Archive of Our Own

Draco almost blurts it out the first time Harry pushes him up against the wall of Grimmauld Place. 

He almost…speaks the words onto Harry’s lips. Careless. Let them fall where they may.

But then the tip of the Chosen One’s tongue draws a hot, desperate path along his bottom lip, Harry’s hips jutting into his, and Draco finds himself lost for words.

Harry’s hands grip his waist, holding him to be kissed. Draco touches him back, Harry’s pulse racing under his palms. It had escalated, the way things did with Harry Potter, until Draco felt drunk in the middle of the day. They’d been discussing…something. Important. A potions consultation for one of Harry’s cases. Arguing, perhaps, though he can’t quite remember who had gone in first, only that one of Draco’s cauldrons had been tipped by Harry’s elbow. The potion was saved by Harry’s wandless magic. Then they were here, doing this, and Draco’s blood races as fast as his mind, stirred up by the heat of Harry’s kiss and solid muscle pinning him to the wall.

He can’t think, much less speak. 

Or—as he wonders when they’re haphazard on the sofa, Harry’s weight settled across his hips like gravity—is he simply lost for courage? After all, they haven’t fucked. They’ve only kissed with frantic energy, fully clothed until the breathless end. 

No, no. That isn’t it. Draco may not be the Chosen One, defeater of Dark Lords and savior of the Wizarding World, but he doesn’t suffer from a complete lack of bollocks. 

He’s pragmatic. That’s what he is. He understands, in a way he never did when he was a fifteen-year-old git, that there are limits. He cannot simply have everything he desires. Some things have been rendered impossible.

No matter. He has plenty to reveal to Potter. Keeping one tiny, insignificant kink tucked away and out of sight doesn’t register as a hardship.

It certainly doesn’t burn under his skin like Dark magic.

The way it hums and glows and aches is nothing like Dark magic.

No matter. Harry makes Draco feel like a brimming vault at Gringott’s. His eyes sparkle each time he discovers some small thing about Draco as if Draco had tipped a handful of Galleons into his palms. Or slipped him fistfuls of Resurrection Stones. Or presented Ten Elder Wands with a flourish and a smile.

Harry’s green eyes light up over preferences Draco would regard as crumbs. The way he likes to hold hands, his thumb under Harry’s. The outrageously expensive Firewhisky Draco favors, when he favors Firewhisky, which is not nearly as often as he favors wine. His favorite Potions periodical. Harry treats them like—like jewels, for Merlin’s sake. He treats them as if they are precious.

But not this. Not this secret. 

Draco can see the frown forming in Harry’s forehead. He can feel the limit of what he deserves barreling into his chest like Sectumsempra. It’s too much. Too far.

For three months, he can think of nothing but Harry’s eyes brighter than Lumos when Draco mentions that toast is best cut in triangles and Harry’s laugh filled with delight when he discovers that spot below Draco’s ear and he’s speeding toward those bloody limits like a cursed Firebolt.

Three months and one day in, Harry smiles at him from his round-the-corner seat at pub night, and Draco’s body flushes hot.

“For the love of Circe, Potter, don’t look at me like that unless you’re willing to face the consequences.”

“Oh, God, no.” Harry clutches his chest, spilling spiked Butterbeer in the process. “Please, Malfoy, don’t. Not consequences.”

A drunken Ron rolls his eyes skyward, seeming not to notice that his boyfriend is kissing up his arm from his wrist to his shoulder, slow and sensuous, and has been for a minute at least. 

“Mate. Mate. You can’t flirt like that, makes people sick. Plenty of—” A hiccup interrupts Ron. “Plenty of rooms in London, if you want to shag so badly.”

“Which one have you and Finnegan chosen?” Draco props his chin in his hand and raises his eyebrows at Ron. “I can’t imagine you’ll continue your display in public.”

Seamus sticks out his tongue and licks Ron, his eyes locking on Draco’s at the last moment. “This room’s fine.”

“Might want to double-check with Ronald, Seamus. He has strong opinions on public displays of flirtation.”

Down the table, Hermione giggles at something Pansy’s said, color high in her cheeks. Is Draco that tipsy? Feels a bit like it.

Harry nudges him under the table with his foot. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Want to shag.”

As if Draco hasn’t wanted that on a near-constant basis for three months and one day. “I suppose I haven’t thought about it.”

He says it to make Harry laugh, and it works. Of course he’s thought about it. They’ve come close, many times, but it’s as if neither one wants to take the leap. Harry’s been almost virtuous in their relationship, never pushing too far, too fast.

“I’ve thought about it.” Harry drops his voice. Leans in. “What I’d do in a room with you, I mean.”

“Potter, we’ve spent hours and hours in rooms together.” He rolls his eyes, hoping it hides the heat in his cheeks. They’ve spent hours together. In cafés and restaurants and rooms in Draco’s flat and Grimmauld Place, teasing one another. Getting close and backing off. Harry could change his mind at any moment.

And would change his mind, if he knew what Draco wanted. 

“Haven’t done that. Maybe it’s because I haven’t got the right room for a man like you.”

“A man with manners, you mean.”

Harry’s eyes move down over Draco’s body. He feels that gaze like a touch. “A man who deserves…” He falters, his eyes coming back to Draco’s. “A lot,” Harry finishes. “To have whatever he wants.”

Draco struggles for his next breath. This is far too close to the secret he hasn’t told Harry. How does he do it? How does Harry always know how to get under his skin?

“Oh—” Draco waves this off. “You act as if I’m complicated, Potter. Any room would do, I’d imagine.” 

He’s had too much wine. All of it is concentrated heat in his cheeks.

Harry purses his lips, thoughtful. “So you don’t need rose petals? Candles?”

“Merlin, no.”

“Just a room where I could…” Harry brushes his fingertips over Draco’s knuckles, and Draco feels his magic in the touch. Harry Potter is massively, ridiculously powerful, and Draco finds sitting next to him dizzying enough without the touching. “Push you up against the wall and kiss you senseless?”

“I’d pretend not to like it, of course. People don’t make you work for anything. It’s a disgrace.”

“I’d wear you down.” Harry’s confident enough about that. “And when I had, I’d take you down to the floor…”

Draco wrinkles his nose, and Harry’s eyes go to the movement with a glint in the green. 

“No floor sex, then,” he says, half to himself. “I’d take you to the bed, where I’d nestle you in the pillows—”

“Where I’d fall peacefully asleep.” He’s more likely to have a burst of uncontrolled magic right here at the table. 

“Where I’d lick my way down to your—”

“Potter.”

“—navel, because I’d had enough of your Malfoy haughtiness—”

“My Malfoy haughtiness!” He’s so warm now. It’s Harry and the wine. Merlin, he wants this man. Like he wants food, or air. Like he wants…joy. Harry looks at Draco as if he’s never done anything wrong in his life, as if he’s good, down to his magical core. As if Harry’s forced himself to the front of a long line of people who would do anything to make him happy, and now he’s going to seize the moment.

“And it was time to put my real talents to work on your cock, and you’d have no choice but to—”

“Call you Daddy and be your very good boy.”

Draco says it into one of those sudden silences at the table, a natural lull in the conversation. He feels it happening and is powerless to stop it.

This is worse than Sectumsempra.

Pansy fails at hiding a massive, gleeful grin. Seamus freezes with his tongue half out of his mouth, an inch from Ron’s arm. Ron blinks on a loop like a photograph of himself.

Harry’s eyes are Lumos-bright, and—

And Draco can’t bring himself to look long enough to understand his wide-eyed expression. 

Shock. Disgust. The limit. All three.

Another awful possibility occurs to him: Harry might like this. He might like having this secret in his pocket, and not because he can use it to make Draco happy, but because he can use it to humiliate him.

And that’s not—that’s not what he wants.

It’s humiliating, all on its own, to want to be good when he can’t be. Humiliating to want the simplest, softest version of a kink he has no business having. 

He’s gone too far. There is no recovering.

“Meeting.” Draco stands. Even his knees feel awkward and embarrassed. He doesn’t take meetings in the evenings, but that isn’t anyone’s business. “Late. So rude of me. Next time, then.”

He tosses some Galleons onto the table and leaves.

*****

Draco wasn’t joking.

Harry knows it, because Draco’s jokes are a bloody art form, and that wasn’t it. His voice was sincere, and Harry heard, clear as anything, how he’d reached for humor and landed so far short that he’d abandoned pub night. 

And what is he doing? Sitting here, like a fool.

Like a fool who knows that no one—no one—really wants that from Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Man Who Keeps On Living. They want grand gestures and heroism and—

Harry throws coins onto the table in a mad rush. One of them rolls into Ron’s lap. He snatches up Draco’s coat, also abandoned, and goes. 

“Daddy!” Ron says behind him. “Did you hear that? How much have I had to drink?”

“Can you understand me?” Pansy over-enunciates. “Ronald. We. All. Heard. Now. Close. Your. Mouth.”

Harry doesn’t care about that. He only cares about what he heard, which was Draco admitting a secret he’s been keeping for months.

Circe’s peaches, he’d never have guessed.

He bursts out of the pub and catches a flash of white-blond hair speeding away.

“Draco!”

Harry knows full well that Draco has excellent hearing, but he doesn’t so much as break his stride.

“Draco, stop!”

He hurries after Draco, alcohol fizzing in his veins. The very last of the spring chill clears his head.

Draco’s almost at the apparition point.

Harry breaks into a run.

He’s about to vanish with the familiar crack and pop in Harry’s ears when Harry reaches him. It’s not quite the smooth embrace Harry’s going for. A hug with too much power behind it. He yanks Draco away from the Apparition point and walks him toward the facade of a bookshop. Crowds him against the brick, his hands on Draco’s face.

Draco shoves at Harry’s hands, cheeks bright red, silver eyes panicked. Merlin, Draco’s pretty when he’s a little drunk. “Chasing me down the street and putting wrinkles into my shirt isn’t enough?”

“I brought your coat, too.”

“Just—” Draco pushes at him, but Harry won’t let up. “Unhand me, Potter. Or I shall be forced to call in the Aurors.”

“Already on the scene, Mr. Malfoy. Would you like to report a crime?”

“Yes. My dignity has been brutally annihilated. I’d quite like to go home and put a permanent end to my shame.”

“Your dignity?” Harry leans in. Facts are facts. He is a bit drunk, the world vivid with possibility, and he very badly wants to kiss Draco. More. Again. “Honesty’s shameful now, is it?”

Draco looks away, his hands coming to rest on Harry’s wrists. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t pretend.”

“Pretend what, Malfoy? Spell it out for me.”

Draco’s eyes snap back to his, and there it is—the old, defensive anger that had made him such a prat in school. “Don’t pretend you liked it. Don’t pretend it’s not ridiculous. I saw your face.”

“You meant it!”

“Yes, well, I have an appointment—”

“With me. So I can push you up against the wall and kiss that mouth until you’re finished being a prat and—”

“I will use an Unforgiveable curse. On. You.” Draco’s voice is tight.

Harry inhales the scent of Draco’s skin, his hands still on Draco’s face. “I’m not pretending anything. Let me give you what you want.”

“I can’t have what I want!”

Draco’s shout echoes off the buildings, freezing Harry to the spot. He shakes off the buzzy alcohol warmth and looks at Draco. Really looks.

He’s embarrassed. Flushed cheeks. Set mouth. And…something else. Hurt?

“You can’t have what you want,” Harry echoes.

“You’re catching on.”

“Because of me? Because you think I can’t—”

Draco tips his head against the brick.

Harry knows that Draco is…having a bit of a struggle. He knows that. But when Draco tips his head back, he can’t resist. Look at the line of Draco’s throat. He can’t resist pressing his lips just there, and there…

“Because you think I can’t do that for you?”

Draco makes a low, frustrated noise. “You and I both know the Boy Who Lived can do anything he puts his mind to.”

“So you think…” He searches Draco’s face and is caught up in the pretty point of his chin. The elegant lines of him. With his head tipped back, Draco’s neck is a revelation. “You think I won’t do it.”

“No.” Draco lifts his head from the wall, and he’s miserable. Harry can’t stand the sad slope of his mouth or the pain clouding the silver of his eyes. “I know you would.”

“Then what is it? Why can’t you have that?”

There is a weighty pause, and then:

“I’m not good.”

The words are so soft that Harry feels them through Draco’s skin more than he hears them. He brushes a kiss to the pulse jumping at the side of Draco’s neck. “Of course you’re good. You’re a very good…”

Draco swallows, and all at once, Harry understands.

He pulls back to look at Draco, who stares resolutely off to the side, not meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“Oh, darling.”

Draco shudders at the nickname. Actually shudders, his body moving against Harry’s hands. It’s just a kink. Hermione would give Harry her most profoundly disappointed look if he said it, because it’s only half-true. It is a kink, and it’s serious, and Draco can’t be playful about it, because…

He runs the pads of his thumbs over Draco’s cheekbones. “Who decides that, anyway?”

“Who—” Draco closes his eyes. “Who decides what?”

“Whether a person is good or not.”

“Society. The Wizengamot. The Ministry. A combination of—”

“Does my opinion earn a spot in the top five, or…?”

Draco sighs. “As the Chosen One—”

“As your Daddy.”

Draco’s eyes fly open. He freezes under Harry’s hands, absolutely beautiful, and this, this, is what Harry has been chasing all these months. The high of knowing what Draco wants. Of speaking it into open air like a spell that only Harry knows. Draco’s hands tighten on his wrists. Harry can feel Draco’s racing pulse right through his palms, unless he’s feeling it through his magic, unless the world is sending that beatbeatbeatbeatbeat directly into his bloodstream. A late-spring breeze stirs between the two of them, like it wants them away from the brick, somewhere private, somewhere alone.

But Draco doesn’t move, and Harry doesn’t either, because there’s something fragile in Draco’s face. Something he can’t hide. 

Hope.

“What?” Draco whispers. 

“I would be your Daddy.” Harry slides a hand around the back of Draco’s neck and pulls him in with a firm grip. “I wouldn’t tease you. Not when you’ve been such a very good boy.”

He’s going to Apparate them home, wandless, with just the force of how much he wants Draco. 

Harry doesn’t get the chance. Draco’s hands loop around his waist, and Harry has just enough time to feel the neat, elegant turn before they’re gone.

*****

They land in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place. It’s Harry’s, and that feels right enough. Harry’s mouth is on his the moment their feet touch the floor. Harry kisses like he casts. He’s all raw power, overwhelming, consuming, and Draco’s ready to drown in it.

Until Harry pulls back, his hands on Draco’s face. “Me.”

Draco’s fists are in his shirt. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter—”

“You want to do this with me.”

What is he on about? “Yes. Yes. Summon a scrap of parchment, and I’ll put it in writing.”

An expression Draco doesn’t recognize flickers across Harry’s face and disappears into eyes gone dark.

“You’ve been so good,” Harry says, voice soft but firm, like Draco never dreamed it could be. He pulls Draco in by the hips and slows, his magic warm and alive in the air around them. “So bloody good. Do you want me to take you to bed?”

“Yes.” It’s a weight off his shoulders. Off his life, really. He’s been good, and so Harry will take him to bed. It’s more than he ever thought he’d have. 

Harry presses a kiss to Draco’s neck, and it must be—he must have done something with magic, because it runs all through his nerves.

“Yes, what?”

Oh—oh Gods.

Draco finds himself clinging to Harry in a rather undignified way. It’s simply—it’s just—just that he didn’t see that question in that voice coming. He hadn’t allowed himself to fantasize about it, not much, and when he had, he’d pictured terse commands, not—

Not Harry’s low voice coaxing him, like Draco is entirely too precious to scold, even once.

Draco’s heart pounds. Circe, is it going to crack his ribs? What an inauspicious beginning to this—this game, that’s all it is. A game. All he has to do is speak. It’s nothing, it’s—

“That’s it, darling. Say it.”

He can’t.

Not for another few moments, because first Draco has to stop himself from coming in his pants.

“Yes, Daddy. Take me to bed.”

Harry curses under his breath and apparates them straight through the floor to his bedroom. Draco has never been so bathed in magic before. Harry’s not even using it to remove his clothes. It’s just Harry’s magic, surrounding him as Harry’s hands move gently over the buttons of his shirt. The buttons slide open under Harry’s fingers. Perhaps he is using magic. Only a little. Only when he can’t help it.

“There.” Harry guides the shirt over his shoulders. Lays it on a nearby chair. As if it’s as important as Draco. “Now…”

Harry kisses the line of Draco’s jaw until his undershirt comes between them.

When it’s gone, folded on the chair, Draco reaches for Harry.

And Harry does not hesitate. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t capture Draco’s wrists, doesn’t scold.

He wraps his arms around Draco and kisses him back, deep and searching. Gods, all his life, all his life, Draco thought that receiving expensive gifts was the height of gratification. All those things were nothing, compared with the way Harry kisses him now. Wholeheartedly. Holding nothing back.

Harry breaks the kiss some time later with what feels like profound reluctance. He whispers apologies to Draco, apologies for not kissing him longer, as he unbuttons Draco’s trousers.

“I’m so sorry,” Harry insists, and this time it’s because more spells sweep over the both of them, vanishing the remainder of Draco’s clothes and all of Harry’s. Then Harry’s arms are back around him. Harry’s cock rubs against his, and Merlin, fuck, he’s going to lose it, and he could plummet back to the sitting room along with the sudden, entirely explicable terror of disappointing Harry Potter—

And then Harry is sliding down the length of his body, hot mouth running over his scars and his navel and his hip until Harry presses a gentle kiss to his leaking slit.

“This—” Draco manages. “This isn’t—”

Harry’s hands go to the backs of his knees. “Isn’t what you want?”

His eyes are so green in the moonlight coming through the window. “I thought it was supposed to hurt a bit.”

He doesn’t mean the sex, necessarily, but he’s concentrating so hard on not coming on Harry’s face that he can’t muster up a more robust explanation.

Harry’s palms are warm on the backs of his knees. “Do you want it to hurt? Do you want me to make you wait?”

Draco shakes his head, ignoring with all of his being the hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. That’s what he should want. Penance and punishment. That’s what he deserves.

Harry leans in and kisses his hip again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It would—it would be only too appropriate.”

“No,” Harry whispers. “Not for my good boy.”

Draco makes a mortifying sound.

“Lovely,” Harry murmurs against his skin. “Now come in Daddy’s mouth.”

Harry’s lips close over his cock, and Draco’s vision blacks out. Harry’s throat is like a vise, Circe’s tits, and the swallowing, he—he can’t think, he can’t live, it’s too much.

His knees buckle and meet Harry’s duvet instead of the floor. Somehow, Harry moved them to the bed. Draco hardly felt it.

Draco turns his head and there’s Harry, grounding him with a kiss.

He’s propped over pillows, every part of him supported, and Harry’s hands are all over his back, his arse, his thighs. One moment Harry’s fingers are soft and dry. The next, they’re slick, and two of them slide over Draco’s hole. He rocks back to meet them. Harry makes a strangled, impatient noise, and then he’s close, his voice in Draco’s ears.

“That’s a good boy. My good boy. Can you take—can you handle—”

“Daddy,” Draco manages. “Yes.”

Then Harry’s working him open, so slow and patient that Draco could cry. This has to be hurting Harry. He must need to come. Desperately. But Harry never, never rushes. He strokes Draco’s back. He pushes in to the first knuckle, then the second, waiting for Draco to adjust. He bends to kiss Draco’s neck for the third finger, shushing him when he whines.

“You’re doing so well.” Harry withdraws his fingers. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. Tell me if you’re ready.”

“Daddy, yes. Yes.”

Harry moves behind him, folding himself over Draco so that he’s all but covered by Harry’s body, and the wide head of him nudges at Draco’s slicked hole.

“Relax,” Harry says, the word a heated breath against Draco’s. “Fuck, Draco, yes. Just like that. You are—such—fuck. You are such. A very good boy. My very good boy.”

“I don’t want to be good for anyone else.” He doesn’t mean to gasp the words, would never willingly sound so desperate. “Please.”

“Please what?”

Harry’s inside of him. Stretching him. He pauses, holding Draco’s hips, and there’s something caught near his heart like a sob, or a prayer, or like magic.

He can’t remember the last time he felt this safe. He’s being loved by Harry’s thick cock and he is absolutely protected, absolutely cherished. 

“Please, Daddy.”

“Yes. You’re mine. Only mine. So good for me. Oh, I can—fuck. Feel that. Feel you.” Harry sinks into him, their skin meeting, and Draco braces himself on the mattress. “I need,” Harry says. “I need.”

Draco rolls his hips back against Harry’s. He needs, too.

And then he is entirely covered by Harry’s heat and the motion of him and the drawn-tight magic in the air. Harry fucks him exactly as hard as he’s always wanted, in smooth, powerful strokes, and Draco didn’t think he could come twice in such a short period of time but Harry’s doing something fantastic to his prostate that makes his vision go white at the edges.

He becomes aware of Harry’s voice again just as he’s about to explode onto the pillows.

“So good. You’re perfect. Good boy. Mine. Good. You’re very—very good—a very good boy, Draco—”

Harry breaks a second before he does, spilling heat into him so deep that Draco could swear it’s helped along by magic. He resurfaces from his release to Harry’s slowing strokes.

“—fucking this into you. I could breed you like this. Make you take me. Then you’d be mine.”

Harry can’t actually breed him, but the idea is enough to drag a moan out of Draco. 

“Already yours.” Draco reaches back, wanting more touch, and Harry bends over him. Draco finds the back of Harry’s neck with his palm and pulls him closer. Harry drops kisses over his skin, the curve of his shoulder, the side of his neck, and Draco threads his fingers through Harry’s hair and holds tight. Insists on having Harry’s sweat-slicked skin against his. He wants Harry inside of him as long as possible. Long enough to breed him. The thought. Merlin. “Yours.”

“Gods.” Harry rolls them onto the sheets, Draco in his arms. Magic hums in the air, all over Draco’s skin, and all at once he’s clean and dry and so are the sheets.

“You haven’t the faintest how hot that is, do you?”

Harry swallows, his fingertips running up and down Draco’s spine. “If all you want is the once…”

Draco presses himself closer. “Once?”

“If you didn’t want—maybe you want more from me.”

“More? Like what, Potter? For you to vanquish another Dark Lord? Save the Wizarding World?”

“Yes.”

Oh, Merlin, he’s serious. 

Draco pushes himself up to look at Harry. The million ways he can think to play this off disappear at the stark vulnerability in Harry’s eyes. Harry lifts a hand and runs his fingers through Draco’s hair. So careful. Still taking care of him.

“I don’t want that.” 

Relief breaks on Harry’s face like Lumos in the dark. “Some people do.”

“Some people are prats.”

“I don’t much care about them,” Harry admits. Another warm shimmer of magic moves through Draco, fluttering, shivering.

“You don’t?” He traces a fingertip over Harry’s scar, down his nose, to his lips.

“No. I care about you.”

“Don’t let that secret get out, Chosen One.”

“I’ll tell you another secret.” Harry’s solemn. “I don’t care if everyone knows.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I moved in, then?”

A beat of silence, and Harry breaks into a grin. “You did it again.”

“Whatever did I do?”

“You barely pretended to joke that time.”

“Should I do another?” Draco adjusts himself in Harry’s grip and clears his throat. “I have only ever wanted to be good for you.”

Harry rolls them over, and Draco cannot come three times in close succession. It’s not possible. 

His cock ignores him. It stirs the moment Harry’s mouth meets his collarbone.

Harry licks up to his jaw. His mouth.

“Daddy,” says Draco.

“Tell me.”

“I’m your very good boy.”

Draco has never felt so good in all his life. 

He’s very, very good until sunrise, and for quite a long time after.