any questions, glad that he didn’t have to think of specific words, or what to do with his face. Potter began rutting into him in earnest, fucking deep and hard, and Draco was lost to it, able to do nothing except lie there, moaning, hips pressing back, scrabbling for whatever minute purchase his hands could achieve on the threadbare cushions.

The heavy breathing and moans that filled the room were punctuated by slapping noises every time Potter’s hips met his, every time his tightening sac slapped against Draco’s arse. Draco didn’t mind that his cock was trapped beneath him, he didn’t care that his face was a haze of lust and bliss. He didn’t even care that he was probably drooling a bit. It was good. It was sooo good.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Potter chanted. Draco could feel the length inside him twitching, and suddenly it was slipperier, his thrusts sliding more easily. With Draco’s cock rubbing against the rough texture of the couch, and the FEEL of Potter coming, it was too much. He came with a low, stuttered moan, eyelids fluttering, and back arching to near breaking.

When he was able to feel individual sensations again, he noticed that Potter had come to a stop, his breathing labored, his hand gone from Draco’s shoulder. A moment later, his slick cock was pulling out, and the warmth of him vanished.

“I’m going to have a shower. Clean yourself up, Malfoy. And put on some fucking pants.” Potter growled, still audibly out of breath as he escaped, leaving Draco to lie there, basking in the moment.

Draco shifted and groaned. He was sore. His back hurt, his arsehole felt raw, and his neck twinged from being bent in an awkward position. It felt rather amazing. Sore in a way he’d never thought about. He slowly sat up, and felt the semen Potter had pumped into him sliding out, making a mess of his arsecheeks, thighs, and the sofa.

“Kreacher.” He called, and wasn’t too surprised that instead of the usual pop of Apparation, the sound of scurrying feet came in from the hall. “I’ll need a damp cloth. And the sofa will need to be cleaned.”

Harry tried not to blush. He tried to keep his eye on his breakfast, to simply not engage with Malfoy. He did feel a bit bad about taking things so far the other day. He’d noticed that the new golden curtains hung in his favorite parlor, and Kreacher muttered about cleaning the couch, but there had been a distinct lack of Malfoy for nearly forty-eight hours. He knew he should apologize, that he should beg for forgiveness, but he couldn’t seem to shake the bone-deep feeling that Malfoy had wanted it. That he’d done it on purpose. That he’d been teasing Harry intentionally, and hadn’t been at all upset with being manhandled and fucked raw. Harry had read up on it afterward, and felt doubly bad. He’d liked it, but it had probably been horribly uncomfortable for the blond. Sudden penetration with no lubricant? It had probably been painful.

But there was too much skin tone. Just at the end of the table, Malfoy was leaning over, folding a letter, and tying it closed. And he was definitely wearing almost nothing. Harry hadn’t dared to look up yet, but then, he knew it was a lost cause.

“Potter, do you have an owl I can borrow?”

“No.” Harry answered, refusing to look away from the toast in his hand. If he didn’t engage, he could pretend he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t have to decide whether to apologize, or… or do it again.

“Well, then, would you mind delivering this to my mother for me?” The voice was soft polite, and Draco stood right next to him, holding the letter under his face. Harry set the toast down, and looked up at the letter, then turned, slowly, to face the blond.

“If you put on pants I can just take you over there.”

“And let my mother see me so poorly dressed? I think not. Inside this house I may deign to be underdressed, but just thinking of what my mother would say… No, best for her to get the letter, I think.” Malfoy gave him a thin smile, and Harry stared at him. His cock was twitching just thinking about how it had felt to be inside Malfoy, quickly filling in, and looking up at the faux-innocent smile plastered on that usually smug face, Harry knew Malfoy was provoking him.

“Did you forget how pants work again?” He asked, as he stood from his chair, and towered over the short blond. Pale eyebrows arched up, and Malfoy looked confused. Harry thought it was a rather adorable look, even when he knew it was false.

“No, why do you ask?” He didn’t even step back, just looked up and batted his lashes, and Harry grinned down at him.

“You really want me to start bending you over the nearest surface and fucking you stupid when you prance around pantsless?” He wasn’t sure where the language came from, where that low tone usually hid inside his chest, but he watched a flush spread across Malfoy’s cheeks at the sound, saw his breath hitch just a little, before he pouted.

“But I’m not pantsless.” He argued. Harry lifted his brows in challenge, and reached for him, sliding a hand up his bare thigh, savoring the smooth skin.

“Really?” He asked, a moment too soon. His hand skidded over skin-tight fabric, and he paused, looking down. His hand was under the long shirt, and he lifted it, inspecting the cloth underneath. A pair of tight blue underpants were hiding beneath, and Harry stared for a moment, unable to do anything else.

“See? I’m wearing pants. Just like you keep demanding.” Malfoy sounded arrogant, and mocking, and Harry suddenly wanted to shut him up and make him rue his pedantry.

He looked back up into sparkling grey eyes, and grabbed a handful of that neatly covered bum.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He stated, and his mind filled with different things he could say to keep their little game going, because he was sure it was a game. Malfoy was egging him on, even if he had no idea why. A bored Malfoy really was terrifying.

“If you didn’t learn the lesson last time, maybe I’ll just have to keep teaching it to you until it sinks in.” He turned Malfoy to face the table and pushed him down, bending him over it, right next to his own unfinished breakfast. Malfoy didn’t struggle against being bent over, but as Harry’s hands massaged the taut muscles under blue cotton, he wasn’t as silent as he’d been last time.

“Maybe you should find better lesson material, Professor Potter.” He replied, tone snarky. Harry smirked down at him, resting comfortably on the table, looking for all the world like he wasn’t concerned for his own arse. Well, he’d come armed with new knowledge this time.

“You want a better lesson? Very well, Malfoy. I’ll see if you’re more receptive to oral exercises.” He warned, before pulling those tight briefs down. Malfoy’s face pinched in momentary confusion, until Harry dropped to his knees.

“Wait, you can’t be serious, Potter. That’s not-”

Harry wasn’t entirely sure HOW it was supposed to be done, so he started simple. He kissed the back of Malfoy’s right thigh and let his hands rub the fronts of both. Malfoy’s words choked off with a strangled sound, and Harry grinned and kissed a bit higher. Another, just at the gluteal crease, and Malfoy’s entire body felt rigid as steel. Harry let his tongue trail out, licking the smooth skin he’d been eyeing for over a month, tasting it.

Malfoy let out a surprised little gasp, and Harry gave him no time to find words. He continued kissing and licking those perfect legs, letting his mouth dance near the hot center, but not quite touching. Not yet. A soft nip to the crease of his thigh, and the smaller body jerked, another gasp bitten off too soon.

Harry brought his hands around back, and spread the cheeks, eyeing the tight pink hole. It was strange to think he’d been inside something that seemed so small. As he watched, it clenched, twitching just a little bit open. He licked his lips, and leaned forward.

“Hnng.” The startled noise from Malfoy and his whole body clenching was the only response he got as his tongue met skin, slid up over his perineum, and slowly traced the shape of him. He could hear soft panting, could feel Malfoy shift slightly in uncomfortable arousal. He kept licking, testing the strange tangy flavor, the feel of skin clenching against his tongue, the resistance as he pushed forward.

Another moan, another shift. He lapped at the hole, pushing his tongue in and out, enjoying how it stretched around his tongue, and clenched with Malfoy’s enjoyment.

“Fuck… That’s… fucking filthy, Potter.” Malfoy grunted, and Harry didn’t think it sounded like a criticism. He pulled his tongue away, and slid his finger in, pumping it a few times while he kissed one perfect, pale arsecheek.

“You… Ah, you don’t have to do that.” Malfoy mumbled into the table, sounding utterly embarrassed. Harry paused.

“Do what?” He asked, playing dumb, just like the blond had done earlier.

“Stretch me. I’m good. Already… I’m ready.” He panted, and Harry arched one brow, though it went unseen. Was Malfoy saying he liked the pain of not being prepared, that he was just too eager to wait, or that… he’d already stretched himself before coming in to tease Harry? Harry eyed the hole his finger was teasing, and pulled it out to add more saliva. He pressed three digits back in, and Malfoy moaned, tensing, back arching at the sudden invasion. Harry was surprised at how easily they went in. Well, that answered that question.

“Malfoy, you dirty tease. You’ve been fingering yourself for me?” He pressed another kiss to milky skin, pumping his fingers in and out, not expecting any sort of reply as he stood.

His jeans were quick to come apart, his cock sprang eagerly forth, and with no more hesitation, he pushed into Malfoy, amazed at how much easier it slid in with his spit lubricating things. He let another dribble of saliva drop into the mix, and used his thumb to spread it around the base of his shaft as he pushed all the way in. Malfoy’s back arched, his nails scratched at the wooden surface underneath him, and Harry watched from above as he bit his lip, face scrunched with an effort to control his reaction. Harry leaned over him, smirking as he let his hips thrust slightly in and out.

“Are you sure you’re ready? You’re still so fucking tight.” Harry murmured, pressing as far in as he could. Malfoy whimpered. Honest to god whimpered. The sound went straight to Harry’s groin, and though he tried to stay still, he felt himself twitch, and Malfoy clench around him. It was absolutely amazing.

“You can enjoy it, you know. I know you like it. I know you’re not just forgetting to wear pants. I don’t care if you’re a cockslut, Malfoy. I like it.” Harry spewed the unfamiliar words, his face flaming, but the reaction he got from Malfoy was well worth overcoming his own bashfulness. Malfoy really did bring out the worst in him. And he found that when it wasn’t ending in blood-stained battles, he rather liked it. He liked being able to freely be a bit of a prick, to simply take what he wanted, and make a mess.

He thrust roughly, pounding into the blond to prove the point to himself. Malfoy moaned, mouth hanging slightly open, cheek pressed to the tabletop. He thought he could bring out a side of Malfoy that no one else could. Harry thought there might be more to his avoidance in seeing his mother just then, than just his clothes. Was he also enjoying the freedom of their own private, sexy little word? Being able to prance around half-naked, fuck on the kitchen table, have some modicum of control even if it was over silly things like curtains and tidying. For the first time, Harry wondered if Malfoy was enjoying living with him, even though he claimed he was bored, and Harry was uncouth, and the place was a mess. Maybe it was exactly what he needed.

Harry slid a hand up his back, pushing the baggy shirt as high as it would go, revealing as much of his slender back as he could. The soft lines of muscle and bone were gorgeous. He’d put on just a little weight since Azkaban, and Harry found it unbearably hot, how it made him softer, more touchable. Less sharp angles and hollow skin, and more smooth curves and lithe muscle.

“Fuck you feel amazing.” Harry groaned, and slid his hand higher, tangling it in white-blond hair, tugging slightly to make that perfect back arch just a little higher. Malfoy let out a whining moan, and Harry didn’t miss how his hips jerked up and down, trying to match Harry’s fast rhythm. He slowed, and ground himself deep inside the hot body, watching Malfoy’s hips swirl, gently fucking back into him. He groaned, and began fucking him hard again, fast, and rough, hand pulling at soft hair, hips slamming Draco’s against the table.

He almost missed the way Malfoy’s arsehole squeezed around him, but the way his body bowed, the guttural, almost choked moan, and the slight trembling all told Harry that Malfoy had come. He fucked deeper again, hips slapping against arse, sweat building on his skin, he watched Malfoy’s face cycle through bliss, to overstimulation, and to discomfort, before he felt his balls tighten, and his own orgasm pulse out, deep into the tight hole.

He stilled, letting his cock twitch out the last few moments of release, and finally, Malfoy opened his eyes, and looked back at him. Harry grinned wolfishly, pulled his spent prick free, and watched a small dribble of come slid out of Malfoy’s slightly stretched opening.

“Fuck me, that’s hot.” Harry muttered as he tucked himself away, and did up his jeans.

“Fuck you, Potter, do you know how disgusting that feels?” Malfoy snapped, face flaming a brilliant crimson, even as he stood, and reached down to pull his purloined pants back up, trapping the semen from going further.

“Can’t be nearly as gross as you claim if you keep letting me do it.” Harry quipped. Malfoy glared as Harry sat back down, and made to resume his breakfast, feeling much lighter, and less stressed.

“Twice is not ‘letting you keep doing’ anything.” Malfoy argued, and Harry admired his ability to be so controversial, even as he leaned back against the table, legs still shaking slightly.

“Well, I’m assuming you’re not going to suddenly find a pair of pants you enjoy more than my cock, so I’m counting future loads, too.” Harry said crudely. Malfoy made a face of complete disgust, and reached over to snatch the toast right out of Harry’s hand.

“You’re NOT going to keep coming in me.” He stated as if it were a fact. Harry shrugged.

“If you don’t like it, wear some damn pants. Real pants, like jeans, or trousers. If not, I’ll keep using you how I please.” Harry declared. Malfoy scoffed, and pushed away from the table, escaping with his stolen toast. Harry watched his perfect legs the whole way out.

Draco eyed the options for clothes. In response to his letter that Potter had finally managed to deliver, his mother had graciously sent him a selection of his own clothes from home. The trunk she’d sent had been packed with everything he’d requested, and a few items he hadn’t. He picked through the silk, satin, and wool, and finally found what he was looking for. His favorite silk dressing gown, a deep blue with embroidered patterns of constellations that twinkled magically. It was much nicer than the bathrobe Potter had found for him. He wrapped it around himself, covering his well-fitted silk boxers, and tied it loosely at the waist.

He felt like a wanton, walking around half-dressed, body on display, but it was worth it. Potter, true to his word, had felt no compunction in bending Draco over whatever furniture was nearest, and fucking into him with wild abandon. It had become a sort of game for Draco, to see how far he got through the day before Potter caught sight of him, looked up from whatever he was pretending to do, and tossed him over like a bloody caveman. It was exhilarating, and while he’d been left sore on more than one occasion, he had no real complaints. Potter was an animal. He didn’t seem to care if he’d fucked Draco mere hours before, he’d be hard and ready as soon as he decided Draco had ‘pranced about’ enough. His record was six times in a single day, before Draco had had to hide away in his room, barely able to walk straight. He’d strategically worn the horridly uncomfortable denims the next day, and was certain he hadn’t imagined the brief look of disappointment on Potter’s face when he’d seen them.

Draco tiptoed down the stairs, the scents of breakfast invading his nostrils. Kreacher, Potter’s house elf, seemed to excel when given a proper menu, shopping list, and tasks to do throughout the day. Draco had him finishing the formal dining room after breakfast this morning, and was eager to finally be able to have dinner properly for once… regardless of whether he decided to dress for it or not.

Potter was reading the Daily Prophet when Draco entered the kitchen, and Draco smirked. He’d have time for some breakfast, at least. He made it through eggs on toast by the time Potter set the paper aside. Draco sipped at his mint tea, and drew Potter’s attention casually.

“Anything interesting in the Prophet?” He queried, bending slightly over the table.

“No, same rubbish as alw-” Potter’s voice cut off as he looked up, and Draco met his gaze questioningly, the picture of innocence. “What the bloody hell is that?”

“Tea? I always have tea with breakfast.” Draco answered as if Potter were a simpleton. His green gaze darkened, brows pulled down, and Draco watched how his eyes skimmed his chest, revealed by the loose halves of his robe. The peek of his shoulder as it had begun slipping off, the peek of at least one of his small pink nipples.

“No, what are you wearing?” Potter demanded, and Draco leaned back to look at himself, as if surprised by the question. He thought he really should have been born to pursue a career in acting.

“It’s a dressing gown.” He answered, and set his tea down. He stood, and lifted his empty plate to set in the sink, speaking while he bravely turned his back on the Gryffindor. “You know my mother finally sent me along some clothes. You brought me the trunk, after all. So, now you don’t have to see my horridly skinny legs anymore. Happy?” He turned just in time for Potter to grab him, and tug him back toward the table. The table was a usual favorite first spot, unless they happened to miss each other in the mornings. Draco hadn’t much enjoyed the bruises it left, but he hadn’t been a fan of the flagstone floor, either. If only he’d wait, and have breakfast alone, he pondered, while Potter backed him up against the edge, shoving chairs out of the way.

“And instead of your legs, it’s the rest of you hanging out.” Potter growled, hands bunching the silk at Draco’s hips, clearly excited by this just as much as the previous style. Draco pouted, and put his hands on Potter’s chest, pretending to hold him off, and using the excuse to feel the solid warmth beneath his sweater.

“You haven’t said anything about the rest of me. I’m following your silly rules. Wearing pants, AND my legs are covered.” Draco protested. Potter glared at him, leaning in, threatening with his very presence. It sent a thrill through Draco, and he felt anything but intimidated.

“You’re still half naked. You haven’t even TRIED to tie it properly.” His hands easily pulled the loose belt apart, and the robe fluttered fully open, revealing Draco from shoulders to feet, interrupted only by his boxers.

“It’s silk. It refused to knot properly.” Draco sniffed, letting his hands fall away from Potter to brace on the table behind him. The pose gave him a few more inches of space, and displayed his body just that much better. Potter’s eyes roved over him, hands kneading his hips, and he licked his lips.

“Sure. Silk.” He intoned, clearly not buying it, but not bothering to argue as his hands slid up Draco’s sides. Draco shivered at the sensation, the slight ticklishness of it. His right thumb brushed across Draco’s nipple, and Draco tensed, biting his lip as Potter explored the newly revealed territory. His pupils were blown, and Draco held back a smirk as Potter touched him. Clearly the man was a pervert, not just into skinny legs, but flat chests, too.

Potter’s head dipped, and for a moment Draco thought he was going to snog him. His heart skipped a beat, and his lungs were paralyzed, but when Potter’s lips landed on his chest, his lungs came back to life with an undignified gasp, his hands flew to grab dark hair, and Potter looked up at him with a cocky smirk as his tongue slid out and lapped at the small peak of his his nipple.

“You’re a bastard.” Draco breathed, and got a huff of laughter in response, that sent a puff of breath cooling the saliva his tongue had left behind.

“You’re pretty sensitive, you know. I don’t think mine are nearly as touchy.” Potter replied conversationally, before he pressed his lips against the nipple, and sucked gently. Draco’s fingers tightened, and he barely managed to bite back a moan. It DID feel good. Stupidly good. Stupid sensitive nipple. Potter gave it a gentle nibble, and Draco gasped in shock at the sharp zing of pleasure that caused.

“Mm. Every time I think you can’t possibly get hotter, you pull some stupid stunt like this…” Potter groaned, burying his face in the other side of Draco’s chest. Draco took two careful breaths through his teeth before he dared to answer.

“Are you referring to the incident with the shredded shirt? Because that was an accident.”

“Sure it was.” Potter agreed sarcastically, and flicked his tongue back and forth, peppering small kisses across Draco’s sternum.

“I’m not a lollipop, you know, you really shouldn’t just… Argh! Lick… people…” He panted, between Potter’s mouth torturing him.

“Mm. Then don’t look so delicious.” Potter intoned, the humming voice vibrating across Draco’s chest as he struggled to keep his wits.

“I don’t. You’re just a depraved libertine.” Draco huffed, rather enjoying the way Potter’s hands were massaging his bum, even as his mouth teased and tortured.

“You absolutely look delicious. You’re lucky I’m not REALLY depraved, you know? If I was half as evil as you make me sound, I’d have set fire to every stitch of clothing in his house, and made you walk around starkers just so I could stare at you as much as I pleased.” Potter threatened. Draco shivered, and refused to admit that the thought made his cock twitch, and his whole body thrum with excitement at the idea. He could just walk around starkers. Give up the whole game of clothes entirely, and truly drive Potter mad.

“Your house is too drafty for that. I’d catch my death.” Draco argued, though it was a rather lame argument. With the house-elf properly caring for the place, the magic was strengthening, making it more comfortable, more secure. Harry didn’t bother to scoff at the argument.

“Hmm, maybe I’ll just chain you to the floor, and keep you like a sexy, naked pet.” Potter breathed, and even the warmth of his body, the heat in his eyes couldn’t stop the chill that went up Draco’s spine.

“Don’t.” He said, his voice suddenly a different kind of desperate. Potter paused, looking up at him, reading the fear on his face, the way his whole body had gone rigid. He didn’t ask, and for that, Draco was grateful.

“Alright, no chains.” He agreed easily, and bent to kiss soothingly at Draco’s shoulder as he pushed him back onto the table, splaying him like a feast as his eyes drank him in. “No need, really. I can’t seem to go two steps in this house without stepping over some plot of yours to seduce me.”

“I… I do not plot. You… You just… You… ahh…” Draco’s words trailed off as Potter pushed into him, filling him with that perfect burning heat, the stretch no longer uncomfortable after such regular use.

“Mmhm? What was that?” Potter teased, fucking shallowly into him, back and forth, just enough to tease, and keep Draco from forming a decent argument. He chose the next best thing.

“Shut up and fuck me.” He demanded, and was saved from his own embarrassed flush over begging for it by Potter grinning and slamming into him with vigor. He’d never TOLD Potter to fuck him before. It had always been the delicate unspoken thing, that Potter was giving him what he wanted under the pretense of their game. But Potter didn’t seem to care that he’d broken the rules. Potter didn’t seem to know that rules existed. Draco gripped the edge of the table and let Potter fuck him senseless, closing his eyes to simply enjoy the pleasure they shared.

Potter was relentless, his stamina unreal, and his cock, Draco was coming to think, was perfect. Just deep enough to almost hurt. Just thick enough that he’d never forget it was there, even when he stilled. Always perfectly hard when it was fucking into him.

Dark hair tickled his collarbones and chin as Potter bent over him, licking and sucking once more at his already tender nipples. Draco moaned, and felt his orgasm rising, even as his body twitched under the onslaught, desperate to escape the pounding, tingling, thrilling ecstasy.

His fingers tangled once more in dark locks, and he grabbed Potter, dragging his mouth away from the sensitive chest, and up, into a more useful position. Acting purely on desire with no forethought, Draco pulled Potter’s mouth to his, and kissed him, moaning against his lips, tasting his tongue, biting at his lip. Potter responded in kind, licking his mouth, nipping the tip of his tongue, suckling at his lower lip. Draco came apart like that, mouth desperately breathing in Potter, bodies pressed flush, hips jerking wildly into the pleasure.

When he was spent, his head fell back, and Potter’s mouth descended on his exposed throat, licking, biting, nothing so gentle as kisses, but mouthing and desperate. Draco let his hands slide down out of the tangled mess of hair, to Potter’s shoulders. The fingers on one hand slipped into the collar of his shirt, touching bare skin, while his other dug nails into Potter’s bicep, silently encouraging, and warning that he was too sensitive. Not that Potter seemed to mind. He rutted mindlessly, like a beast, teeth surely bruising Draco’s throat, hands grabbing his waist, hips, hair, anything he could to drag Draco closer to him.

A quiet woosh of the fire catching higher in the hearth caught Draco’s notice, but Potter didn’t even seem to hear it, his nose buried in Draco’s hair. He was close, Draco knew from experience, and though he tensed at the noise of the Floo, he was grateful all the caller would be able to see was Potter’s back, and his skinny legs framing the fit waist.

“Harry? Oh, bloody- Sorry. Hell, what the-” Another soft woosh, and the familiar voice of Weasley disappeared, but it had been enough. Potter paused, looking back, and Draco watched him, trying to catch his breath, waiting for some sort of embarrassed explosion. Potter turned back to face Draco, and to his shock, the brunet smirked.

“Think he’ll call again?” Potter’s hips thrust in punctuation to the question, and Draco gasped, his whole body tensing with nervous anticipation.

“He might. You can’t seriously- Oh, fuck, Potter, what if he- Uuhhg…” Draco’s argument trailed off as Potter took up a new rhythm, not the breakneck speed of earlier, but just as thorough and deep. Draco felt his already spent cock twitch with renewed interest.

“I think it’s kinda hot. I mean, they can’t know it’s you, but what if they DO call back? Kinda fun fucking you in front of someone. Hm. Maybe I am a perv.” Potter mused, still fucking into Draco without pause.

‘Just… Just now… figuring that out?” Draco managed, and then Potter grinned down at him, and Draco knew he was done for. If Potter was a deviant, then so was he. “Fuck it, nevermind. Harder, I think I’ll come again.”

Potter’s grin turned wolfish, and he gladly acquiesced, pounding into Draco with renewed intensity, his head dipping to capture Draco’s in another sloppy kiss. Draco kissed him back eagerly, glad to let Potter’s tongue invade his mouth, glad for the distracting pleasure that kept him from worrying about Weasley, or the Floo, or a smear campaign against him in the Prophet. He was happy to simply exist in the moment, fucking back against Potter’s rough movements, fighting for dominance in the kiss, tugging at dark messy hair that was thick and coarse, and perfect for anchoring himself to.

Potter’s breath became more ragged, and he broke the kiss to bury his face in Draco’s neck, panting roughly.

“Fuck…” He grunted, his hips snapping deeply as Draco felt him come. He gave a few more deep thrusts as he spilled inside of Draco, and then he pulled back. “Sorry.”

Draco opened his mouth to say ‘no problem’, that he could just wait until later when Potter inevitably fucked him again, but before he could say a single syllable, Potter was kissing his way down his front, across his belly, his hands trailing up Draco’s legs. Draco gasped as the warm wet mouth engulfed the head of his renewed erection, and hard, rigid fingers pressed into this cum-slicked hole. He moaned at the dual sensation, and Potter pressed his fingers deeper, fucking them in an imitation of his favorite fast rhythm. His head bobbed as his tongue swiped around his cock, and Draco was helpless to stop the fast, hard orgasm that burst through him.

Potter worked him as he came, until he’d milked every last drop from the blond, and Draco had gone limp. He pulled back, grinning, and Draco eyed him with a half-lidded gaze.

“You didn’t…” He panted, as Potter stood straight, and zipped his trousers.

“I did.” Potter replied without playing coy. He wiped his lips on the back of his hand, and leaned over to stare into Draco’s eyes, his own gleaming with mischief.

“Thanks for breakfast.” He teased, and Draco lightly slapped his arm, pulling a face.

“Disgusting.”

“I’ll let you do it, later.” Potter breathed, leaning ever closer. Draco watched his lips as they approached, suddenly very aware that Potter WAS going to kiss him. Despite that they had been kissing for most of their morning fuck, Draco felt this was different. Kissing a satisfied, playful Potter was absolutely different than tongue-fucking his mouth during sex.

Soft lips pressed gently to his, and Draco closed his eyes, cataloguing the experience, memorizing the feel of his mouth, the soft puff of his breath. Potter pulled back, still grinning jovially, and stepped away from the table, back to his usual business of letting Draco escape and fix himself up between rounds.

Draco fought the urge to pull Potter back to him for a deeper snog, and watched his fit form disappear through the door, feeling uncharacteristically like cuddling.

Harry could tell that it was driving Malfoy mad, and he watched him struggle with trying to figure it out, and being too proud to actually ask about it. He’d spent the batter part of a fortnight dragging Draco against him, pushing him up against walls, pinning him to the sofa, and snogging him breathless. It required more self control than simply fucking the blond, but he found he enjoyed it almost as much. He definitely enjoyed Malfoy’s confusion, his disoriented look whenever Harry would pull away without moving on to fucking. He still did, of course, just not every time. He found he could kiss Malfoy into a heady state of befuddled arousal, even when his own cock wasn’t quite ready to go again. So he did just that, and he enjoyed teasing Malfoy just as much as he’d been teased.

Yet, Malfoy was clearly confused. Every time Harry pulled away with a few lingering kisses, he could see the question in his eyes, and he refused to elaborate. It didn’t matter what Ron had said to him, what Hermione suspected, or what the Prophet would claim. He enjoyed this, what he had with Malfoy, and he didn’t much care about the rest.

With Auror training starting up, he found himself pulled away from the house, unable to keep up the constant game of sexual tug of war with Malfoy, but he was surprised to find that Malfoy was a good sport about it. He didn’t complain about being left alone, and instead, seemed to flourish with actually getting things accomplished. The front hall had been re-wallpapered in a single day, the formal dining room was finished, and they now ate dinner there most nights. The stairs and hallways had all been carpeted, and his favorite parlor, which Draco had called “The Golden Parlor” before he’d even started on it, was now a warm, glowing beacon of golds and creams. He hadn’t asked, but thought Malfoy must have known something about the house, to know it was supposed to be ‘golden’ in the first place. All he really knew was that the blond looked fantastic naked in there. All creamy skin and platinum hair like a silver beacon in a golden sea. He’d fucked Draco in there at least as often as on the kitchen table.

Where Draco had managed to find a sheer gold lace robe to wear that matched, Harry would never know. He’d been terribly careful to leave it unspoiled when he’d pulled Draco down to the soft cream rug and shagged him for half the night. It was one of his favorite memories to get him through difficult training days, and he got half-hard when he thought of Draco, sweaty and rumpled, and shaking after three orgasms.

“Mate, me and ‘Mione are worried about you. First you take in a Death Eater, and now you’re shagging around? She’s INSISTING that we come over for dinner tonight, make sure everything's okay. You know how she is, since her parents…” Ron trailed off, but it was enough. Harry frowned, looking down at the table of the Muggle café they usually ate lunch at on training days.

“Alright, fine. You can come for dinner. I just have to let Malfoy know you’re coming.” He muttered, and Ron pulled a face.

“Why do you have to tell him? It’s not like it’s his house.” Ron grumbled. Harry grinned, a kind of grin he was sure he’d never smiled before inviting Malfoy into his house, and one that earned a strange look from Ron.

“I have to make sure he’s wearing pants. Seems to have declared some sort of war against them.” Harry shrugged as if it were no big deal, as if it hadn’t been one of his favorite things recently. Ron choked, sputtered, and finally managed to catch his brain.

“He walks around starkers?” He sounded horrified, and Harry shrugged again.

“Not really. He wears shirts and robes. Not like we’ve had much company that he’s had to dress for.” Harry said with a smirk. Ron frowned, shaking his head in disbelief.

“So you just bring women back to your place, and tell them, what? ‘Sorry for the madman walking around with his todger flopping about’?”

“No. Ron.” Harry looked at him with his eyebrows raised, a look of meaning on his face. Ron looked puzzled.

“What?”

“I haven’t had anyone over, at all, since Malfoy moved in.” Harry said pointedly. Ron seemed to think about it for a moment, but then shook his head.

“But, I saw you with- Through the Floo- Which I already apologized for, but it WASN’T on purpose, but I saw you with… with…” his words trailed off, and Harry nodded.

“With someone who had a distinct lack of pants?” Harry asked, and Ron’s face turned to horror.

“You’re shagging Malfoy!?” He near shouted, and Harry winced, glad they were having lunch in a Muggle area.

“Tell the whole world, why don’t you?” Harry said, and Ron looked sheepish for a split second, before his face went back to horror.

“You’re really shagging Malfoy?” He asked, quieter this time, and Harry shrugged.

“Not much else to do in that house. And it’s fun. AND I’m not spending time all by myself.” He listed each, and Ron’s scowl deepened.

“Am… Am I supposed to not tell Hermione?”

“No, you can tell her. She already suspects, anyway.” Harry said, feeling his cheeks darken. “She asked me outright if it was him when you told her you caught me with someone.”

“And you lied to her?” Ron seemed to disbelieve that it would work. Harry had too.

“No. I changed the subject.” he said.

“Very smart.” Ron sounded like he couldn’t decided if he was being sarcastic or not, and Harry made a face at him.

“So anyway, if you want to come to dinner, I’ll let Malfoy know to wear pants. And the rest of his clothes.” He specified. Ron made another face, but didn’t say anything for long moments.

“So… You’re dating a paroled Death Eater? Weird.” Ron finally expelled, and Harry chuckled,

“I wouldn’t say dating. He won’t leave the house. And he absolutely refuses to ask if I fancy him. Anyway, seeing him now… Living with him… He’s totally different. I mean, still an arrogant, bullheaded terror when he’s in the mood, but… it’s different. It makes me wonder if we’ve ever actually SEEN him before, y’know? Like, maybe he’s never been allowed to be who he wants. He won’t even see his mum yet. I think he’s afraid of what she’d say if she knew.”

“Of course he is. The woman might have renounced her allegiance to You-Know-Who, but she’s still a die-hard Pureblood. She’ll expect him to get married and have an heir, and follow tradition. If he’s suddenly discovering that he likes cock, instead, or doesn’t want kids, or isn’t the perfect example of Pureblooded conformity, she’s likely going to have a swooning fit.” Ron said around bites of sandwich. Harry was surprised at his insight, and gave him a grateful smile.

“Yeah. Probably. I’ve been to see her a few times. She seems to be doing okay, but she’s definitely lonely.” Harry mused, and Ron scoffed.

“Of course you have. I bet you have a schedule written out, who you see, and when. Teddy on Mondays, Narcissa on Tuesday, shag Malfoy all day Wednesday…” He trailed off grinning good naturedly, and Harry was glad that they could joke about it already.

“More like hourly. Wake up, breakfast, shag Malfoy, shower, visit Teddy, stop by to see Narcissa, pop back home for lunch and a shag, on to my million interviews, back home for dinner and a shag…” Harry laughed at Ron’s wrinkled nose.

“You don’t do interviews. And I saw how you were with him sixth year. I’m still more willing to believe you’d spend all day on top of the poor bloke, than ‘pop in’, like it’d be quick and convenient.”

“I haven’t spent all day, yet, but I’m working my way up to that. Training is kind of getting in the way.” Harry teased, and Ron fake gagged.

“Nevermind. I don’t want to know. I’ll tell Hermione, and we’ll be over for dinner.” Ron said with a note of finality as he balled up his sandwich wrapper. Harry agreed as they made their way back to work.

“Malfoy?” Harry knocked at the door, and was met with silence. “Malfoy? I know you’re in there.” He called, crossing his arms, ready to knock on the door all night until the occupant opened it.

“What?” The door snapped open with an irate question, and a scowling blond.

“You’re not dressed.” Harry observed, staring down at the plush bathrobe that was tied closed. It was almost odd seeing him so covered.

“I’m never dressed, Potter. Wasn’t that the point of your note?” He was clearly upset, and Harry frowned, taking a step forward.

“No, the point of the note was for you to be wearing clothes, so you’d be decent for company. Not that I mind, but Ron and Hermione might not enjoy you sitting to dinner in your… pajamas.” He noted, seeing the long pants hem that protruded beneath the robe.

“‘Malfoy, Ron and Hermione coming over, don’t want to scare them, please conceal yourself’.” Malfoy quoted, and Harry winced.

“I wrote it in a hurry, but I was trying to use more vocabulary, since you mentioned I don’t seem to talk very fancy. ‘Conceal’ was probably not the right choice. I meant ‘conceal’ your nakedness, not your whole self.” Harry explained. Malfoy lifted a brow, and sneered.

“And why would I even want to have dinner with your friends? They’re not MY friends, and I just because we’re fucking doesn’t mean I’m your boyfriend, obligated to play party host.” He was clearly in a mood, and Harry briefly considered trying to fuck it out of him. He was always in a better mood after an orgasm or two.

“No, you’re not my boyfriend.” Harry agreed, and saw the flash of disappointment across Malfoy’s face before he could hide it with another dirty look. Harry pressed into his space, crowding him against the door. “With how things are, you’re more like my wife. Running the house, in charge of meals, bending over whenever I want…”

Malfoy’s cheeks flushed, but before he could get in a huff, Harry leaned in and nuzzled his temple, one hand resting on his hip the way he always did before he started having his way with him.

“I want you to have dinner with my friends and I.” Harry murmured, and was surprised when Malfoy let out a soft laugh.

“Stop trying to sound smart, Potter. ‘My friends and me’, since you’re the subject of the sentence, not the object.” Malfoy muttered back.

“Whatever. Have dinner with us.” Harry encouraged, and Malfoy huffed. “I want to introduce my wife to my friends.”

“I’m not your bloody wife.” Malfoy shoved at him, glaring, and Harry grinned. “And I’ve already met your friends.”

“Fine, ‘house husband’. Doesn’t matter. And you haven’t met them. Not really. I want them to meet this Draco Malfoy. I want you to meet them, and try not to be cruel. I want you to sit at dinner and make nice with my friends, and know that afterward, I’m going to slowly strip you bare, kiss every part of you that I can reach, and when you’re finally begging for it, I’m going to fuck you until you’re a trembling, quivering mess of sloppy, cum-filled overstimulation. Sound fair?”

“I… I’m not your husband, either, Potter.” Was all the response Malfoy managed to muster. Harry chuckled, and traced his ear with his tongue, teasing him just a bit more.

“If you really want to mess with them, without putting in any effort, call me Harry. It’ll drive them nuts trying to decide if they should call you Draco or not.” Harry suggested, and Malfoy whined, sorely tempted to join them for dinner. Harry leaned back just enough to look him in the eyes, saw the desire, the hesitation, and smiled as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. He tilted Malfoy’s head back with a firm thumb on his jaw, and deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue between soft, parted lips, and tracing the tip of the responding tongue. He pulled back, and smiled again.

“See you downstairs, Draco.” Harry said, and kissed him swiftly one last time before he turned and bounced back down to the Golden Parlor, where he’d left Ron and Hermione.

“Well? Is he throwing a fit?” Ron asked, and Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

“He was a bit, my fault. My note was… unclear. He thought I didn’t want him at dinner. All cleared up now, he’ll be down shortly.” Harry explained, and clapped his hands together. He couldn’t stop the knowing grin that filled his face at seeing his friends in his favorite parlor, sitting on the couch he’d first fucked Draco on, surrounded by the efforts of the blond to fix up the house.

“Alright.” Ron shrugged, and sipped at the bottle of beer Harry had gotten him before he’d gone to check on his housemate.

Hermione looked around the room, and turned to him with another look of pointed suspicion.

“Have you hired someone, Harry? I know Kreacher was doing better, but… I didn’t know he was up to this.” She gestured around at the room, and house in general, and Harry grinned.

“Nope. Draco’s been making himself useful. Since he had so many complaints, I gave him a budget, and told him to fix whatever he doesn’t like.” Harry sat on the cream and bronze armchair with his own drink and smiled at his friends.

“Well, it’s nice.” Hermione complimented. “And you seem happy. Is it really… Okay, having Malfoy live with you?”

“It’s actually pretty great. Ron told you, right?”

“He did, not that I didn’t already know.” Hermione gave him a look, and Harry grinned sheepishly.

“Right.” He said, and the room devolved into an awkward silence, before Hermione wasn’t able to hold in her curiosity any longer.

“So, are you two… dating? Ron said it didn’t really count, but you know what I mean? Is it just… physical?” She asked, and before Harry could answer, a voice from the doorway chimed in.

“You told them?” Malfoy walked into the room, face stony, eyes locked on Harry. Harry didn’t let it daunt him.

“Technically I only told Ron. Hermione already knew.” Harry said, and Draco paused, next to Harry, eyeing the duo on the couch.

“I see.” He said, and turned to face Harry with an arched brow or arrogance. Harry tried not to smirk, tried not to WANT to pull him down and kiss the stupid look off of his face. “Well, go ahead then, Harry. Answer the woman’s question.” He perched on the arm of Harry’s chair, clearly making a point that he didn’t care what they thought. Harry clasped his hands together to keep from wrapping one around Draco and pulling him into his lap. He somehow thought his friends wouldn’t appreciate the display, or the groping he was likely to do thereafter.

“Well, despite the amazing sexual chemistry we’ve discovered,” Harry began, hoping to evade all future questions about him and Malfoy, “Draco is fantastic at managing a household. Really, he’s more like a- Ow!” Harry winced as Malfoy slapped his chest.

“You’re insufferable.” Draco spat, standing from the arm of the chair, glaring at him. “If the words ‘wife’ or ‘house husband’ leave your mouth one more time tonight, you’ll be finishing the evening without me.” He warned, and Harry heard the real threat, beyond dinner.

“Fine. I won’t say it.” He laughed, and heard Ron stifle a chuckle, too.

“You know, hitting really isn’t healthy in a relationship.” Hermione intoned, and Harry couldn’t help himself. He really couldn’t.

“Does that include spanking?” he asked, and received another slap, this one to his arm, from Draco, and a groan from his friends.

“Nevermind.” Hermione muttered, and Draco stepped forward bravely.

“How about we move into the dining room?” He gestured to the door with a practiced smile, and Harry desperately wanted to run a hand through his perfectly combed hair.

“Yes, please.” Hermione agreed, carrying her wine glass with her, and Ron hi bottle as they fled the parlor. Draco made to follow, but Harry caught his arm, and leaned in for a quick kiss, and nip of Draco’s lower lip. Draco tugged himself free, but stayed in Harry’s space, looking up at him with challenge.

“Tell me, Harry, are you going to wait for your friends to leave before you start trying to strip me, or are you going to stick to eye-fucking me until we’re alone?” He whispered, and Harry bit his lip as he grinned down at the perfect tease,

“Depends on how long they take to finish dinner and get out.” He said, and Draco made a ‘hm’ sound, and turned to stalk from the room without a backward glance. Harry adjusted his trousers, and followed shortly after, completely unable to recall if Draco had been wearing proper clothes or not.

“It’s been two years, you’ve got to tell her.” Harry argued for the millionth time, “Next month she’ll be wondering why you’re not moving back into the Manor, and she’ll start asking questions, not that she isn’t already, but Draco, Come ON!” Harry tugged at the blond’s arm, practically dragging him up the drive to his mother’s house.

“Potter, you really don’t understand, just because she’s successfully divorced my father, and her parole is over, does not mean she’s suddenly an entirely different witch!” Draco argued, tugging back against his own arm, while his free hand smoothed down his hair.

“I know, but she loves you, and she at least likes me,”

“Which will end the moment she hears how you’ve corrupted me.

“-and if she asks about grandkids, we can just introduce her to Teddy!”

“Andromeda would murder you if she didn’t get to meet and approve Mother, first.”

“They’re sisters, they’ll make up.” Harry insisted, but Draco’s nonplussed look begged to differ.

“Anyway, I haven’t corrupted you. If anything it was you doing the corrupting by not wearing pants.” Harry declared. Draco seemed to give up the fight, and reluctantly let Harry drag him up to the door.

“It’s not my fault you’re an utter degenerate that can’t keep it in your pants.” Draco muttered, and Harry scoffed.

“I’m the degenerate? You have literally sucked me off every time I try to bring you here, to distract me.” Harry countered, and Draco rolled his eyes.

“So sue me.” He said, and Harry chuckled.

“I can think of other ways to get back at you.” He smirked, leaning into Draco’s space, and lifting a hand to trace his jaw. He swooped in for a quick kiss, and was pleased when Draco responded, his lips parting, and his hand ruffling the poorly styled hair Harry had attempted.

“Well, that certainly explains several things.” The sharp voice from behind them made them jump apart like guilty teens, and Harry turned to face the stern visage of Narcissa Malfoy. He’d visited her rather frequently during the past two years of her probation, but still being caught snogging her son, he felt a tremor of fear slide up his spine. Whether he was an Auror or not, the woman was terrifying when she wanted to be.

“M-Mother, I can explain.” Draco began, and Harry swore he could hear the blush in his voice.

“No need, I think I’ve made the necessary connections. Tea is getting cold. Come in.” She stood back from the door, and Harry swallowed, stiffening his spine. They’d rather bungled the reveal, but now there was nothing left for it, but to put their best foot forward.

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Malfoy.” He greeted politely, and received a polite smile in return.

“Good afternoon, Mother, Draco greeted her formally, and Harry watched as the woman frowned at him.

“I’ve seen you twice in the past two years, and you didn’t think to mention on either occasion that you’re dating?” She accused, and Draco flushed a darker red.

“...Sorry?”

Harry was rather impressed with the woman’s ability to render the usually argumentative blond practically speechless.

“Well, at least it’s someone respectable. I assume you’re going to have a surrogate, then, and raise the child with Potter?” She interrogated without wasting time as she led the way to tea.

“It’s a bit early to discuss children…” Harry hedged, but Narcissa sat primly, and eyed her son.

“Harry’s actually got a godson. Aunt Andromeda’s grandson. I was thinking of appointing him the Heir apparent to the Malfoy Estate.” Malfoy said as if it were the most logical thing, and Harry hadn’t just suggested it minutes prior. The woman scowled, but one glance at Harry and her brow smoothed.

“I suppose we can overlook his… unique parentage. I can’t deny that seeing Lucius’ fortune go to… someone he would not favor, does bring me a bit of joy.” She said with a rather malicious smile as she poured tea. Harry determined once again to never get on her bad side.

“What about the black fortune?” Harry asked, fully aware that it would be entirely Narcissa’s, and then Draco’s, with Andromeda disinherited, and Bellatrix and Sirius dead.

“Well, if your surrogate child is the grandson of my sister, then I suppose the Black family fortune, too, will be going where it belongs. I suppose I’ll have to meet with her, and begin setting aside a trust for the child, presently…” She trailed off, and then looked up with a sudden smile.

“Regardless, back to the more important subject at hand.” She said, and then began sipping at her tea.

“Which is…?” Harry prompted. The woman gave a smile full of teeth and ambition, and Harry felt another tremor of fear go through him.

“The wedding.” She answered, and Harry blinked at her in surprise.

“Wedding?” He asked, and looked to Draco for help.

“You could have put this off, but no, we had to tell her…” He heard Draco mutter into his teacup, too low for his mother to hear.

“Yes, darling, the wedding. You weren’t planning on leaving Draco to the wolves when you were done with him, were you?”

“Done with him?” Harry asked, even more confused. “I’m not going to be ‘done with him’.” Narcissa’s smile widened impossibly.

“Perfect. I’ll begin making the arrangements, Draco I know you will have opinions, Harry, darling, if you have any input, don’t be afraid to speak up, it is YOUR wedding too, of course.” She said, and Harry could do nothing but nod, feeling as though he’d been steamrolled. He looked to Draco, who looked entirely unenthused. Except for the glittery way his eyes locked on his mother as she began verbally outlining wedding plans.

“Hey, do you know what this means?” Harry asked quietly, pulling Draco’s attention away from his mother’s monologue.

“What?”

“Now you can really be my wife.”