Chapter Text
Harry had never meant to have sex with Draco Malfoy.
It wasn’t the kind of thing, he reasoned as he Apparated back to the Auror Office with the taste of Malfoy’s spunk still bitter on the back of his tongue, that people intended to do. Probably. And Harry was people, and he had not come here with any intentions beyond asking Malfoy the usual questions at his usual fortnightly probation check-in, which meant — something.
It meant, Harry decided, that it was somebody else’s fault.
Somebody Else’s Fault had been a revelation. One of those post-war epiphanies that coalesced broadly around the thesis statement that Harry had died, Harry had defeated Voldemort, and surely it was someone else’s turn to take responsibility for — anything, really, he wasn’t picky — and leave Harry alone to be eighteen. It was remarkably freeing, and he told all his friends about it with a kind of evangelical zeal. Responsibility, he would say, loudly, after several pints at the Hog’s Head (which had unwittingly found itself the favoured watering hole of a dozen adolescent war heroes) is overrated.
The sex, Harry decided, was Malfoy’s fault. If he wasn’t so — impassive, cold, reciting his answers to the questions like Harry wasn’t even there, eyes always trained somewhere over his shoulder — maybe Harry wouldn’t have had to bait him, can I suck your cock in place of the usual nothing further, thank you for your time in a last-ditch effort to get a reaction. And it had worked — briefly, all too briefly, when Malfoy’s gaze had flickered over at Harry and his composure had slipped, for a nanosecond, before he schooled his features back to blankness and asked, is this a hypothetical, Potter, or an offer?
An offer, Harry had said, which had gotten an even longer break in whatever character Malfoy was playing now instead of himself — a slight smirk, a slow drag of his gaze up and down Harry’s body, an arched brow — before it was gone again, and Malfoy stood, said on your knees, then, Potter, and Harry found himself kneeling on the cold marble floor of Malfoy Manor sucking another man’s cock for the first time in his life. It had been worth it for the noises Malfoy made, bitten off sighs and groans Harry knew he wanted to suppress but couldn’t, the way Malfoy’s fist closed around Harry’s hair and tugged, the raw unguarded want of it.
He didn’t dare think too hard about why it mattered so much that he crack Malfoy’s facade; Malfoy was always up to something, after all, and it was always Harry’s job to foil whatever Malfoy was up to, and if he maintained this line of thought hard enough he didn’t have to consider why Malfoy, who had never hidden an emotion in his life, might have come out of the war incapable of showing more than a flicker of it.
It was Robards’ fault, too, because there was no reason the Head Auror should have capitulated to the demands of an eighteen-year-old recruit to let him out in the field for the sole purpose of carrying out Draco Malfoy’s check-ins. Harry had thought he’d been persuasive at the time, but realistically he was just the Saviour of the Wizarding World, annoyingly persistent, and possibly a little unhinged. Malfoy was the sole exception to Harry’s new it’s somebody else’s turn to be responsible for this rule; he was Harry’s singular, bespoke problem. It was simply unthinkable that he ought to be anyone else’s.
The next few check-ins went similarly, until Harry inadvertently goaded Malfoy into a new display of — impatience, maybe, or frustration, when Malfoy had gestured at Harry’s own poorly-concealed erection and said, are you ever going to let me return the favour? Then smugness, a proper Malfoy-esque satisfaction when his mouth made Harry come hard enough his knees buckled, and that lingered even as Malfoy saw Harry to the door, leaning against the doorframe and looking, in that moment, like he owned the world again.
Eight months into Malfoy’s one year probation Harry found another button to push, at the end of his check-in questions when he asked, instead, should we fuck? And Malfoy had blinked, slow enough for Harry to notice how blond his eyelashes were — because when did you ever notice someone’s eyelashes — and asked, now? And Harry had said, well, yeah, unless you need another fortnight to work up the nerve, and that had gotten a bit of a rise out of him, a flush creeping into his pallid cheeks, an edge in his voice as he said I’m not nervous, Potter, and stalked up to his bedroom. How do you want to do this, then, Harry had asked, and Malfoy, already half-naked behind closed doors, let the whole mask slip.
When the fuck, he had asked, louder and pinker and gesturing expansively, do you think I’ve had the chance to find out? The mental — capacity to interrogate whether I want — if I’m an erastes or an eromenos — and Harry had said a what and Malfoy had thrown up his hands and said fuck, Potter, you know nothing, and Harry had said at least I know that I want to fuck you and Malfoy had said fuck me, then, this was all your idea, don’t know why you even asked, and it was better than Harry could have imagined, the tight heat of him, the sounds he made, completely uninhibited now, loud and demanding and filthy. He left Malfoy that afternoon stretched out naked in his bed, smug and contented and — well, glowing sounded a bit naff, but that was the closest Harry could get, and he was feeling pretty pleased with himself until he ran into Narcissa on the stairs and she gave him a look that pierced through skin and flesh and bone, down to the soul, and he remembered he hadn’t cast a silencing charm.
At the end of Malfoy’s probation, Harry read out the Ministry’s statement that Malfoy’s criminal record had been expunged and he was now free to seek employment or further education, to practice magic, to carry a wand, to travel abroad. He returned Malfoy’s hawthorn wand, allowed a few moments of loaded silence, and asked him what his plans were.
“France,” Malfoy said simply. “Fresh start, all that rot.”
Harry, who had Scourgified Malfoy’s cum off his chest barely ten minutes ago, said in his most professional voice, “I wish you all the best.”
That was the last Harry saw of him.