An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A Different Kind of Meaning
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Narcissa Black Malfoy & Harry Potter
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Narcissa Black Malfoy, Kreacher (Harry Potter)
Additional Tags: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Auror Harry Potter, Ex-Auror Harry Potter, Lawyer Draco Malfoy, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Malfoy Manor, Magical Homes, a love poem to home renovation, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Blow Jobs, Getting Back Together, Frottage, Mutual Masturbation, Handyman Harry Potter, minor original character death, POV Harry Potter, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fanart
The ceiling doesn’t hold any answers, but there are cobwebs scattered across the corners with shadows tangled in their threads. The rug against his back is rough and scratchy, threadbare and devoid of colours other than various shades of brown. Harry takes it all in, absorbs the dingy and depressed state of his home. There’s a pointed moment of decision, a note about to be played, a silence about to end, and then he rolls to his feet and sets to cleaning.
It’s the first constructive thing he’s done in years.
He’s burning up. The hands slinking their way under the hem of his jumper are thin and long, their touch tender but with a bite. Nails drag over his muscled back, and he arches into the painful caress.
Sharp teeth bite at the cords of his neck, and Harry gasps. He doesn’t want to think right now, wants to drown in the heat and desire curling low in his gut.
So he pulls Draco closer, lets his body speak because he can’t.
He leans back against the cold stone wall and Draco follows. He breathes against the skin of Harry’s neck, his voice a wicked murmur that leaves Harry shaking.
“What do you want?” Draco’s voice is soft, though his touch is hard.
“Anything,” Harry gasps. “Whatever you want.”
Draco’s voice doesn’t shake when he says, “I want you on your knees.” But when Harry drops to the floor in a boneless rush, even gravity too slow for the speed he desires, Draco’s hands do.
Harry pulls aside Draco’s robes, nestles his face in the space between Draco’s waistband and the bottom of his jumper. The white shirt beneath smells like starch and musk, and Harry presses an open mouthed kiss to the fabric, leaving a wet mark behind.
“Fuck.” Draco’s voice feels distant. “You’re desperate for it, aren’t you?”
He is, but Harry can’t speak, his mouth too full of want. He trails his hands up Draco’s thighs, the fabric of his trousers clinging to Harry’s rough palms so that Draco’s ankles peek out from beneath the cuffs before disappearing when Harry reaches for Draco’s belt instead.
It whispers through the loops, the buckle rattling as it settles near Draco’s hip. Harry presses his nose to Draco’s fly, leaves just enough room for his hands to work the zip down, and breathes in the smell of hunger and cold night air.
There are no words now, just quiet curses from Draco’s panting mouth. Harry uses his hands to say things instead. Gentle, teasing touches to apologize for past hurts. His tongue trailing over skin, a plea for forgiveness. The bite of the floor against his knees is a demand for penance. His mouth and lips and teeth are used to bring forth gasps and murmurs of pleasure instead of sharp rebuke and anger. The acrid tang of Draco on his tongue is liquor, hot and burning as it pours down his throat in slow, even swallows.
It soothes him, these moments of forgetfulness. Here, he’s nothing important. He’s flesh and bone and blood. Draco draws his humanity from him, lets him put his masks away. Harry knows who he is with Draco’s body pressed against—pressed inside—his. When his eyes water from Draco’s fingers tangled too tight in his hair, the back of his throat aching from the pressure of Draco’s cock, he blinks them away.
As he comes, both touched and untouched, he sees stars, even with his eyes closed.
