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“This is preposterous !” is what Draco declares to the entirety of the Ministry holding cells, because quite honestly, it really and truly is.
Never in his life, even recently, did he think that he would be arrested in broad daylight. Handcuffs on his wrists and all, right in the middle of Diagon Alley, for everybody and their mother to watch (and sell to the Daily Prophet later on).
He hadn’t even done anything!
“I want to speak to whoever your boss is,” he demands, wandless and vulnerable, peering through the bars that lock down his magic. The man whom he’s speaking to is really more of a boy, the uniform slightly too big, the colour unflattering against his sickly skin. Draco watches him gulp.
“I don’t believe I can do that. I think he’s busy,” the boy says, accent thick with a Northern twang.
“I don’t care if he’s single-handedly dismantling the next Wizarding war, you bring him to me — and quickly.”
The boy takes a step back — and Draco really should have asked for his name before he started to raise his voice, ever the fault of his — and he puts a hand on his wand, sticking out against the maroon robes.
“You watch your tone, Death Eater,” the boy says, and it’s all Draco can do to not roll his eyes.
“Are you going to hex me? Oh, I beg you to just try it. See what happens.”
The boy actually raises his wand, and Draco really didn’t account for that. It’s pointed right at him, but neither of them waiver. The boy’s hand doesn’t even shake. There’ll be sparks soon, judging by the thunderous expression on his face.
“Bring me your superior,” Draco says again. His fingers wrap around the bars between them. “Or I’ll—”
There’s a thud of a door closing from down the corridor, and both of their heads turn at once. All that is announced are anonymous footsteps, hard and confident on the stone floor, getting closer and closer to them.
The boy’s face lights up with arrogance, and Merlin, Draco thinks, it really doesn’t suit him.
The source of the footsteps turns the corner, and Draco’s blood pressure has never been higher in his life.
Black curly hair. Rounded green eyes. Warm tanned skin.
And that fucking scar.
As if Draco hasn’t seen enough of it in his lifetime already.
Potter makes eye contact with him, and, just matching Draco’s annoyance, he seems genuinely and deeply displeased.
“Sir!” The boy’s snark turns to almost childlike glee. He hasn’t dropped his wand. “I caught one!”
Potter sighs. The boy doesn’t appear to notice.
“Morris,” Potter says, holding his tone as steady as it seems he can. He appears to intend to continue speaking, but the boy — Morris — gets there first.
“I was on patrol in Diagon Alley, sir— you know, for the case— and I saw it!”
Potter’s jaw tenses. Draco can tell that he’s trying his best not to cut the boy off, obviously an intern or new employee.
“You saw what, Morris?” he asks. Draco’s grip on the bars tightens.
Morris’ smile is still stuck on his face, as he takes one step forward. He says, “The Dark Mark,” and Draco isn’t quick enough to step away before his arm is being grabbed, and the sleeve of his robe is being torn back.
He feels bile rise in his throat as he falls backwards, desperate to get this boy’s hand off of him, to stop the display of his shame. Especially in front of Potter.
Potter steps forwards with one hand up, and Morris steps away as well. He looks confused now; confused at Potter’s lack of praise.
“Morris,” he asks, “Do you know who this is?”
Morris looks back at him again. He makes direct eye contact, and as his brows furrow, trying to search for anything he should recognise, he frowns.
“No?”
Draco finds the will to scoff at him as he pulls his sleeve firmly back down, and doesn’t know if for once in his life, he should be pleased at Potter’s presence.
“Right,” Potter says, and he’s sighing again, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes. Draco’s gaze flickers from boy to man and back again, and Morris is starting to look increasingly concerned by the second. Potter continues, “Was he doing anything suspicious? Or was it just because of the Mark?”
Morris scratches his head with his wand. Draco refrains from making a comment on how absolutely common that looks, while Morris answers, “Just because of the Mark, sir. But he did have a big bag with him.”
Potter turns to him then, eyes knowing that he’d actually have to address him now, finally, and he asks, “What was in the bag?”
“Turkey,” Draco answers, truthfully , too, because why the fuck would he lie about that? “It’s Christmas Eve, in case you weren’t aware.”
“Trust me, I know.” Potter’s eyes linger on him for a moment longer. He closes them, then, and Draco sees a minuscule shake of his head. “Morris, this is Mr Draco Malfoy,” he says to the boy. “He finished serving his time on house arrest five years ago. It is on the system, if you checked first.”
“Oh,” is all he can say in return, his pale cheeks flushing a bright, blotchy red. “Really?”
Draco speaks up, then, aghast at the lack of professionalism. Honestly. “Yes, really,” he says. “Merlin, how old are you?”
“He’s seventeen. Fresh out of Hogwarts. It’s not his fault,” Potter interjects. His voice sends a chill down Draco’s spine — he can’t even explain why, a feeling he can’t even rationalise in his own mind. He watches Potter address Morris again, voice tired but gentle now, “Why don’t you go home now, Jeremy? It’s getting late. Your parents will want to see you sooner rather than later. I’ll sort this out.”
“Really?” Morris asks, eyes wide and mouth agape. “I’m so sorry, Mr Potter, sir. So sorry for the disturbance.”
Draco, quite frankly, is too affronted at that apology to Potter instead of him, that he can only glare at them both. Still behind bars.
“Off with you,” Potter says to him, clearly allowing the festive spirit to bypass him. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Morris squeaks, and doesn’t look at Draco once as he scuttles to leave.
The door to the corridor shuts in the distance. An echo of the slam reverbs through the room. They’re left with just one another, green eyes on grey, every other holding cell out of use.
Draco is the one to break the silence. “I asked to speak with his superior.”
Potter simply nods.
He continues, “I’m assuming that’s you, then?”
Potter nods once more, taking one step closer to the containment. He looks taller than the last time Draco saw him, shoulders more broad still, and it doesn’t feel like that should be possible for their age. Their old age, is how it feels, even though they’re both just twenty-five.
Merlin, he feels middle-aged.
“Suits you,” he says, because Potter doesn’t appear to be opening his gob at any time soon. “Ordering everyone around all the time. I’m surprised you haven’t claimed the title of Minister yet.”
“I’m not after the Minister’s position,” he says at last, jaw still firm. He just stares at Draco, still.
“Just Head Auror,” Draco hums. “You’re only a step away, aren’t you?”
Potter doesn’t respond. Yet again. He just keeps staring. It’s beginning to get worrying.
Draco grips the bars again, gaze hardening as he peers back. “Do you have a problem, Potter? Is there something on my face?”
“No,” he replies, and he doesn’t seem to be under the impression that this is at all out of the blue.
“Then will you tell me why I’m still inside this cell? For what — buying a turkey and minding my own business? You should hope that I don’t take this —”
There’s a hand grabbing the front of his robes, and he’s suddenly being tugged forwards against the bars, his face snug in the gap between. He can’t finish his sentence for the breath that is knocked out of him, and his eyes widen with shock at the impending sight before him, and then —
Potter kisses him. Potter actually kisses him.
Harry fucking Potter is kissing him.
He stumbles backwards, and they both share the same wide-eyed, terrified gaze.
“Oh my God,” Potter says.
“What the fuck?” Draco says back.
“Oh my God,” Potter says again.
“What the fuck? ”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Draco blinks once, twice, three times, and tries to keep his legs from giving out beneath him. His breath can’t keep up with him, and nor can his heart rate.
Is he dreaming? He must be. This must be a trick. A cruel, cruel trick.
“You kiss— You kissed me,” he deadpans, unable to form the coherence to make it a question. “Let me out.”
“Malfoy —”
“You have no grounds to keep me in here, so let me out, now.”
Potter falters for a minute, debating inwardly before brandishing his wand and casting the spell to free Draco from his confines. He slams open the door to the cell, storming out, each step like a car crash, and stands opposite the Auror, hand outstretched.
“Give me my wand,” he demands, and to his surprise, Potter actually does. As soon as it’s placed within his hand, he grips it tight and presses the tip of his wand into the skin of Potter’s throat.
He twists it into his flesh, every emotion at once coming to the forefront of his chest, just barely holding back from allowing them to spill through his magic.
“Malfoy,” Potter says, but that is all he does. He doesn’t even take a step back, damn him. “Put down your wand.”
“You kissed me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still not scared, the bastard. “I’m really sorry, Malfoy. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Why on Earth did you kiss me?”
Potter finally releases a deep breath, sparing only the slightest shake of his head. “I don’t know,” he tells him, voice barely above a whisper. “You just looked — nice.”
Draco’s hand drops, just an inch. “Are you confunded, or are you just stupid?”
“Well, neither, I would like to think.”
“Just stupid, then. I should hope you don’t make a habit of kissing unassuming inmates. ”
“No,” Potter says, and his gaze is straying again. “Just you.” He clears his throat, a little awkwardly. “You took me off guard, just… Being there. Not actually having done anything wrong.”
“There’s something wrong with you,” Draco says.
“Yeah,” Potter agrees. “I thought so.”
Draco doesn’t know how to proceed from this. He feels alive, feels like there’s electric thrumming through his body. Through his lips.
He says anything, because the silence is unbearable, and the man just feels so close . “I can’t believe you kissed me, Potter.”
“I actually can, a bit.”
Draco sucks in a sharp breath. He hadn’t even noticed that they’d gotten close enough for their noses to touch.
He gulps, feeling his pulse jump at the realisation of a sudden contact against his leg. “That isn’t your wand, is it?”
Potter’s gaze flickers from eye to eye. “Will you curse me if I say no?”
Draco feels his breath against his lips, warm and enticing, and he must be insane, he must be, because he shakes his head and he looks into Potter’s eyes like he’s ready to beg for something, like he’d get down on his knees for something and he doesn’t even know what . He’s thrumming now, thrumming with whatever is going on between them, wherever the Hell this has come from. Perhaps it’s the Christmas spirit possessing him.
Potter leans forward and kisses him again, and Draco drops his wand out of his hand like some kind of amateur Wizard. A few sparks may shoot out of the end of it but that doesn’t really matter, because Draco doesn’t see them. All he sees is the black of his eyelids as he welcomes Potter’s lips against his own, moving in surprising harmony for those who have never once danced like this before.
It’s easy to forget that they’re technically in a public space when Potter is backing him against the wall like that. Easy to forget that anybody could walk in at any given moment and catch them at this — probably not costing them their jobs but certainly getting them into a lot of trouble — not to mention one Hell of a scandal.
His back hits the wall and now the sensations sparking between them take a tenfold. It’s all-consuming, taking Draco over like a disease, and he bucks forward to hump him like a dog. A voice in the back of his head is ringing with questions; is this really happening? Are they really doing this?
It’s when he reaches down to grasp ahold of Potter’s cock that the other man pulls away. A flood of embarrassment and regret washes over him, and he leans slump against the wall as Potter steps away in a hurry.
“Wait,” he says, and Draco wants to do anything but. He wants to run. Not to wait.
“Potter,” he huffs, and he hates how breathless he sounds. “What are you doing to me?”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Potter tells him, and his head turns upwards. His arms freeze mid-fall, and he releases a low groan of annoyance. “Oh, fuck.”
Draco’s brows furrow at him. “What?”
“The case.”
“Case? Potter, I don’t fucking work for you, unlike everybody else here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The — The fucking mistletoe case. Oh, God. I passed it onto Morris because I thought it was unimportant. An easy one for him to do.”
“Potter, I will punch your lights out if you don’t start making some sense now. ”
He sighs instead of speaking again at first, and Draco thinks that he may actually move to smack him. But he doesn’t have to: Potter speaks, and finally, he starts to make sense.
“Right, well. In the lead up to Christmas, we have, er, been seeing frequent cases of… Well… Magic mistletoe. And…”
Draco follows his gaze as he tips his head back again, looking up, and he sees it: thick bows of mistletoe vines across the wooden ceiling.
Through his gritted teeth, he asks, “And what exactly does it do?”
“As far as we can tell, it’s been making the victims…” He steps closer once again. Draco, with another rush of arousal seeping through him, realises at once what it makes the victims do.
“Oh,” he says in a hush. “Oh. Oh, no.”
“Yeah,” Potter says. “Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
He leans forward, hands sliding up the sides of Potter’s face, tips of his fingers banging against the temples of his glasses and slipping into his hair. He pulls him forward into another kiss, more heated this time, more desperate, and his knees basically buckle beneath him.
“We shouldn’t,” Potter says, but he can barely speak the words into his mouth, the warmth making him more dizzy.
“Who cares,” Draco hums, hitching a leg up to bring Potter even closer, wanting to absorb him into his very skin. “It’s Christmas.”
After a moment, Potter nods, kissing him again and rolling his hips upwards. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s basically a moan now, the movement placing pressure in just the right place. “God, yeah. It’s Christmas. Fuck it.”
Draco’s never quite experienced anything like how Potter kisses, soft lips that move with such elegance, such impressive experience. He doesn’t know if Potter has ever been with a man before, but if he hasn’t, he isn’t showing a single ounce of his nerves. His tongue presses in with an air of attractive cockiness and his leg presses against his crotch.
It’s maddening. It’s intoxicating. It’s doing everything to Draco and he feels like he would no longer need a broom to fly.
He almost thinks it can’t get better.
And then Potter sinks to his knees.
He progresses gently though, at first. He softens the kiss and ignores Draco’s following whines, instead opting to leave wet kisses along his jaw, down his neck. It almost drives him insane.
When he does arrive at the intended destination, he’s pretty sure he does go insane.
He’s almost certain that Potter has done this before. He dips past Draco’s robes and undoes his trousers (and trust him, it is not easy to suddenly switch perspectives on that) before pulling out his cock — wholly out, bare to the world, and oh, Merlin, anyone really could walk in — but that only makes his heart pump faster.
No, Potter does not suck dick like an amateur. He sucks it like a professional, perhaps even rivalling Draco’s own skills, and he can’t quite grasp why he’s so jealous — or what part of that he’s jealous of. He holds Draco’s length like he’s been doing it for years and sucks on the tip of it before taking down the whole length, making Draco’s head drop backwards, slamming against the wall. He doesn’t think to care.
The sounds that are coming from the both of them should very frankly be illegal — from the lewdness of the sucking noises and the loudness of Draco’s pleasure, he’s surprised nobody has yet come running. But definitely not disappointed.
He can feel the back of Potter’s throat and he thinks it’s what people imagine when they talk of paradise. With each dip — up, down, up down — Draco’s fists tense in Potter’s hair, his toes curl in his shoes, and his teeth dig deeper into his bottom lip. This is what ecstasy feels like, he thinks. This is what salvation is.
When he comes down Potter’s throat, it’s with a cry that he’ll feel embarrassed about later, his legs fully giving out beneath him. When Potter lets him slide down to the ground, he does it slowly, gently, and kisses Draco’s neck again when he reaches for Potter in return.
His hands shake but he does a good job of it, judging by the reactions that Potter has — making Draco slightly less ashamed of his own whimpers. Potter spills over his hand before it can get cramped in the weird angle they’ve positioned themselves in, Harry seemingly intent on cuddling him now. Draco, weirdly, doesn’t mind it.
His wand is somewhere a ways away on the floor and he can’t be bothered to crawl over to it just yet, but Harry saves him and vanishes their mess by just waving his hand. Through the clearing of the fog in his mind, he still finds that incredibly sexy.
“You’re heavy, Potter,” he says after a while, but his voice is no longer firm. He gently strokes Harry’s hair out of his face but doesn’t know what else he can do — doesn’t know if even this is too much for them; too intimate.
“Sorry,” Harry replies into the crook of his neck. “You’re comfy. ‘S your own fault.”
Draco tries to conceal his laugh. He doesn’t think it works. He can feel Harry’s smile spread against his skin.
When they get up again, it’s in a comfortable quiet. They fix their clothes; Draco gets his wand. He casts a quick glance at the mistletoe before stepping away from it.
“Why did the mistletoe only affect you? Why not Morris?” he asks as they walk down the length of the corridor. It had been playing on his mind.
“He was on the case,” Harry tells him. “He had his own protection cast against it. I didn't exactly think I’d be encountering it.”
“You were wrong,” he points out. Just because he can.
Harry chuckles. The sound sends shockwaves down Draco’s spine. “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice warm as they approach the exit. “I guess I was.”
“Well,” he says, all of a sudden feeling quite exposed. He stands there awkwardly. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around. Merry Christmas.”
He turns to open the door. Harry catches his arm.
“Erm,” he says, which is always a good start. “Would you mind if I owled you sometime? For a drink, maybe?”
Draco looks down — something he should have done a while beforehand, and breathes out a sigh of relief at the lack of a ring on Harry’s finger.
“Maybe,” he says, a smile playing on his lips. “Only as long as my turkey hasn’t defrosted.”