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To tell the truth, Draco didn't exactly know how the whole thing started. There had to have been a lead up to it, and he was sure it would have taken quite a while, considering his pureblood upbringing and the former animosity between them, but now it rather seemed as though all of a sudden, Potter was yanking him from the halls of the Ministry by his robes and shoving him into the nearest broom closet.
Not that Draco was complaining.
Well, he did complain to Potter. Rather a lot.
"These are linen, Potter," he protested, but Potter was already pressing up against him, nosing into his neck and biting at the sensitive skin there, and Draco felt his breath hitch.
Now this he certainly wouldn't complain about.
Draco had always thought, back at Hogwarts, that Potter got a real thrill out of breaking the rules. At the time, it had been one of Draco's biggest annoyances - how Potter seemed to be able to do whatever he liked and get away with it. Admittedly, he had taken great pleasure in their fifth year when he had been granted the power to bestow punishments, and when Umbridge, foul as she was, had shown she had a personal vendetta against Potter.
But now, Draco realised this was the wrong approach. Punishing Potter for breaking the rules was no good - it wasn't like it would stop him, stubborn bastard, and besides, Draco no longer hated him. For Draco, being cruel had always been merely an avenue to getting what he really craved - attention. While old habits were hard to break, and Draco's tongue still jumped to an insult by nature, he was proud to say that he no longer actively made people's lives miserable. Perhaps it was a low bar, but it had taken a long time to step over it.
And regardless, Draco had discovered that the irritation he felt at Potter's penchant for breaking the rules vanished almost entirely when Draco was breaking them alongside him.
Draco had always hated getting into trouble. His father was strict and unforgiving, and as a child, any transgressions were met with harsh scolding and punishments, which led to overwhelming feelings of shame and anxiety. Draco had always been eager to please, but the trouble was that he was always trying to please the wrong person. It appeared to all as though Lucius doted on Draco, and perhaps he did to some extent, as Draco was his only heir, but that came with high expectations and unreachable standards. He was never smart enough, talented enough, dedicated enough. He chased after Lucius' praise like it was a Snitch, and much like in his school matches against Potter, he always seemed to come up short. There was nothing more desirable to him as a child than approval from his father, and nothing more dreaded than his disappointment. So Draco followed the rules at home.
His foolish attempt at satisfying Voldemort's demands of him were an extension of this deep-seated need for his father's approval. Lucius had let the Dark Lord down, and Draco now had to redeem him. If he could do it, he thought to himself, if he could prove himself, then finally, finally, he would get what he needed.
A stupid thought, really.
In the end, even Lucius defected, although that was not much of a surprise, after how he'd slithered out of trouble back during Voldemort's first reign. Draco didn't believe that Lucius's beliefs could really change--he was far too stuck in his ways for that--but he seemed to at least realise that Voldemort was mad, and that he was at fault for dragging his family into the mess that was made.
Deep down, Draco still felt it, that need for his father's love and approval, but it was quieter now, easier to ignore. It was tamped down with logic, with personal growth, and with the image of his father as desperate and pathetic as he had become near the end of the war. Draco's views had changed after the war, after he had forced himself to challenge everything his father had taught him, and slowly he was learning to undo some of the damage his father had done.
But one thing that remained was the fear of getting into trouble. After the war, he had been sure he was headed to Azkaban, and it was nothing short of a miracle that he was granted a short sentence of house arrest instead, thanks in large part to Potter's testimony on his behalf. He vowed to himself that he would take this second chance seriously, that he would keep himself on the straight and narrow, that he would become the poster boy for redemption and rehabilitation, from Death Eater to law-obeying, hard-working, upstanding citizen.
And yet, here he was, with his robes open and Potter's hand down his pants in a Ministry broom closet.
"Potter, I--" Draco started, but he was cut off by a swift kiss, the heat of Potter's tongue sending a shiver down his spine.
Draco felt himself sag slightly, giving in to it, and he reached out to press a palm to Potter's own hardness, causing Potter to bite down on his bottom lip.
"Fuck," said Potter, drawing back.
"Mind your teeth," said Draco, not meaning a word of it, as he grasped in the effort to get under Potter's robes, bumping his elbow against the shelving.
It was not entirely practical, doing this in a broom closet, but needs must and all that.
Draco worked nights cleaning at Eeylops' Owl Emporium. It was a decidedly unglamorous gig, but the Malfoy vaults had been frozen after Narcissa had passed, and Draco would be unable to access them until he was twenty-one. Typically, in cases like this, where both the parents had died, or, as in Draco's case, one was incarcerated, a temporary guardian could be put in charge of the vault with the heir still able to access its funds. But many in the Ministry were displeased with Draco's short sentence, and denying his request for a substitute guardian was a way for them to give him a different kind of punishment.
Thankfully, they couldn't take the Manor. Centuries-old wards and blood magic protected Draco from losing his home, but he knew he was going to have to find work if he was to make it until the vaults officially came into his possession. He was lucky to find work in the Ministry, even if it was just filing paperwork for the Improper Use of Magic Office.
That was his life now--working all day at the Ministry, then heading to Diagon Alley for his evening shift at Eeylops'. By the time he made it home, he had little energy to do more than eat, shower, and promptly fall into bed. Early morning, he'd wake and do the whole thing over again. Boring and routine.
This thing with Potter was the most exciting thing that had happened to him in months--years, really. The details were all a bit fuzzy now, how Potter had seen him passing by from his cubicle in the Auror Headquarters and had started getting up and following him around, trying to engage in conversation. The prospect of Potter being interested in him had seemed so ludicrous and impossible that Draco had just dismissed it as the usual suspicion people had of him, only with Potter's particular brand of doggedness and lack of subtlety.
Next thing he knew, Potter was asking to buy him a drink.
Draco had turned him down, but something in Potter's face had made him blurt out the truth.
"I can't," he had said. "I work nights too."
Potter's disappointed expression vanished, replaced by a wide smile.
"What about a coffee from the canteen then?"
There was no real schedule to what they were doing. It wasn't like Draco was penciling 'frotting with Potter' into his schedule. It just sort of...happened.
Like now, Draco had just made a quick trip to the loo, and on his way back to the office, Potter had swept him into the broom closet. And it was as good as it always was, Potter's lips on his jaw and one hand gripping on his waist, the other stroking him, quick and efficient. Draco felt himself approaching the edge, and he sped up his own hand, using the other to twist up in Potter's hair and pull a bit, how he knew Potter liked it.
As expected, Potter let out a little groan, and the sound made Draco want to melt.
"I'm close," he admitted, through gritted teeth, and he felt Potter grin against his skin.
"Good," said Potter. "Me too."
After was a bit awkward for a moment, Draco's cleaning spells washing over the both of them, and Potter with that devilish grin on his face as Draco tucked himself away, attempting to look as professional as he had before Potter had dragged him in here. He knocked his elbow against the shelving again as he tried to straighten his robes, and he cursed at the sharp pain that whipped through his arm.
"I'm telling you, Potter, these broom closets are too bloody small for this," he complained.
"You're welcome to come to my flat," said Potter, as he always did.
Draco sighed.
"How many times do I--"
"I know, I know, you work nights," said Potter, running a hand through his hair. "Just would be nice to be...you know, horizontal for once."
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help a fond smile from spreading across his face.
"Who's to say we can't be?" he said, reaching out to brush nonexistent dust from Potter's shoulder.
"What do you mean?" asked Potter. "There's barely enough room to move in here."
"Oh, Potter, where is your creativity?" said Draco, feeling that sharp thrill at the pit of his stomach at the idea. "The Ministry is so big, don't you think?"
Potter blinked at him.
"You mean--?"
"I mean, the Hit Wizards' Conference Room isn't occupied tomorrow until 3 pm," said Draco, feeling an immense amount of satisfaction at the shocked expression on Potter's face.
"I need to get back to work," Draco said, but before he could open the door, Potter gripped his wrist.
"Wait," he said, his voice with a slight rasp to it that had Draco wanting to spend the next hour with him in this bloody closet. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
"Yeah?" asked Draco, his heart thumping against his chest.
"Yeah. At one. Everyone will be at lunch."
"At one, then."
*
The Hit Wizards' Conference Room was a revelation.
Potter was on him at once, his face serious as he lifted Draco and sat him on the edge of the large conference table. He pressed a hand on his chest to get him to lie down and climbed over him before Draco could even get his bearings.
Draco had to admit, being horizontal was a marked improvement, and having Potter above him, his bright green eyes looking down at him, was thrilling in its own way. Away from the darkness of the broom closet, Draco could see how Potter's eyes darkened, his pupils blown, as he looked at him, and it was a rush, being able to see just how much Potter wanted him.
They were still restricted by time, as Draco only had the one break during the day, and unlike Potter, he could not get away with slacking off of work, however the switch in positions, the feeling of Potter's body weighing down on him, and the improved visibility--the look on Potter's face--led to both of them finishing faster than usual.
"That was--" Potter said, getting back to his feet.
"Yeah," Draco agreed, sitting up and beginning to right his robes again.
"Do you want to...tomorrow?" asked Potter, and Draco was helplessly endeared by how earnest he sounded.
"We can't," said Draco. "The room is booked all day tomorrow."
Potter nodded and furrowed his eyebrows. He seemed to be making no effort to fix his appearance, so Draco reached out to straighten his robes for him.
"I was thinking," said Potter, slowly. "The Department of Intoxicated Substances keeps an inventory of confiscated items. It used to be a break room, but they ran out of space in the closets so they started using it as storage space."
Draco looked at him, expectantly, delighting in the pink tinge that stained Potter's cheeks.
"They've still got a sofa there and everything," Potter trailed off softly.
"A sofa?" Draco asked, his lips twitching. "Colour me impressed."
"Shut up," said Potter, turning away from him. "If you don't want to--"
"I want to," said Draco, cupping Potter's face with a hand and gently turning it back to face him. "I want to."
*
He wasn't sure exactly when it became a game, only he supposed that's just how it was with Potter. The old competitiveness between the two former rival Seekers sprung back to life, as each of them pulled each other into increasingly ridiculous spots in the Ministry to get off.
Nervous as he was at the prospect of getting caught, Draco couldn't deny the thrill that came with the risk. No wonder Potter had never learned to obey the rules, the feeling of getting away with breaking them was rather addictive.
Or perhaps it was just Potter who was addictive, the way his eyes darkened and fixed on him, the throaty gasps he made when he was getting close, the way he clutched at Draco for a bit after, as if not wanting to let him go.
There were certain features in some of the many locations they scouted out that were a marked improvement over their previous rendezvous in the broom closet.
Having Potter climb atop him on the large table in the Hit Wizards' Conference Room was hard to beat, though the sofa in the old break room for the Department of Intoxicated Substances was certainly a contender, with Potter pulling Draco into his lap and the two grinding against each other like randy teenagers.
The Obliviator Headquarters, which they had snuck into while the staff was away on a call, was carpeted, so Draco sank to his knees and took Potter into his mouth for the first time, and the stunned look on Potter's face as well as the way he'd croaked Draco's name in warning made it worth the close call, as the Obliviators returned just as they were bolting out the door.
Potter very nearly whisked them off to Argentina during their romp in the Portkey Office, as he'd jerked so violently into the cabinet that its door swung open and several Portkeys came spilling out. Potter, idiot that he was, bent to pick them up before Draco slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch them, you git," he said, carefully levitating each Portkey back into the cabinet.
"You weren't calling me a git a minute ago," said Potter, that stupid grin appearing back on his face. He got that way after they were done, all giddy and pleased with himself. Draco would've found it irritating if he wasn't hopelessly endeared by it.
"You had your hand on my dick a minute ago," responded Draco.
Potter laughed breathily.
"This was a good one," he said, looking at the office around them. "You get a point."
Draco raised his eyebrows.
"We're doing points now?"
"Gotta keep score somehow," shrugged Potter, and before Draco could argue that they shouldn't be competing over something so ridiculous, he pressed his lips to the skin behind Draco's ear, effectively shutting him up.
Frankly, it was amazing they hadn't gotten caught yet, and somehow Draco was certain Potter was responsible. He had to have some sort of tricky magic up his sleeve, because even the strongest Notice-Me-Not would not have been so effective. If Potter hadn't so cleverly turned it into a competition, Draco knew he would've put a stop to it and returned them to their trusty broom closet, boring rule-following bloke that he was these days.
But he couldn't do that now. He would lose. He couldn't lose to Potter, not again, not at this. He was a point ahead thanks to the Portkey Office, but then Potter had dragged him off to the Official Gobstones Club and pushed him up against a bookshelf and that had been startlingly enjoyable. So Draco found an out-of-order bathroom and sucked Potter off in one of the stalls, with the door wide open and the mirror telling them off in a shocked tone.
He wasn't sure what exactly the standards were to earn them points, only that Potter seemed to always be pulling ahead. It didn't really seem fair; Potter knew the Ministry better, and he could get past any receptionist with little more than a smile. Draco was stuck actually doing work, while Potter was sitting at his cubicle with nothing better to do than come up with insane locations to yank Draco into once time came for his break.
To Draco's increasing frustration, it seemed as though there was no way for him to pull ahead of Potter. There simply wasn't time. With his shifts at Eeylops', there was little time once he got home to do more than eat, shower, and sleep. The romps with Potter, enjoyable as they were, were just another thing taking Draco's energy, and he really was running out of ideas.
Until, that is, in late May, he got a letter from his solicitor.
He knew he had to wait for the exact right moment to pull his trump card.
Potter had brought them somewhere particularly risky - the stairwell between the 9th and 10th levels of the Ministry, between the Department of Mysteries and the courtrooms on level 10. Potter had muttered something about "replacing bad memories," but before Draco could question him any further, he was pushing him up against the wall, grabbing at his robes and pressing his lips against Draco's jaw.
Potter was always so much, his hands everywhere, his lips hot and urgent, it felt like all of Draco's senses went into overdrive. He let himself get swept up in it, sinking a hand into Potter's divinely disastrous hair and tugging him up so their lips could meet. It was as good as it always was, and the stairwell had surprisingly good acoustics, each of Potter's heavy breaths and Draco's stuttered gasps reverberating off the walls.
Potter came with a breathy exhalation of Draco's name, which was enough to send Draco off the edge as well. They panted against each other in the aftermath, Potter still clutching at his robes. Draco liked that, the way Potter hung on to him for a bit right after, like he didn't want to let go.
Once they had caught their breath, Potter lifted his head and grinned at Draco.
"So," he said, with a cocky look on his face. "I think that was worth a couple points, don't you?"
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn't keep a smile off his face.
"Two at most," he said.
"Still puts me four ahead of you," said Potter.
"Ah," said Draco, relishing the moment. "I think I've got something worth at least five points."
Potter raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Mhm," Draco nodded, reaching out to straighten Potter's robes. "I was thinking, a bed for once. King size, satin sheets, augurey feather pillows."
Potter snorted.
"Yeah, a whole bunch of those in the Ministry," he said.
"I was referring to the one in my bedroom, actually. Tonight, if you're not otherwise engaged."
Potter frowned at him, seemingly only now realising he was being serious.
"I thought you worked nights," he said, somewhat accusingly.
"I did," said Draco. "I quit last night."
"What? Why?" Potter asked. Honestly, Potter and his inane questions. He was lucky he was so damn attractive.
"I turn twenty-one next week," Draco explained. "They can no longer keep the vaults from me. My solicitor wrote to me to inform me that they will officially be in my name and my control on the fifth. So, no more night job."
"What about this job?" Potter asked, brows furrowed.
Draco laughed.
"Why do you ask? Would you miss me?"
Potter scowled at him, half-heartedly.
"Don't be a prat," he said, but his face gave him away.
"So is that a no to the bed?" Draco asked, expectantly. "Because here I was thinking we'd actually have the time for you to fuck me properly, but if you're not interested--"
Potter seemed to choke for a moment before he surged forward to kiss Draco, effectively shutting him up. Draco reveled in the warmth of his lips, the soft pressure against his own.
"It's a yes, you twat," said Potter, after pulling away.
"Excellent," said Draco. "I'll surely be in the lead after tonight."
Potter laughed.
"Why is everything a competition with you?" he asked.
Draco gaped at him.