With the decision made, Harry met with Griphook again the next morning, delivering his carefully phrased offer to exchange the sword for the Goblin’s aid in infiltrating Gringott’s and breaking into the Lestranges’ vault. He made sure to be purposefully vague about the exact timing of the exchange, and though he worried Hermione’s tight-lipped scowl would betray them, Griphook seemed blinded and deafened by the prospect of the sword returning to Goblin hands.

He fixed Harry with his beady black eyes, and Harry was struck again by the curious sense that Griphook was peeling away layers of Harry’s self, searching for artifice or intrigue. “We have an accord, then? You will return to me the sword of Gryffindor provided I help you infiltrate the Lestrange vault?”

This, Harry could answer without hesitation: “Yes.”

“I believe wizards shake on these sorts of agreements, do they not?” He extended a hand, fingers overlong and nails filed into sharp claw-like points.

Harry hesitated only a moment, praying this wasn’t a magically binding sort of thing, or that clasping hands would reveal the true nature of the agreement, before taking Griphook’s hand in his own, tightening into a firm grip.

Evidently satisfied with whatever he had seen in Harry’s eyes, Griphook gave a grunting nod and released Harry’s hand. “Then we begin immediately—the sooner I have helped you in your quest, the sooner you will help me in mine.”

If Harry had thought breaking into the Ministry had been a difficult task, then breaking into Gringotts, he quickly learned, was a truly testing trial. Twice as many heads planning as before meant twice as many eyes picking out glaring flaws in carefully crafted strategies—and twice as many tempers flaring when bold ideas were inevitably shot down. With Griphook still too weak to be moved and the notion of planning their heist in the middle of Bill and Fleur’s dining room right out, they were forced to keep their work primarily to the attic space where Griphook was recovering, which was kept frustratingly poorly lit, as the goblin preferred. They had to keep a Lumos active at all points or else cast Cat-eye Charms if they wanted to be able to see what was what.

“As I have mentioned before, the Lestrange vault sits at the deepest level of the bank’s catacombs, protected by our strongest security measures—I have only had occasion to visit this particular vault once, being primarily assigned to chaperon the medium-security vaults, but I have escorted other vault owners to the lower levels and am quite familiar with the protections guarding these most ancient of chambers.”

“And what sorts of protections would those be?” Harry had asked.

“Formidable ones,” was all Griphook would say, which was most unhelpful, but Hermione reminded them they wouldn’t have to worry about how to get past any of the protections around the vault if they couldn’t even get through the front doors, so Harry let the issue lie for the time being.

Hours at a time they spent cooped up in the cramped attic, reminding Harry uncomfortably of his early years at the Dursleys’. Bill was still nosing about, trying to see what they were up to, and sometimes he even recruited Fleur to do his dirty work under pretence of asking them what they might like for their next meal, but they all kept resolutely tight-lipped.

It was a slow slog, as they pored over blueprints of the building’s early foundations they had pilfered from Bill’s library and memorised key phrases of Gobbledegook and seemingly trivial minutiae, like which Goblins took a fermented fungal-base tea with their afternoon meals and which preferred good, old-fashioned pond water.

The hours soon stretched into days and then a week, and then two, as three new problems seemed to crop up every time they felt they’d made some headway into resolving one. Between Hermione and Griphook, they were back to planning everything down to the microsecond, and it was equal parts relieving to know they were leaving no stone unturned and dispiriting to find that, a month in, they were little closer to making it beyond the front atrium of the bank than they’d been when they’d first hatched the plan.

Ron was in better spirits these days than he’d been since they’d set out, though, as he’d finally managed to reconnect with his family to some degree. Bill had taught Harry and Ron how to send messages with their Patronuses—to Draco’s sour distaste; he had not appreciated Harry’s stag cantering up to tell him he was a “grade-A wanker”—and Ron had immediately sent his little terrier off to deliver word to his mother and father that they were safe and sound and not to worry. It was too dangerous to send owls that might get waylaid, but Bill and Fleur had a fireplace that they were sure could be matched to Muriel’s with a secure Floo connection. Ron had fairly swooned at the idea. “Bill doesn’t have the first clue how to manage it, exactly, and neither do I, but imagine if we got it working! Blimey but I miss Mum’s cooking!”

And then there was Draco, who had his own way of helping.

He’d been spending enough time in transformation since the attempt to rescue his parents that his arm was all but fully healed, and he’d even taken a few practice flights in the Sanctuary to build up any muscle that had been compromised by Greyback’s curse and ensure he was in fighting form come time to break into Gringotts. Harry was relieved to see that the curse had caused no lasting damage—though Draco finally being back in fit shape brought along a new set of…complications.

For one thing, he was terribly distracting.

Whether he was still wound up from the incident at the Manor or agitated by the upcoming mission, Draco had been in a curiously high-strung mood for going on two weeks now, and he was taking it out on Harry in a distressingly titillating fashion. Guiltily—though not quite enough to put a stop to it—Harry found himself giving in to most every invitation extended or suggestion made for a rendezvous of the carnal sort.

It happened in the evenings, just before bed, and in the late mornings, when Harry stormed out of the attic in aggravation at yet another route of entry closed—and even once (just the once) in the shower, when Draco had snuck into the tent’s tiny bathroom under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak. Harry had been shocked shitless and utterly mortified, trying to cover himself up with the shower curtain. He’d hissed at Draco to get out, as this was so over the line it wasn’t even funny, but Draco had only smoothly disrobed and told Harry to budge up as he slid in alongside him.

“This…this isn’t what the Cloak’s meant to be used for…” he had huffed, undone by the tight heat of Draco’s hand flying over his cock. The soap suds sluicing down his chest under the pelting spray made everything gloriously slick, and Draco had swallowed any sounds he’d been in danger of making with a hungry kiss.

“Protecting the wearer from certain death, which would surely have been visited upon me had Granger or Weasley caught me sneaking in here?” Draco had smiled knowingly as he watched the evidence of their liaison swirl together before sliding down the drain. “As I understand the Hallows, that’s exactly what it’s meant to be used for.”

But despite these flashes of passion and devious flirtation, Draco still wore the pain of not being able to rescue his parents as he’d wanted like a shawl around his shoulders. Harry recognised there was very little he could do about it, as Draco did not respond to sympathetic overtures like most would, but that only made it worse. Still, it was less burdensome—or seemed so—when Draco was involved in planning their Gringotts heist, and it seemed to do him as much good to have a distraction from the troubles of life outside the Fidelius’s protection as it did Harry.

He spent far less time in the Sanctuary on his own and more time with Harry, Hermione, and Ron memorising maps of the vaults and the complicated trackways to reach the oldest and most well-guarded of them, as well as their protections. Draco even had some input of worth, having been to his family’s vault a couple of times over the years in his father’s company and with his own vault in the most well-protected catacombs in which he’d had to make a personal deposit on several occasions.

Griphook’s contributions as an employee, though, far outstripped anything a mere account-holder could offer, and Harry supposed he must have wanted the sword very badly indeed to part with such precious information, which would surely ruin the reputation of as vaunted an institution as Gringotts. As their plan—excruciatingly slowly—came together, he felt excitement begin to pool in his chest, adrenaline firing his veins at the first prospect that they might actually be able to pull this off.

After all, they’d stolen a locket off Umbridge’s fat neck and smuggled a dragon from the bowels of the Department of Mysteries in one fell swoop. This couldn’t possibly be as difficult a job, right?

“And what are you smiling about?” Draco muttered, catching Harry out of the corner of one eye as he pieced through a hand-drawn map of the antechamber to the lowermost level of vaults.

They were alone in the tent for the moment, with Harry laid out on the sofa and Draco sitting at the far end hunched over the coffee table. Hermione was showering in Shell Cottage, as having shared a bathroom with three boys for months on end had her desperate for a respite, and Ron was still trying to work out a secure Floo line with Bill so he could speak with his parents in person for the first time since August.

Harry had been lost in a daydream and not at all paying attention to the copy of Gobbledegook for the Gormless he’d borrowed from Bill’s library under pretence of wanting to know if Griphook was saying rude things about Hermione behind her back.

He shrugged. “Nothing, just…I’m glad you’re here. I’m—I’m glad we rescued you.”

Draco cut him a wry look. “Hm. Well you ought to be. I doubt you could have managed this without me. Honestly—wearing Slytherin’s locket around your own neck? It’s a wonder you don’t crack your skull climbing out of bed.”

“To think we might have missed your witty banter.”

Draco lifted a brow. “You could have had all this for six years if you’d just taken my hand on the train as you should have.”

“Well you’d just insulted my best friend.”

“I still insult your best friend,” Draco reminded pointedly.

“Yeah, but—” Harry shrugged, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “You’re different now,” he tried, even though it didn’t feel entirely right.

Draco stared at him for a long beat with an unreadable expression. “…I’m not, really.”

Harry nodded, sighing. “Then maybe I am. Something’s got to be different, I mean.” It was hard to imagine this ever evolving organically. If the Horcrux business had never come up and Draco had never poured himself into Animagecraft in a desperate bid to save his and his parents’ skins, Seventh Year would surely have come and gone as all six years before. Trouble seemed to follow Harry around like a dog on a lead, but he couldn’t see it ever resulting in him and Draco becoming friends, let alone…well, whatever they were now.

Draco huffed, shaking his head and scrawling something with a well-worn quill on a scrap of parchment clipped to one of the maps. “Well feel free to wrack your feeble mind if you like—but you’ve not wanked all the Pureblood tripe out of me yet.”

“Have I not?” Harry leered. He was pretty sure Draco used such turns of phrase on purpose by this point.

“Not even a little bit,” Draco said, slipping the quill into its stand next to the inkwell. “But I’m confident you’ll manage it if you just put a bit of effort into it.”

Harry pretended to mull this over. “So I should try…harder is what you’re saying?”

Draco slid one leg up onto the couch, easing onto his knees and crawling over Harry with a slinking grace. “Much harder,” he said, voice pitched low. “Really…” He placed a soft, suckling kiss under Harry’s jaw. “Put your back into it.”

And that insinuation was both terrifying and terribly arousing all at once. Harry tried to pull his hips back into the cushions, so Draco wouldn’t see the shameful evidence of Harry’s hair-trigger erection. He realised he was seventeen, but this was ridiculous. He tried to affect a snarky bravado that really didn’t fit him, hoping to distract. “Well I think you’re just not really trying. You don’t want to have all the Pureblood tripe wanked out of you.”

“Mm, you’re right…” Draco breathed, now nibbling on Harry’s earlobe. “I want it sucked out of me.”

Harry jerked back like he’d been bitten, searching Draco’s face with a gobsmacked, wide-eyed stare—and for once, he didn’t see a self-assured egotistical prick with confidence by the barrel staring back. Draco’s cheeks were burnished with a shameful flush, and he had his eyes shunted off to the side so he didn’t have to see Harry’s reaction…and that was arousing in and of itself.

Which was really the whole problem. Harry swallowed, wondering where all his saliva had suddenly gone. “I’ve…I’ve never…”

“And I have?” Draco’s tone was sharp and accusing, which was sort of relieving in its familiarity, though it ruined the mood.

Harry wanted to ask Do you need it? Really, he should have asked it, because…well, that was what this was all about. That was where the boundaries lay. That was how they justified all of this—by separating want from need. If he asked, then it would be clear to the both of them that this was just another extension, another way they could manage their complicated predicament without having to address the uncomfortable and increasingly undeniable truths trying to wriggle their way to the surface of the masks they wore to justify the things they did together.

Except when Harry opened his mouth to ask what he was meant to ask, what came out instead was, “…I could bite it off.”

Draco gave him a lopsided grin. “I trust you.”

Harry let the thrill that phrase gave him shiver down his spine and settle just behind the base of his cock. “That kind of makes me want to bite it off, honestly.”

“A compromise then,” Draco offered, trailing a finger down Harry’s chest to flick the button on his fly. “You don’t bite mine off…and I won’t bite off yours.”

Harry’s throat about closed up—which, he supposed, really wasn’t conducive for what he was (god) about to do, so he tried to work up as much spit as he could manage while Draco shimmied out of his bottoms and settled on the couch, legs splayed inelegantly wide.

Harry balked. “Wha—we’re doing it here?” He glanced back to the tent flaps—and Draco pointed his wand, lacing them tight and double-knotting them to boot.

“I’m already comfortable; if you want this business done in the bedroom, I’m afraid you’ll have to carry me.” He held out his arms expectantly, and Harry rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath as he sank to his knees. He would absolutely have preferred this happen in the bedroom, where there was very little chance of being walked in on, but a tiny part of him worried Draco would entertain second thoughts between the sofa and their doorway, and Harry had already mustered every ounce of courage in his body for this.

Draco leaned back, getting more comfortable, and let his head settle against the cushions, staring down at Harry with a hooded gaze. He seemed to have no shame, his cock hanging there limp between his legs—and damn, he wasn’t even a little excited about this? Harry was a bundle of nerves, but then he was the one about to do the deed; if the tables had been turned right about now, he’d have been absolutely drooling with feverish anticipation. Perhaps he could get this over with quickly and move on to the receiving end of things.

Then again, getting it over with quickly was probably a good idea regardless, considering where they were. He swallowed, then remembered he was going to need that saliva very soon, and grimaced. Where was he meant to even start? Was he supposed to—to place his tongue on the tip? God, when had Draco last showered? What if he smelled? What if his spunk got on Harry’s tongue? What if that was the point? This had been a terrible idea, just awful, and he really had to stop thinking with his cock, because that was the sort of business that wound up with Draco sneaking into the shower stall, and—

“Harry…” Draco sighed, spreading his legs wider and rubbing the heel of his palm over the base of his cock. The tip gave a twitch, bobbing up. “Just touch me…”

Harry bit back a vibrant Fuck and tried not to dwell overlong on why he was suddenly salivating like a rabid dog. Touching he could definitely do; touching they’d done loads of, and he knew how to touch Draco and make him feel good. He’d been a quick study—what he wouldn’t have given for this sort of dedication at Hogwarts—and over the weeks they’d been doing this now, he’d learned where Draco was most sensitive, where to stroke or squeeze when they wanted to get off fast, and where to avoid touching when he wanted to draw it out.

This should…be the same, right? Just with his tongue and lips and the heat of his mouth instead of his fingers and wrist and the tight channel of his fist.

God, he was never going to live this down if he screwed up.

He tentatively took in one hand Draco’s cock, perfectly limp and lolling to the side of his balls—and oh god, that would be Draco’s arsehole hiding somewhere in the dark little divot behind them, wouldn’t it? He put the thought very carefully from his mind, working the shaft with one hand to bring it to attention. Draco had asked him to touch, so touch he would, avoiding having to put his mouth on it for just a bit longer while he settled his nerves.

Evidently he was not as skilled at hiding his concerns about hygiene and propriety and the difference between a want and a need as he imagined, for Draco snorted softly, staring down at him with a languid indolence. “Scared, Potter?”

Harry scoffed reflexively—he wasn’t scared; there was a difference between unfounded terror and a healthy wariness, and wasn’t Draco all the time telling him he needed to be more self-serving and sceptical? He only didn’t want to muck this up, as his pride couldn’t take it. Surely Draco could understand that, though perhaps he had some manner of experience under his belt—pun unintended—and was therefore unconcerned about his own performance.

The goading helped, though, spearing Harry with a bolt of confidence as he gave a sharp twist of his wrist followed by a gentle, sliding squeeze, swiping a thumb over the tip and thoroughly enjoying the way Draco’s hips jolted. “You wish,” Harry said, and because he now had to prove this (and also because if he didn’t do it now, he might not be able to muster the courage to do it ever), he darted his tongue out to take a tentative lick of the crown beginning to peek out from its hood.

“Oh—shit…” Draco hissed, pounding the sofa cushions with his fist and wriggling in a fashion that nearly slapped Harry across the face with his cock. “Oh shit.”

Harry leaned back. “Hm. It’s not ‘great galloping gorgons’, but I suppose I’ll take it…” He rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and pondered the taste. It had tasted like…well, skin. As if he’d licked Draco’s finger or stomach. Nothing of note—which was good. As long as it didn’t taste gross, he could do this. He would just resolutely not think about the fact that this was someone’s cock, that it spent the better part of the day shoved inside a pair of pants and was occasionally dragged out for requisite bodily functions.

“If you’ve got time to make stupid comments, you’ve got time to suck my cock,” Draco groused, lifting his hips. He jerked his chin. “Go on, then. The sooner I get off, the sooner you do.”

It was, Harry supposed, encouragement enough, and this wasn’t about Harry enjoying the experience so much as Draco—as it would be vice versa once the deed had been done. He could Scourgify his mouth afterwards if he was so worried, and certainly Draco’s slick couldn’t taste worse than Polyjuice Potion or SkeleGro.

Besides, he’d quite liked the sounds Draco had made when all Harry had done was lick the tip—it would be an adventure of its own to see what happened when he sucked him off in earnest. With his will steeled, Harry wrapped the fingers of one hand about the base to hold the shaft steady and used the other to gently guide the tip to his lips.

He opened his mouth and breathed a warm column of air over the crown before pressing a soft, sucking kiss to it. He held his lips firmly pursed just at the tip, then pressed forward a tick, parting them to take in the still-hooded crown and then drawing back again. Forward again he pressed, deeper this time, and back, repeating the gesture until he’d managed to fully coax the tip out as blood flooded the shaft and crown, plumping Draco’s cock handsomely.

“Oh—that’s lovely, that is. Mind your teeth…” Draco reminded, voice gone husky and stilted. He had his head tilted back against the cushions, and his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips. “But not too fast or deep—you’ll choke yourself; that’s not my bag.”

Harry silently filed all of his comments away for unpacking later and focused on the task quite literally at hand, determined now more than ever not to embarrass himself. He supposed he must be doing a passable job so far, since he doubted Draco would hesitate to let him know as soon as he’d bungled anything. He wondered how many times Draco had received such attentions, since he certainly seemed to know how to coach someone.

The thought of Draco with the head of some nameless, faceless someone between his legs, panting and keening in utter abandon did predictable things to Harry’s own cock but triggered an annoying little flare of irritation at the back of his mind.

It must have shown in his technique, for Draco whined huffily, “Pick up the pace, Potter; you don’t get extra points for thoroughness.”

No, Harry decided. Draco was just terribly persnickety, was all. It was entirely possible he just wanted to make sure Harry didn’t make a hash of sucking his cock (a very real risk, admittedly).

He tried to distract himself from unhelpful thoughts, focusing less on the fine points of where to apply suction and how hard and more on reducing his attentions down to Draco and his reactions. Why worry about whether or not he was doing something right when Draco would be the first to let him know, one way or the other?

He tugged Draco’s cock down and licked a long stripe along the topside, up to the base where short, curly hairs tickled his nose. Draco smelled…funny. Not like anything in particular, at least—not bad. More musk and must than woodsmoke now. Maybe it was just what made him him, concentrated around his nethers and heightened by arousal. Harry wondered what he smelled like—and how inappropriate it would be to ask. He didn’t like the idea of Draco having to pinch his nose before diving in and resolved, silently, to wash very thoroughly all over henceforth—just in case such an opportunity presented itself again.

Draco tasted much the same as he smelled—but Harry chalked it up to the salt from the sweat on his skin and probably the beginnings of his slick seeping out in little bubbling dribbles from his slit. He drew back and swiped his tongue over the tip, just to see. He tasted salty and bitter—and while that sounded disgusting, it was by no means unpalatable. Harry could power through this—especially as Draco seemed to be in quite a fit state, even though Harry hadn’t done much more than tongue his tip and sniff his bollocks.

Draco had slid down almost flat on the cushions, back arched but hips quivering as he tried to keep from thrusting into Harry’s mouth—whether out of embarrassment or good manners. The idea sounded frankly hot, but Harry was grateful for the restraint, still thinking about the warning not to go too deep lest he choke himself.

Still, he tried to swallow as much as he could, determined to move beyond just idly suckling at the tip because he was certain Draco would only give as good as he’d gotten once their roles were reversed, and he wanted to know what it felt like to have the whole of his cock sucked. He took Draco’s length slowly, despite the protests of his jaw, and managed what he was sure must be at least half (he hoped) before the tip brushed against the back of his throat and he felt the surge of his gag reflex.

He drew back immediately, to Draco’s audible disappointment, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d definitely need to work on that, though he wasn’t sure how one went about doing away with their gag reflex.

As he couldn’t possibly fit the whole thing in his mouth at once, he resorted to using his tongue and lips and breath to other ends, angling Draco’s cock up and licking a stripe from the little divot where his balls attached to the underside of the shaft up to the tip, swirling his tongue at the slit—now leaking copiously—and pressing a long sucking kiss just under the flare of the crown. Draco jerked, legs coming up to bracket Harry’s shoulders, and he released a juddering, keening moan that went straight to Harry’s own neglected cock.

Draco’s breathing came in soft, rapid pants, and he groped blindly for purchase on the faded cushions. With his arm all healed up now, Harry could see there was a fine white scar slashed right through the dull, lifeless Dark Mark. The metaphor was not lost on Harry, and he smiled in what he was sure was a very unbecoming way as he breathed warm, wet air over Draco’s bollocks, drawn up tight just at the base of his cock.

The pressure in Harry’s trousers was starting to border on painful, and he shifted on his knees—which would not be thanking him in the morning—for some relief, but to no avail. As he mouthed Draco’s cock, his hips swivelled in parody of a thrust, but there was nothing to rub against, nothing to rub himself off on. Frustrated, he used one hand to press down on his fly. It was better than nothing, though not very satisfying—until there was a nudge at his shoulder.

He glanced up, and Draco had one foot propped up against his shoulder, frowning down superiorly, all flushed cheeks and blown pupils. “Stop that,” he said, his lips swollen and nearly stumbling over the words. Harry started to protest, but Draco only gave another rough shove. “That’s mine, for me. Don’t touch it.”

Harry grimaced, not entirely sure he had it in him to oblige, but he slowly took his hand away, bringing it up to grip Draco’s thigh. It was worse, now, for having indulged a little, and Harry wanted to whimper. He didn’t think he’d ever been so hard, not hard to the point of pain.

Draco tapped him with his foot. “Come on. It’s not going to finish sucking itself.”

“Surely there’s a Charm for that…” Harry muttered, but returned to his task. Like Draco had said: the sooner he got Draco off, the sooner Draco would get him off, and he rejoined his efforts with vigour.

He put his hands to work, stroking the shaft just how he’d learned Draco liked and stimulating the tip with his tongue and lips, bobbing as deep as he could take Draco before drawing back off. He hollowed his cheeks, hoping the pressure suited, and used the rough blade of his tongue for a bit of texture, and Draco about had a fit.

“Fuck…fuck, Harry…” He was babbling now, mostly strings of curses intermingled with Harry’s name, and glorious a song though it was, Harry belatedly wondered if he shouldn’t have at least cast Muffliato. The laces to the tent flaps had been spelled tight, but they wouldn’t stop Draco’s yips and yowls from reaching the ears of anyone wandering by.

Draco was leaking like a faucet now, his bitter slick mixing with Harry’s saliva, and Harry’s cock felt like it was about to pop his fly. He could feel in Draco’s heat and tension and flavour that he was only just outside of his climax, and Harry poured everything he had into pushing him that last little bit, until he toppled over the edge. He laved the flat of his tongue over the length of the shaft, suckling at the great vein and tweaking Draco’s tight, drawn bollocks with his fingers.

Draco was writhing like a snake, lip drawn between his teeth because he’d gotten quite loud, and a desperate, keening grunt was the only warning Harry had before a violent shudder rippled through Draco’s body and out the tip of his cock, coating Harry’s tongue and the back of his throat in a warm, viscous liquid that was only half as vile as Xenophilius’s Gurdyroot infusion.

Harry swallowed reflexively, then immediately coughed it back up, hacking to spit it out. He scrambled backwards, grabbing for his wand, and fired a raspy Aguamenti into his mouth.

Draco, the absolute bastard, was collapsed boneless on the sofa and laughing at him—because of course he was. He was still half-hard, cock tipped awkwardly to the side and deflating, and he looked utterly ravished, his pale abdomen splotched all over with pink and strands of white-bond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

He quirked a grin at Harry, raking him with an approving look. “That’s a good look on you, Potter.” Harry frantically wiped at his mouth, spitting, and then Vanished the evidence. “Rude,” Draco sniffed.

“Well I rather think it’s rude to—do that without asking permission.”

“I assumed permission when you put your mouth on my cock.”

Harry glared at him. “Then I’ll assume the same.”

Draco shrugged, clearly uncowed by the threat. “I’ll try anything once.”

There was a beat of silence, and Harry swallowed thickly—before remembering he probably wouldn’t want to swallow for a while without washing his mouth out properly and casting a Scourgify or ten. “Was it…” He cleared his throat. “…Was it okay?”

Draco snorted. “Are you really asking if getting my cock sucked was okay? The only way it would have been not okay is if you actually did bite it off.”

Harry made a face. “A passing grade isn’t exactly high praise.”

“Looking for critique? I’ll draft an essay—ten inches good enough?”

“Come on.” Harry waggled his brows. “It can’t have been more than three, four at the most.” Draco took another swipe at him with his foot—which Harry caught easily and held in place. “…My turn now?”

Draco’s smile was far too superior for Harry’s liking. “Someone’s overeager.”

Harry rolled his eyes; at this point, he really didn’t care how hard-up he seemed. “Someone really needs to get off. Really.”

Draco ran his eyes over Harry in bald, naked appraisal. “Mm, that can be arranged…” He held his hands out, and Harry tugged him up, quickly switching their positions and flopping down onto the sofa. He had his trousers down and cock out in record time, keeping a firm grip about the base, as even just wriggling out of his pants was enough to set him off at this point.

Draco cast a Cushioning Charm—smart!—and slid down to his knees with far too much grace for what he was about to do, brows lifted. “Well, I can see this won’t take long.”

Harry groaned. “You’re going first next time. That was miserable.”

Draco probably meant his grin to be flirtatious, but it was edging too close to endearing to be taken all that seriously. “Next time?”

A shrug. “Seems only fair; I won’t get to enjoy it like this.” He wanted to be worked up from a cold start, taken through all the stages and then brought off when he just couldn’t stand it anymore. All Draco would really have to do at this point was just look at him funny, and Harry would probably pop.

“I take that as a challenge,” Draco said, and without further ado, he pursed his lips and sank achingly slowly down Harry’s shaft. He clearly had none of Harry’s hangups, and Harry nearly burst then and there, only staving off his release with a tight grip on himself. It was warm and wet and slick, like that time in the shower but so much better because this…this was human heat, and he could look down and see Draco, flushed cheeks and hooded gaze and pink lips stretched tight about Harry, utterly engrossed in his task.

Harry could still see, in his mind’s eye, Malfoy—the bony, skeletal figure they had rescued from deep within the Department of Mysteries, desperate and confused and so, so angry. He’d been all sharp edges and cutting angles back then, but this was Draco here on his knees for Harry now. Too witty for his own good, driven and focused and somehow still so desperate and yet…

He reached out and brushed Draco’s fringe from his eyes, something curling in his gut when Draco flicked a glance up to him, lips parted around the crown of Harry’s cock. He drew back and gave a teasing flick of his tongue before pressing a soft, chaste kiss to the tip.

God, he wanted Draco.

There was no need for him—never had been, not for this. Harry wanted Draco with a bone-deep ache, wanted him like he knew he shouldn’t want him. He wanted Draco angry and defeated and haughty and excited, and that might have all been fine—might have—except that Draco wasn’t his to want, because Harry was a need for him.

Maybe if this had been real…

Maybe if Draco hadn’t been such a little prick in First Year, or if he’d apologised.

Maybe if they’d kissed after Harry had rescued him in the second task of the Triwizard Tournament, instead of in the Sanctuary.

Maybe if Draco had touched him when he was angry and broken over losing Sirius, instead of when he was high on a homemade virility serum.

Maybe if they’d snuck away to do this in the Room of Requirement after a late study session before N.E.W.T.s, instead of a stone’s throw from Bill and Fleur’s doorstep under protection of a Fidelius.

Maybe if Harry hadn’t been Draco’s mate but just a mate, a friend, who became something more because that was just what developed naturally over months, over years.

Maybe then…it would’ve been okay for him to feel like this, to look down and feel a rush of more than arousal as Draco’s pink tongue darted out to stab at the leaking tip of Harry’s cock.

Maybe then it would’ve been okay to want to do this more, to imagine…that Draco was having a similar crisis of conscience.

But that wasn’t how it was.

That wasn’t their reality, and short of stealing a Time-Turner and screwing up the timeline a second time, he couldn’t go back and change anything. It was New Year’s all over again—that intaken breath between one moment and the next, and he knew he couldn’t stay here with Draco forever, because he wasn’t really meant to be here in the first place, but there were still fireworks going off, so he figured he might as well enjoy them while they lasted.

“Shit—shit, Draco…” Harry panted, pounding the sofa cushion. “‘M gonna…gonna…” He tried to warn Draco off, but he either didn’t understand or was outright ignoring Harry, sucking hard enough that his cheeks hollowed, deep divots forming as he forcibly drew out Harry’s climax, and it was too much. Harry’s hips lifted off the couch in a sharp jerk, and he emptied himself.

Draco, being the poncy wanker that he was, didn’t spill a drop, though he did grimace. Clearly Harry didn’t taste much better than Draco had.

Aguamenti?” he offered, raising his wand weakly, but Draco only waved him off, swallowing thickly and clearing his throat as he pounded his chest a few times with his fist. He looked somehow even better than before, still flushed and rumpled from his own cock-sucking but with his jaw hanging slightly open and lips glistening with the little bit of Harry’s release he hadn’t managed to swallow.

Slowly, he managed to crawl up onto the couch beside Harry, flopping inelegantly half in Harry’s lap, one leg still hanging off the side.

Harry couldn’t imagine it was very smart for them to still be sitting here now, with their everything hanging out—especially when Hermione was probably finished with her shower and Ron would be coming around to summon them for dinner at any moment.

But Voldemort himself would have failed to roust Harry from this very spot, and he wondered if he might need to ask Fleur for a dose of SkeleGro, because it felt like Draco had sucked all of his bones out through his cock.

Draco shifted, angling his head around to look up at Harry, brows raised hopefully. “So, was it okay?”

Harry released a satisfied groan. “Exceeds Expectation.”

Draco forced a frown, feigning disappointment. “Damn. There goes my shot at being a rentboy; all the best houses require an O in N.E.W.T.-level fellatio.”

Harry’s grin was loopy, he knew, but he didn’t really care. “Even if you get a personal recommendation from the Chosen One?”

Draco tapped his chin. “Hm, now there’s a thought… Or I could just resit the exam.”

“Oh, I think you must, really. Wouldn’t want people thinking you slept your way to the top.”

Draco buried his face in Harry’s bicep, failing to stifle some rather inelegant snorts of laughter, which only made Harry laugh too. “Merlin,” Draco breathed. “We’re probably neither one of us going to live to see eighteen, and we’re having a laughing fit on a sofa that smells like cat piss with our cocks flying free…”

“Come on, it smells a little like spunk now too,” Harry protested, and Draco made a face. They really did make a strange pair—not just now, but period.

Harry didn’t like to dwell on what-might-have-beens, but it was difficult not to, sometimes, when Draco was involved. Where might he and Ron and Hermione have been if they hadn’t rescued Draco from the Ministry? Or if Harry hadn’t tried to kiss Draco out of some misplaced belief that was the next ‘step’ in the dragon’s need for reassurance? Or if Greyback’s curse hadn’t connected and there’d never been any sex-potion shenanigans?

How much of what had happened was because Draco needed it…and how much was because Harry had guiltily wanted it?

This was, he supposed, why he didn’t like to dwell on those hypotheticals, and he reached out to thread his fingers through Draco’s, trying not to think overlong about why Draco allowed these sorts of meaningless gestures, especially when the dragon ought to already have been purring in its cage.

“…We really should make ourselves presentable,” Harry reminded at length; Fleur was making a roast something and would be expecting them imminently.

Draco groaned but quickly Vanished any remaining evidence of their activities and eased to his feet, extending a hand to Harry.

Harry took it—and found himself drawn into an embrace, tight and strong and warm, and he wasn’t sure he could break free even if he wanted to.

When Draco spoke again, after a long beat of heavy silence, his voice was raspy, and Harry doubted it was entirely a product of what they’d just done. “…I’m glad I’m here too.”


Men Who Love Dragons Too Much Copyright © 2018 by fencer_x. All Rights Reserved.

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