Just stress relief after long missions, a tangle of limbs and gasps in dark corners, and then back to professionalism in the field.
That was the deal.
But somewhere between bruised ribs and whispered spells, Harry had fallen in love.
And he hadn’t meant to. Not with him. Not like this.
Now every glance, every brush of fingers, every night spent in silence afterward left him aching.
And Harry didn’t know what it was to Draco.
⸻
They were partnered as Aurors.
Sleeping together was strictly against protocol.
But nothing about them had ever followed the rules.
Still, Harry couldn’t help wondering if that was all they were to Draco — a risk, a thrill, an indulgence.
He never said anything. Never asked.
Because he didn’t want to hear the answer.
⸻
Harry Apparated into Draco’s flat just past midnight, landing quietly in the bedroom — something they’d both done dozens of times. The room was dim, empty, still warm from the fire.
He was about to call out when he heard voices from the living room.
“…don’t understand why you stay,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice from the living room fire. “There are far better ways to use your talents. We have connections in Prague, estates ready. You’d have respect.”
Harry stilled, staying just out of sight behind the doorframe.
Draco’s voice followed, sharp and clipped. “You think this is about respect?”
“I think it’s beneath you. Playing sidekick to Harry Potter.”
Harry’s stomach twisted.
Draco’s reply came slower. Measured. Tired.
“I won’t leave. I can’t.”
Lucius scoffed. “You’re choosing him over your future?”
There was a pause. Then:
“I’m choosing not to live without the part of me that feels like home… and that part is him.”
Harry stopped breathing.
The fire dimmed. Footsteps moved across the flat and away from the hearth.
Draco didn’t see him.
Harry remained frozen in place. Reeling.
——-
I didn’t want to include these tags due to spoilers, so I’ll just add it here at the end:
“So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him” | Drarry | 682w
⸻
“Harry, are you even listening to me?”
“Er—sorry, what?” Harry dragged his gaze from Malfoy back to the witch across from him.
Clara frowned. “You weren’t listening. You weren’t even looking at me.”
Her eyes flicked across the Leaky Cauldron. “Who’s he? Your ex?”
Harry blinked. “What? No! I’m not— I wouldn’t—”
She raised a brow. “Then why do you keep glancing at him when you’ve got me in front of you?”
Harry grimaced, lowering his voice. “Don’t say that so loudly. He’s got ears like a hawk. Could you not stare at him, please?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“Why would I be jealous? I don’t give a toss about him.”
“I meant jealous over me, Harry, not him.”
He flushed, rubbing his neck. “I just—” Harry stared into his Butterbeer. “I want something. A reaction. But with that perfect bloody mask of his, I can’t even tell if he notices.”
“You’re using me.”
“What? No!” Harry said. “I like you! You’re gorgeous. I just… maybe I want him to see I’m here. With you.”
“So you do want to make him jealous.”
“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “But a few days ago, he told me I wasn’t his type, and—Merlin, it’s insulting.”
She laughed. “So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him?”
“I’m not sulking. And he’s wrong.”
“If you want his attention, kiss me.”
Harry blinked. “Right here?”
She looked around the pub. “Why not?”
Harry glanced at Malfoy, deep in conversation with another wizard. No sign he’d noticed.
“All right,” he said, sliding closer. He kissed her—soft lips, her hand curling in his hair. She kissed like she knew exactly what she was doing. Fingers slipped under his shirt, tracing muscle, and then—
“So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him” | Drarry | 1,089w
⸻
“Harry, are you even listening to me?”
“Er—sorry, what?” Harry dragged his gaze from Draco Malfoy back to the stunning witch sitting across from him.
Clara frowned. “You weren’t listening. You weren’t even looking at me.” She sounded more surprised than upset.
Her eyes slid across the Leaky Cauldron to where Malfoy sat at a corner table. “Who’s he? Your ex?”
Harry’s mouth dropped. “What? No! I’m not— I wouldn’t—”
She raised a perfectly arched brow. “Then why do you keep glancing at him when you’ve got me in front of you?”
Harry grimaced, lowering his voice. “Could you not say that so loudly? He’s got ears like a bloody hawk. And… everyone knows we hate each other.”
That didn’t even begin to explain the way his pulse kept jumping every time Malfoy shifted in his seat.
“Could you not stare at him, please?”
“Why? Are you jealous?” She asked.
“Why would I be jealous? I don’t give a toss about him.”
Her smirk sharpened. “I meant jealous over me, Harry, not him.”
Harry flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”
“Harry,” she said flatly, “we are talking about him.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I know. No idea why.”
“Well, from where I’m sitting, it’s obvious. You keep watching him, like you’re expecting a reaction.”
“I just—” Harry hesitated, staring into his Butterbeer. “I want something from him. A reaction. But with that perfect bloody mask of his, I can’t even tell if he’s paying attention.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re using me.”
“What? No!” Harry said quickly. “I like you! You’re gorgeous. I just… maybe I want him to notice I’m here. With you.”
“So you do want to make him jealous.”
Harry dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, all right? But a few days ago he told me I wasn’t his type, and—Merlin, it’s insulting.”
Her laugh was low and warm. “So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him?”
“I’m not sulking. And he’s wrong.”
“Then prove it. If you want his attention, kiss me. Right here.”
Harry blinked. “Really?”
She glanced around the nearly empty pub. “Why not? We’re in a dark corner. No one’s looking.”
Harry’s eyes flicked to Malfoy, who was deep in conversation with another wizard. No sign he’d noticed a thing.
“All right,” Harry said, sliding closer. He kissed her—warm lips, soft curves, her hand curling in his hair. She kissed like she knew exactly what she was doing. Her fingers slipped under his shirt, tracing muscle, and then—
A throat cleared.
Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy stood a few feet away, arms folded, expression sharp enough to cut glass.
Heat curled in Harry’s stomach. He kissed Clara harder, locking eyes with Malfoy.
“This is a public establishment, Potter,” Malfoy said coolly.
Clara’s lips moved to Harry’s jaw, down his neck.
“Why do you care?” Harry asked, breath hitching.
“Have some respect for others present,” Malfoy said, gaze flicking to Clara’s hand as she toyed with the fastening of Harry’s trousers.
Harry chuckled. “Admit it, Malfoy… you just want to be in my place. …Or hers.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If you don’t stop, I’ll have you thrown out.”
Clara pulled her hand back instantly.
“Happy now?” Harry leaned back in his seat, knees spread, not bothering to refasten.
Harry isn’t exactly surprised when Malfoy slips into the Ministry lift after him and taps his wand to the panel, locking the doors.
Grey eyes fix on him—intent, unreadable—and Harry resists the urge to fidget. Instead, he crosses his arms.
“Something bothering you, Malfoy?”
“You don’t actually mean to pretend ignorance.”
Harry sighs. “Fine. You think we need to talk badly enough to hold up one of the main lifts, then let’s talk. But honestly, I don’t know what else there is to say.”
Malfoy shifts his stance, something almost uncomfortable flickering over his face before it’s gone. Oddly, it makes Harry feel like the ground between them is a little more level.
⸻
Flashback — On Mission, Draco’s POV
They’re supposed to be clearing the last corridor. Harry’s in the lead, wand raised, scanning each doorway with maddening care. Two other Aurors hover a few metres back, checking the rear.
Malfoy’s covering their flank when movement flickers at the edge of his vision—too late. The curse hits him square in the chest, sharp heat exploding through his ribs before sinking deeper, burrowing.
The world tilts. Sound thins. His pulse roars in his ears.
He’s aware, distantly, that he should check the perimeter, that someone might still be behind them—but the thought burns away almost instantly, replaced by something heavier. Hotter. Urgent.
Potter’s just ahead, turning to look at him. Sweat at his temple. Mouth parted.
Malfoy moves before he thinks. Closes the space in two strides.
Harry’s saying something—maybe his name—but Malfoy’s already pressing him back into the wall, pinning his hips in place, one hand braced at his jaw. The curse thrums low and relentless in his blood, drowning out everything else.
He breathes Potter in. The heat, the salt, the faint hitch in his breath.
His fingers curl into Potter’s shirt, dragging him closer. Their mouths are almost touching now. His other hand finds Potter’s hip, thumb digging in, feeling the give of muscle through the fabric.
Potter’s still talking—protesting, maybe—but Malfoy’s too far gone. The only thing in his head is the way Harry feels under his hands, the way his body fits there like it’s been waiting for this.
Somewhere in the haze, the logical part of his mind is gone. What’s left is only the need.
And Harry.
⸻
Back to Lift — Harry’s POV
“Look,” Harry says, taking pity. “I don’t know how it works for you, but with most people… sex complicates things. Once it’s out there, you can’t put it back in the box.”
“I was beginning to wonder if you were angry with me after all.”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that,” Harry says quickly.
“No,” Malfoy concedes with a small nod. “But you do have a mercurial temperament. It was possible you’d changed your mind.” A brief pause, something reluctant in his eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“Merlin, enough with the guilt trip,” Harry mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “You didn’t hurt me. I’m not mad.”
Malfoy’s gaze drops, seemingly without his permission, to Harry’s throat, then lower—where his sleeves hide the faintest traces of what happened.
“Oh, come on,” Harry says, exasperated. “You know me better than that. A few marks aren’t going to make my radar.”
“Nevertheless,” Malfoy says softly, “you can’t tell me you walked away from our encounter unscathed.”
Harry’s frustration bubbles. “I never walk away from anything unscathed. And I’ve had a hell of a lot worse from things much less enjoyable.”
That makes Malfoy still. He studies Harry with sudden, sharp interest.
“Enjoyable,” he repeats. “That’s not what you indicated before.”
Harry curses under his breath. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”
“On the contrary. It matters a great deal. If I’ve been operating under a false premise—”
“Fine,” Harry snaps. “I enjoyed it. Can we move on now?”
Malfoy watches him, too perceptive by half, and Harry wonders if his face is giving away far too much—how he hasn’t stopped thinking about it, about him.
“The Healers were clear,” Malfoy says, his voice even. “No mind control. No hallucinations. Just instinct—amplified. Restraint stripped away.”
Harry’s breath hitches.
“We were on a mission. Other Aurors nearby. And yet,” Malfoy says, voice low, “from the moment it happened, my attention was fixed… on you.”
It takes a beat for the meaning to land, and when it does, Harry’s mouth goes dry. “Oh.”
Malfoy’s mouth curves. “Perhaps we should continue this somewhere more appropriate.”
“Yes,” Harry says instantly. “Your place. Mine. I don’t care—just get this lift moving.”
Malfoy’s wand flicks, the Ministry lift hums back to life, and when his hand brushes Harry’s arm—warm through the fabric—Harry doesn’t move away.
Draco found himself zoning out in interdepartmental meetings. Instead of paying attention, he analysed how Potter sat: legs wide, slightly slouched. To make room for it, obviously. Or to show it off. Though nothing in his face betrayed anything smug or arrogant.
In fact, he seemed to be paying quite rapt attention in all the meetings, apparently unaware of his own crotch, his messy hair, the tarnished quality of his uniform buttons.
Draco sniffed. Still, the implication was clear; the thing needed room to breathe, to stretch out, to—
The above teaser is from the following fic
Hung Like a Horntail by lq_traintracks ~2.3k
Summary: Draco's become a bit obsessed with Harry's sizable package. It's a little distracting. Even more so when it's up your arse. (Or "Harry's Big Dick is messing with Draco's life."
Why I Loved it: Absolutely love this fic — peak Draco energy with all the shameless thirsting and obsessive pining over Harry’s big package, mixed with tension. A hilarious, sexy, and addictive read from start to finish.
They’re in the Auror lounge. Half the department is still there, lounging in chairs, finishing their food and paperwork. Harry’s mid-blunder in their chess game.
Which is when Malfoy says, far too calmly,
“You know, Potter, you get hard when we spar. I’ve noticed.”
Harry chokes on air. “What—”
Malfoy moves his knight. Doesn’t even glance up.
“Your pulse spikes. Your breathing shifts. And then there’s the physical evidence.”
Harry gestures, half-whispering. “You can’t just say things like that!”
“You’re attracted to me,” Malfoy says simply. “It’s obvious. You’ve had a reaction in the locker room. Twice during drills. And now.”
Harry stares. “You’re tracking this?”
“I take notes. It’s not personal.”
“You’re unreal.”
“I think we should have sex,” Malfoy says, like he’s suggesting a training revision.
“What?”
“It would be mutually beneficial. The tension’s distracting you. You’re affecting my focus. We could resolve this cleanly.”
Harry opens his mouth. Closes it.
Malfoy sips his tea.
“I’m free for the next forty minutes.”
There’s a long pause.
Harry stares. Everything’s hot. His ears, his spine — definitely other places.
Malfoy checks his watch.
“You’ve got thirty-eight minutes left to make a decision, Potter.”
Of course he does. Potter is always where he’s least wanted, smirking like he owns the place and looking like he didn’t spend last night pressed against Draco’s mouth saying don’t stop.
Draco’s date—Connor? Colin?—is rambling about craft beer.
Potter leans against the bar, orders something loud, and doesn’t look at Draco.
Draco doesn’t look either.
Until Connor reaches for his waist, and then—Potter’s voice. Calm.
“You’re very handsy for a first date.”
Draco turns, slow. “Excuse me?”
Potter shrugs, all charm and venom. “Didn’t think you liked being touched by strangers.”
Draco’s mouth goes dry.
Connor blinks. “What’s he on about?”
“Nothing,” Draco snaps.
Potter smiles. “Sure.”
Connor’s frowning now. “You two…?”
“No,” Draco lies. Too fast.
Connor stares. “Right.” He stands. “Good luck with… whatever this is.”
Draco doesn’t stop him. Just downs the rest of his drink and turns slowly back to the bar.
Potter’s still there. Smiling now.
Draco glares. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Potter says, and sips his drink like he didn’t just detonate Draco’s evening for sport.
It’s the grey one — soft with age, a little too thin, loose at the neck — and it hangs off Draco like it’s been trying to become his all along.
Harry stands in the kitchen doorway, heart caught in his throat like a teenager’s. Draco doesn’t look up. He’s barefoot, one hand braced on the counter, the other stirring sugar into tea. Slow. Thoughtless.
