Chapter Text
“I always wanted to get you in the bath with me,” Malfoy says on their first night in the castle alone together.
They’re the only two Professors staying for the summer, but right now, sitting in the Prefects’ bath and watching Malfoy strip to get in with him, Harry feels seventeen again. Or maybe for the first time. Because seventeen never felt like this.
It never looked like this.
Like Malfoy—naked and lithe and scarred by another bathroom, another life, fit, hot, so hot Harry’s cock is hard and aching—descending with a smirk into the warm water with him.
“Fuck, you’re…” Harry breathes.
And Malfoy says, “I know,” like being gorgeous is just his burden to bear, the conceited prick. But then he’s straddling Harry on the bench, and—
Harry’s hands grasp Malfoy’s hips. “Merlin,” he gets out before Malfoy kisses him, with tongue, and their bodies press together.
“Tell me to stop if you don’t want this,” Malfoy says against his lips, low and silky, and then, “Lubricus,” and his slick hand wraps around Harry’s cock, leading it to his very slippery arsehole.
“Malfoy,” Harry says and hears the edge of panic in his own voice.
“I think we’re past that. Unless the last name thing turns you on… Potter.” Malfoy—Draco—slides the tip of Harry’s cock over his entrance, and Harry bites his lip. “Isn’t this why you agreed to stay the summer with me?”
“Wha— No,” Harry says.
“No?” Draco asks, his hand coaxing Harry’s cock, stroking slow and easy.
“Oh fuck,” Harry sighs. “No, but… I don’t want you to stop. Don’t stop.”
“Harry Potter,” Draco says fondly, the fingers of his free hand carding into Harry’s loose hair which falls about his shoulders in humidity-encouraged curls. “You beautiful idiot.” Then he sits on Harry’s cock, and Harry loses his bloody mind.
Draco starts slow, and it’s excruciatingly good, both the feel of Harry’s cock pushing into that tight, slick place, and the look of it, Draco moving in his lap like this, the water lapping around his chest.
“How could you possibly be surprised by this? I’ve been flirting with you for months.”
“You have?” Harry asks.
Draco rolls his eyes. Then he rolls his hips. “You’re dumber than I thought; I love it.”
“I’m not dumb,” Harry grits out, planting his hand on the bench for leverage, slinging his other arm around Draco’s body and fucking up into him.
Draco gasps, sighs, goes liquid in his hold and says, “Yes,” so sweetly Harry forgets he’s been insulted extremely recently.
“I guess everyone looks at you like they want to fuck you, don’t they? You’re just used to it… don’t even recognise it anymore when it’s real.” And then when Harry opens his mouth to answer, “Rhetorical. I’m going to make you come like nobody ever has, Harry.” He starts plunging himself down on Harry’s cock.
Harry hauls him in by the back of the neck, kisses him with a ferocity he hasn’t felt for another person in a very long time, maybe ever. He sort of hates that Draco might be right. But he also loves it. His body does, at any rate. Draco bites Harry’s bottom lip hard enough to hurt, and Harry groans, moving Draco on his cock until he’s whimpering.
Somehow, it happens all at once, the both of them, Harry inside him, Draco between them. Harry meets Draco’s gaze through the intensity of it, and the pleasure doubles, looking into those strange silver-grey eyes with their blown wide pupils, water trickling down Draco’s slender throat. Harry leans in and laps the droplet into his mouth, licks all the way up and between Draco’s lips again as they slow. For a moment, they’re pressed so close Harry can feel Draco’s heart thumping in his chest.
Too soon, Draco unseats himself, moving to lean back against the edge of the pool on his own bench catty corner to Harry’s. There’s a hot little smile on his flushed face. Harry had wanted to keep touching him. His hands and mouth still want.
Draco breathes for a moment and then stands, walks up the steps and out of the pool again, Harry watching his arse as he goes. He towels off and starts to dress again.
“Was that… it?” Harry asks, feeling ten shades of foolish but desperate to know.
“Was that not good enough for you?” Draco shoots back, grinning because he knows that it was.
“It was… really good.”
“Harry, I know. I was there.” Arrogant dick. He buttons his shirt—which is terrible, in part because he’s covering up the tattoo sleeve Harry has never got a good look at and now still hasn’t because he was distracted by all the other bits. Draco tucks the shirt into his trousers and adds, “Look, I have no interest in sleeping with you.” It’s briefly decimating, which shouldn’t be possible because Harry wasn’t expecting this in the first place, then Draco says, “But maybe we should link our Floos, yes? It’s an awfully long walk from Slytherin up to Gryffindor.”
Harry exhales in relief. He’s going to get to have this again after all. Maybe have it all summer. His head is spinning. “Floos,” he says. “Yeah.”
Draco smiles at him. Dressed now, he starts toward the door. “Goodnight, Professor Potter,” he says before he leaves.
Harry leans his head back against the side of the bath, stares at the ceiling, touches his soft, sensitive cock under the water, and breathes a laugh.
xX
“You what?” Ron asks for the third time, his face, already wreathed in green flames, going greener. “You…”
“Fucked him.”
“In the Prefects’ bath.”
“Yes.”
“You—”
“Fucked him in the Prefects’ bath.”
“Malfoy.”
“Draco.”
“Well, yes, if you’re fucking him.”
“I appear to be.”
“So you did the—”
“Yes.”
“With your—”
“Dick.”
“ —in his—”
“Arse, yes.”
A long pause ensues. Then, “Was he good?”
“Oh yes.” It comes out a rather beleaguered sigh, but Harry doesn’t feel beleaguered; he feels brilliant.
“I suppose I’m happy for you,” Ron allows, scratching his head. “I mean, you haven’t got properly laid since the divorce, have you?”
“Have too!” Harry retorts. “There’ve been…” He counts on one hand. “A few.”
“Proper?”
“A couple,” he downgrades.
“Spectacular though?”
“No.”
“And was this—?”
“Spectacular? Yes.”
“You gonna do it again, mate?”
“I think so. He wanted to connect our Floos.”
Ron’s eyebrows go up. He nods. Then he gasps. “What about the orphans?!”
“The children who live here over the summer,” Harry corrects meaningfully, “are away for a few weeks. McGonagall and some of the other teachers have taken them on a trip. They’re seeing wixen Zurich, Berlin, Brussels…”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“You thought I would fuck Draco Malfoy in the Prefects’ bath with the students around?”
Ron shrugs. “You’re unpredictable where he’s concerned.”
“Am I?”
Ron laughs. Loudly.
Harry finds himself laughing as well. “Okay, dickface. I have to go.”
“Fuck Malfoy?”
“Sod off,” Harry says sweetly. “Give my love to your wife.”
Harry cuts the Floo line and pushes to his feet, dusting off his jeans.
He does want to see Draco. Maybe not immediately for sex. He had hoped to get his help with a few of the projects he’d outlined with Minerva prior to her leaving. Harry thought he might see him at breakfast, which Harry took down in the kitchens because it’s weird to have meals served to you in the Great Hall when you’re all by yourself—that and Harry likes shooting the shit with their chef of the last five years, Sujoy, who had promised to teach Harry how to make begun bhaja over the summer.
But Draco had not been there. Merlin knows if he’d even eaten anything or where he’s spending his morning; he could be anywhere. It’s likely they’d manage to avoid each other all summer, completely by accident, let alone on purpose. Harry had sort of thought that was how it might go.
Draco had, of course, disabused him of that notion last night. It was a delicious disabusing. If he isn’t careful though, Harry’s going to get a hard-on remembering it and he doesn’t want to take the time to wank at the moment.
Harry multitasks, pulling half his hair back and securing it behind his head and out of his face as he jogs down the many, many flights of stairs, waiting in frustration for the stupid staircases to pivot and lock into place, losing patience with the last one and vaulting over the side of the bannister to the last set of stairs and taking them at a hippity-trot once more.
Descending to Slytherin, Harry bypasses the dorms to go further down the hall, his heart kicking around in his chest as he makes his way to Draco’s door and knocks. Silence greets him. After knocking again and calling his name, he wanders back up to the Great Hall, out into the courtyard, comes back inside and pulls his wand in the entry, sending his Patronus with a message of, “Where the hell are you?”
He gets an actual owl in response a few minutes later, a glorious eagle owl descending through the castle, wide wingspan open over the stairs, coming to a graceful, flapping stop at Harry’s feet. Harry squats to fetch the parchment from her leg. “Thank you,” he says with a nod, and the bird soars back up into the shadowed rafters.
Harry reads Draco’s note aloud, “‘Did no-one tell you it’s rude to interrupt someone’s morning divination? I’ll be down in five. Try not to set the castle on fire in that amount of time.’” Harry sighs. “Prick.”
When Draco does arrive, he looks supremely pissy, buttoning his cuffs at his wrists, his shoes clipping quickly on the marble, a frown set into his features. “What did you want?”
“Well, I’d thought we could talk about expanding the new duelling space and—”
“Fuck,” Draco bites out, his buttons not slipping into their holes. His shirt is very white, and his cuffs flicker green in the ray of sun coming in from the high windows. Harry wonders if they’re emeralds, actual emeralds, and that this is what he wears on his first day off. It’s not robes, but it’s not casual, his dark trousers pressed, though there’s no tie in sight. He seems determined to button those ostentatious cuffs though.
“It would be good for the students to be able to practise bigger—”
“I know it would,” he growls. “Bloody…” He gives up on the cuffs and proceeds to get a look in his eye, more than half danger, a hint of possible desire. He crowds Harry against the nearest wall. “Later with the duelling room,” he says. “Come with me now.” Then he leaves Harry in the deadly quiet of the entry, opens the big doors to the outside, and stalks out.
“Where are we going?” asks Harry, catching up to his long strides.
“I need to sweat,” is his only answer, but Harry cottons on as they make their way toward the Quidditch pitch.
The day is half brightness, half thundercloud shadow. It will rain at some point, maybe sooner rather than later. This doesn’t deter Draco, his walk determined as they cross the wide lawn between the castle and the stadium.
Harry had wondered what spending an entire summer here with only one other Professor and a handful of staff would feel like. He’d assumed pretty boring, even when he found out it’d be Draco he was sharing the months with. But as he follows Draco under the stands, into the dark passageway, and then onto the shining pitch beyond, he feels alive with the excitement of it, the unpredictableness of the man in front of him, now transfiguring his clothes into practice ones. He dons a green jersey and shorts like a footballer, snazzy boots same as the ones in Quality Quidditch’s window, fancy and new, persuading you to come inside and spend too many Galleons.
“What are you waiting for, a thousand chanting fans, Potter?”
“I thought I was Harry now,” Harry says, starting to convert his own clothes while Draco flicks his wand in the direction of the broom shed.
He looks back at Harry, eyes glinting. “Not here, you’re not.” He slashes with his wand and shoots a broom into Harry’s hand. If he hadn’t got the leather gloves in place yet it would have stung like hell.
Draco looks Harry’s Gryffindor reds up and down. “First one to the Snitch gets his cock sucked.”
Then the prat tosses a Snitch from the pocket of his shorts and with no further warning kicks off after it.
“Shit.” Harry straddles his broom with an inconvenient halfie and takes off after him.
In all their years of battling each other on this exact pitch, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever fought so hard to get to a Snitch before Draco Malfoy does. Not that he’d mind losing this time, to be quite honest about it. Still, it’s almost primal, the desire to claim the win, and then claim his prize.
But bloody hell, Draco’s a good flier. He’s better than he was as Slytherin’s Seeker. He knows his own body now, has developed muscle control, magic control, that he was either lacking before or that was too wild for him to manage. He leans into curves tighter, drops into feints with more confidence. He’s learned a few new moves, and Harry catches himself admiring his technique when he should be looking for the Snitch.
A rumble of thunder rolls its way across the distant hills, dark clouds finally catching up to the crawling sun, dimming and overtaking it. One fat raindrop smacks Harry in the face, then another, and a few more.
The fact that Harry sees it first is mostly luck. He’s never had good eyesight, but he has excellent Quidditch instincts. It glints there, right near the centre of the pitch, hovering a few feet above the ground. Harry guns his broom toward it, flattening himself down. Draco reacts a split second later, the harsh bite of his, “Fuck!” trailing after Harry. He can feel Draco’s broom closing in behind him until the stick touches his tail twigs, just enough to knock Harry off-course, but his fingers have tasted it, and he closes his fist around, so that even as his broom takes a wild barrel-turn, Harry’s got it, and he skids across the pitch, tangled with his own broom until he lets go and slides to a stop on his back, the Snitch held high.
The rain begins in earnest as Draco lands, flings his broom away from himself, his face its own thundercloud. The sky snaps bright behind him, and a crack of thunder shakes the earth beneath Harry’s body, his heart pattering nonstop. He smiles at Draco’s approach, and then Draco tackles him, rolls him on the damp ground, wrestling him like he’s going to rip the Snitch from Harry’s hands.
For a moment, Harry’s body reacts to it as it would an attack. His muscles tighten, and he hauls the arm with the Snitch over his head, away from Draco, giving Draco the advantage of having his two hands free to Harry’s one. Draco rolls him underneath his body once more, pins him there, breathing hard in his face. Then he yanks just the front of Harry’s shorts and pants down, until half his cock is out, and he dips down, taking it between his lips and suckling hard.
“Fuck,” Harry cries. “Oh fuck, wait.”
Draco glances up at him, his hands making fists on the waistband of Harry’s shorts. Another tug and he could wrangle them off.
Harry releases the Snitch, his hand sinking into what is quickly becoming mud beneath him. His other hand is already in Draco’s wet hair. He pumps his hips up, smearing Draco’s now-smiling mouth with the moist tip of his cock. Draco licks it—gently, teasingly—and Harry groans.
“We’re on the bloody pitch,” Harry gasps. They are, in fact, almost right in the middle of it, in plain view if anyone were to wander by, shielded only by what has now become a curtain of rain.
“I’ve always wanted you here too. Right here. In front of everyone,” Draco says, his speaking lips making brief, brushing contact with Harry’s cock.
Always? Harry’s bewildered mind echoes.
A boom of thunder rattles the stands around them.
“I’m going to be struck by lightning while getting a blow job from Draco Malfoy; I just know that’s how I die this time,” Harry says, meeting Draco’s deep chuckle with his own breathless laugh.
Regretfully, he pulls his shorts up as Draco leverages himself to standing. He lends Harry a hand, pulling him off the ground. They’re soaked and half muddy and breathing hard.
“Care to find out where I’ve wanted to have you?” Harry asks, and at the extremely interested glimmer in Draco’s eye, Harry leads him to the locker rooms.
It’s a longstanding fantasy but one he never thought much about. It just… followed, didn’t it? Harry would catch the Snitch (of course), Malfoy would follow him into the locker room, shove him against a locker. They’d fight, scuffle more like. By then the Harry who was doing the fantasising would have a hand around his cock. Malfoy’s breath would be in his face, their bodies connecting. “Fuck you, Potter,” would come warm from his lips, then Malfoy’s hands would rip into Harry’s uniform trousers.
Half the time, Harry would come before the shower was even involved. So sometimes the fantasy had to start there instead.
He’d never really thought about how many times he’d used it and what that could mean. The fantasy has always felt miles and miles away from the reality of Draco hating him, or disdaining him, or just ignoring or tolerating him. Even this last year when they’d come to some sort of unvoiced agreement to be civil and polite, to be a good example for the children and whatnot, that hadn’t exactly translated in Harry’s mind to… this. The reality and the fantasies (which he still had, of course) never set foot in the same room in Harry’s mind.
And now they share a castle, big and open and theirs, and all Draco seems to want to do with that is get hot and close with him. To fulfill fantasies Harry never realised they shared.
So hot and so close, Harry thinks, stripping his wet clothes off while Draco turns on a shower. Draco ditches his shoes and socks, flicks already-wet hair out of his face. It’s darkened a shade, hanging golden over one eye, short-short at the sides and back, his long beautiful neck bare. Harry wants to run his hands over everything, wants his fingers to tangle and to pull in those dangling strands. Heedlessly, he pushes Draco into the shower, still with most of his clothes on, while Harry is now nude.
Draco’s gaze moves over his body like a touch, his smile crooked as Harry pushes him under the spray and soaks him still further.
“Eager, Potter?”
And it doesn’t matter that the answer is yes and Draco knows it. Harry wants him to know it. He kisses him, as wet as they already are, and as hot.
He forgets the point of it all and starts to slip to the shower floor, but Draco grabs his arms hard, stopping him. “Oh no, you don’t.” He flips them so that Harry’s back smacks into the tile. Draco strips his wet shirt off, drops his shorts and pants and kicks them away. He goes to his knees. “A bet’s a bet, Potter.” He goes down on Harry in earnest.
Harry pushes his hands into Draco’s wet hair, his mouth open on soft moans. He links his fingers together behind Draco’s head and watches him, the slide of his own cock past those lips, now pink and swollen. The curl of Draco’s tongue pulls a whine from Harry’s throat. He starts thrusting, and now it’s Draco who moans, a low, hungry rumble. He meets Harry’s thrusts with the bob of his head.
Draco’s hands wander up his stomach, his chest. His gaze follows and then meets Harry’s, his lips a lovely O around Harry’s hard dick. Then the git pulls off. Harry was close; he groans his disappointment, fingers tightening but then slipping free of the strands of Draco’s hair as Draco stands up, wipes his wet mouth, and pushes Harry’s shoulders roughly, getting him turned toward the shower wall.
“I’ll finish you off after,” Draco says at his ear, the tip of his prick already pressing, rubbing.
“Oh God.” With a twiddle of his fingers, Harry casts a lubrication charm on himself. He leans his forehead against the tile.
The sound Draco makes as he pushes inside is utterly hedonistic. He’s panting against Harry’s skin. He moves Harry’s wet hair off his shoulder and then bites there briefly, like it helps him bear the pleasure. Harry gasps at it, grabs for Draco’s thigh behind him and grips. He feels full, lusciously so. Draco is not small and it’s been… a while. Harry spreads his feet apart a little more, hands pressing slick against the wall.
“You need me to start easy?” Draco asks, thumbs digging into the flesh of Harry’s arse appreciatively.
“Fuck that,” Harry says.
And with Harry’s pronouncement, Draco starts screwing him, quick and dirty. The sounds they make echo a bit, breaths and caught whimpers and words to one another, goads and praise mingling, interchangeable, one mistaken for the other, so familiar. Draco lands a slap on Harry’s flank and then soothes it with a stroke. Harry flings back a stingless insult; Draco meets it with his low laugh, wraps Harry’s hair around his fist and thrusts hard.
Harry’s never had sex like this. He can feel it burning in the cavity of his chest like joy.
Draco cries out, his grip on Harry’s hip, in his hair, going pleasantly brutal. His come is warm when Harry feels it start filling him. Draco slides the whole of his cock through it, lifting his chin to moan decadently, and in that blissed out sound lives Harry’s name.
“Get your hand off yourself, I said I’d do it,” Draco admonishes breathlessly when Harry goes to fondle his own balls. “One sec,” he adds, fingers untangling from Harry’s curls, his arm wrapping around Harry’s chest while he fucks more slowly, hips rolling against Harry’s backside. It’s an indulgence.
Harry is his indulgence.
He slips out on a groan and Harry turns languidly against the wall, his cock standing up as much as it can under its own weight, thick and deep-red near the crown.
“Merlin, I hate you so much for having a cock like this,” Draco says. And he kisses the lazy smile this has earned off Harry’s face. He kisses him with something akin to curiosity. Their mouths meet like two people who haven’t just fucked, like blokes wanting to learn each other.
Then Draco kneels once more. He wraps Harry’s cock in his hand and starts mouthing down half the length to meet his own fist. The fuck was so good, and now to have Draco’s mouth back on his sensitive prick… it doesn’t take long. “I’m… I’m…” Harry gasps.
Draco moans on the dick in his mouth, and Harry comes.
xX
“You have mud in your hair,” is the last thing Draco says to him before he steps out of the shower himself.
Harry stays under the hot spray, pulling the elastic from his hair with a small hiss of pain and then getting clean while Draco dresses, the shower curtain between them left open, because… why not? Draco is back in the ostentatious shirt and pressed trousers once more by the time Harry realises he forgot to get a look at the sleeve. Again.
Suds rinsed from his locks, Harry shuts the water off. Draco hands him a towel.
“I’m impressed with how you turned ‘winner gets his cock sucked’ into you getting to fuck me in the arse.”
Draco turns a mischievous smirk Harry’s direction as he dries off.
“Maybe I can return the dick-sucking favour sometime though?” Harry then adds, inadvisably perhaps, “You do have a birthday coming up.”
Any and all mirth drains from Draco’s face. He frowns, avoiding eye contact now. “I’m afraid I’ll be otherwise engaged for that.”
“Oh.” Harry wraps the towel around his waist, coming out of the shower and leaning against the lockers, arms crossed over his chest. “Some other time then. A rematch maybe.”
The frown still lingers there when Draco echoes, “Maybe. Listen, let’s start on the duelling room tomorrow, yes?”
“Yeah, alright,” Harry says.
Draco spares him another look. It skirts down Harry’s still-naked chest, over his arms, down to where the towel sits low. It almost removes the frown. Not quite though. Draco nods at him, gaze meeting his for only a split second before he walks out.