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Magical law wasn’t enough to get Harry out of this one. He’d tried. Had looked Robards in the eye and even said please when he’d asked if there was anything—anything he could do to dig himself out of the shit-pile he’d landed in.
Robard’s, the bastard, leaned back in his desk chair and scratched at his stupid chin like he actually had to think about it, when they both already knew the answer. “I can say with certainty that we’ve never had this problem before.”
“Bullshit!” Harry snapped, only slightly recoiling when Robard’s expression turned razorsharp. “There are tons of wizard celebrities!”
“But none quite like you, is there?” he asked, coldly.
Harry started to suspect he might’ve been caught in a nightmare, or maybe a botched batch of a sleeping draught. He’d been known to overuse those, when the empty walls of his room echoed with the burning sounds of magic.
“Sir, can I at least see the list?” Harry all but begged. He’d fallen quite far from grace(if he’d ever actually had any to begin with), but his pride was a stubborn thing and usually caused about half of his problems at any given time, so no, he couldn't just let it go.
Robards pulled a scroll from his desk drawer, tied up neatly with a red ribbon. He’d probably been waiting for Harry to request it. Practically put a goddamned bow on it and everything.
“You read this list,” Robards said, far more serious than Harry had seen him since their last big bust. “You can’t unread it. You know that right? There are over four hundred names on this list. I’m willing to bet you know a few of them.”
That was what Harry was both afraid of and needed to know like he needed to fucking breathe. It haunted him that the list existed. That Robards and Merlin-even-knew who else had read it. Probably laughed about it. He would not be the only one out of the loop.
No matter how humiliating it would be.
He held his hand out. Tore into the scroll the moment Robards had released it.
It wasn’t as if Harry was looking for any name in particular, but still, his eyes drifted straight to the letter ‘M’.
And there it was, in an ornate ink script.
Malfoy, Draco.
Robards was right, of course. Harry could never unsee it.
When the tip had first come in, Harry had thought everyone was yanking his chain for sure. He‘d waited for someone, literally anyone to crack—start hollering and pointing fingers because surely, such a ridiculous thing couldn’t have possibly happened, right?
Except, it did. Using a Polyjuice potion, a scavenged hair from a hotel room, and apparently, the biggest balls in probably the Wizarding world, someone had replicated Harry Potter’s prick. Not once, not twice, but over four hundred times—each one sold to a not-so-anonymous buyer for a frankly stupid amount of galleons.
Harry had seen the website, during his lunch break in fact, on the screen at the receptionist’s desk. He would never live this down. Everyone, everyone had seen his prick in a variety of colors, including natural flesh. Color-matched for authenticity.
While the distributor was being prosecuted to the fullest extent of Wizarding law, the clients had not knowingly broken any. The list had only been subpoenaed to get an accurate accounting as to what extent the product had been distributed. The names didn’t matter.
Except of course they fucking did. Harry went from having had a handful of partners in his life to over four hundred, in a sick way. He deserved to know. Which was how he found himself on the doorstep of the Malfoy manor, fidgeting with his robes like a damned teenager.
Draco Malfoy had purchased Harry Potter’s prick. In fact, of the four batches that were listed and immediately sold out, Draco Malfoy had been among the first.
The wind whipped cold, and he’d blame that for the shiver that surged up his back when Malfoy opened the door himself. No house elf.
Compared to the dark umber wood of the frame, Malfoy was practically translucent, backlit by the gold flicker of sconces bordering the entryway.
“Potter.” Draco said his name as a statement, a question, and an affirmation all at once. His eyes were wide like silver coins, and the soft feathers of his hair drifted lazily around his crown like a halo, and this was the problem.
Harry Potter was in love with Draco Malfoy. Had been, since they’d finished year eight in amicable silence, where Harry had more than enough time to watch Malfoy do everything from fix his tie to lick his quill and to never, not once acknowledge Harry in any way. It was maddening. For years they had constantly orbited one another, and then suddenly, Harry's gravitational field had been completely disrupted.
What was the Earth without the moon, anyway?
He wished he‘d understood what he was feeling before they’d gone their separate ways. Now, standing on Malfoy’s doorstep, it was so obvious, Harry was embarrassed of his former self. Surely the whole world must have known.
“Malfoy,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. It didn’t matter that he’d practiced his excuse in the lavatory mirror all afternoon. The words were stilted on their way out. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to do a favor for an old… friend.”
It was terrible. The look on Malfoy’s face alone was enough to let Harry know he was crashing and burning hard—with one thin eyebrow arched up and, impossibly, rising with each word out of his mouth.
Three years had passed since they’d last seen each other, but who was counting? Certainly not Harry, every time he saw Malfoy’s name appear in either Witch Weekly or the Daily Prophet(usually the same photo, same story, with wildly different interpretations from one another).
“When did we become friends?” Malfoy asked, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m not hearing a ‘no’.”
“No.” Malfoy made to close the door, but Harry’s hand shot out, pinning it open.
They both stared at the appendage. Harry almost withdrew, but he’d never pulled punches with Malfoy before. Suspected that was something the git probably liked about him.
“As insufferable as ever, I see,” Malfoy drawled. Still, he relented, letting Harry push open the door. Warmth enveloped him as he stepped over the threshold. Both of fire and of magic. “What could possibly bring Harry Potter to my door?”
Seeing Malfoy in person had been jarring enough that for a whole two minutes, Harry had forgotten what brought him around in the first place. His eyes roved down Malfoy’s waist, which had always been long and slim, to settle on the notch of his hip. Had this very Draco Malfoy fucked himself with a Harry Potter(™) silicon prick?
It took everything he had not to picture it—Malfoy on his knees in his bed, reaching between his legs and—
“Potter! Do you need a mind healer?”
Harry blinked away the image. He was already tight in his trousers, and he was so, so fucked.
“Sorry. I was hoping you’d allow me access to your private library? I’ve been told you have a few resources very scarce to the Wizarding world, and I’d love to have a go.”
Malfoy crossed his arms and scowled, but led Harry further back—up a short flight of phthalo green, velvet covered stairs with a wrought iron rail.
“If the Ministry is in need of my services—”
“Not the Ministry. Just me,” Harry said.
“Just you.” Malfoy repeated. His jaw finally relaxed. “Fine.”
They passed an open door to what had to be Malfoy’s bedroom, judging by the rich wooden posts of the massive bed and the neatly pressed silk sheets.
The library was two doors over, and had books shelved to the ceiling of every wall. The air smelled like sweet vellum and fireplace smoke. Harry was impressed, but also couldn’t imagine Malfoy accepting anything less. He was a very particular git.
In all sorts of aspects, it seemed.
“Feel free to have a look through, but please don’t be a brute. I’ll make tea.”
“You’ll make tea for me?” Harry asked.
Malfoy scoffed again, but his cheeks lit up the babiest of pinks. Harry wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching his expression like a hippogriff. He’d seen Malfoy blush during their teenage rows, but Harry had always chalked it up to humiliation, and nothing more. Now, he wasn't so sure.
Was my cock inside you? Harry wondered. Did you picture me? Was I what you wanted me to be?
“Don’t break anything,” Malfoy snipped, then stomped back to where the kitchen likely was.
Harry didn’t waste any time. He charmed his feet silent and padded back across the hall, watching the shadow of Malfoy drift down the stairs. Harry stopped at the master suite and nudged the door the rest of the way open. The bed looked even more luxurious and inviting up close. How long did it take to make tea? Would Malfoy use magic to speed up the process, or would he prefer the old fashioned way? Whichever it was, Harry had to hurry.
He checked under the pillows, which frankly would have been a terrible place to hide such a thing but he had to do the widest sweep he could. He ran his hands beneath the edge of the mattress and dropped down to peer under the bed. No inconspicuous boxes. Was he losing his mind? Malfoy’s name had been on the list, but the Slytherin seemed more annoyed than anything to see Harry. Maybe he’d never used it all. Maybe he’d purchased it as a joke. A way to get a stab at him when the time arose.
Thankfully, Harry was a bit luckier with the nightstand, almost immediately revealing a small, intricate box that practically screamed ‘overpriced dildo’. His fingers trembled as he opened the box, and the air was sucked out of him because yes—that was his prick, in all of its acclaimed color-matching glory. From the fleshy mushroom of the head to the soft pair of testicles, it was familiar in the most uncanny of ways. Sure, most pricks probably looked somewhat alike, but he was willing to bet all blokes could pick their own out of a lineup.
“You really do it, don’t you?” Harry asked nobody, his voice was raw and his (still attached) prick ached because he was picturing it again. Would give anything, maybe even his soul, to get to see for himself.
With a swift incantation, Harry put a sigil on the box, then returned it to its rightful place.
Just as he exited the room, the clink of glassware rattled from the stairwell, and Harry rushed back to the library and grabbed the first book he saw. He flipped it open to a random page and tried to imitate the face of a man who cared about the words in front of him—who could actually read them, because his vision wasn’t hazy due to blood plummeting south at an alarming rate.
“The mating habits of glumbumbles?” Malfoy mused with a coy smile. “Trying to pick up some tips, Potter?”
“I manage just fine,” Harry said, sounding far more confident than he felt. “No complaints.”
There. Again. Malfoy’s cheeks tinged just the faintest of pinks. Harry might’ve found his new favorite pastime.
If Harry was half the wizard most people made him out to be, he would have had the nerve to ask about it, point blank. To beg the question, What does Draco Malfoy need with Harry Potter’s prick? The look on his face would probably be worth it, having been caught.
But no. That wasn’t quite ‘being caught’, was it?
“Do you mind if I peruse for a few hours?” Harry asked.
“Hours?” Malfoy balked. “Potter, I’ve never seen you finish reading a postcard, and now you expect me to believe you’re quite the scholar?”
“Did you often watch me not finish postcards?” Harry mused, grinning.
By the look on Malfoy’s face, Harry had the man right where he wanted him.
“Not hardly as much as you watched me, Potter.”
“Conceited.”
“It’s true,” Malfoy mocked, getting comfortable in an armchair. He crossed one long, beckoning leg over the other. Whispered, “You were always watching me.”
Harry sat down in the chair across from Malfoy. The light of the candles had begun to wane, and the library may as well have been halfway into hibernation. Harry loved it, like a small slice of purgatory for when they wanted to linger in that in-between.
“Old habits die hard,” Harry said, and it couldn’t be more true. Gazing at Malfoy—at the slope of his thin nose and the swoop of his white lashes, he wasn’t sure he could ever kick it. Didn’t really want to, if he was being honest.
Draco’s eyes flitted, for only a fraction of a second, to Harry’s lips.
It was so obvious. How had Harry missed it? Yet, how could anyone blame him for missing it? Malfoy was practiced at acting aloof and if necessary, cruel. He probably could have taken his little secret to the grave if Harry hadn’t gotten his hands on that damn list.
Malfoy was attracted to him. Enough to feel the need to hide it behind a cold facade. Enough to purchase an illicitly obtained dildo, a little piece of Harry, and keep it in his bedside drawer.
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you,” Harry said, closing the decoy book and setting it aside.
“Oh?”
“I’ve been trying to find some information on magical law regarding consent around the use of Polyjuice potion.”
If Malfoy was picking up where Harry was going with this, he didn’t let it show.
“There are clear parameters around using it to trick a partner into having sex, but that still leaves a lot of grey area, don’t you think?”
“Pornography,” Malfoy said, the crass word spoken with his usual elegance. How did he manage to make everything seem beautiful? “If my memory serves correctly, there have been a number of civil cases around the creation and distribution of erotic images while using Polyjuice.”
Interesting, Harry thought. Did you spend time researching this before or after purchasing my prick?
“I can’t imagine my library would have anything of use that the Ministry wouldn’t already have access to,” Malfoy said, a bit more cautiously. Maybe he was picking up on what Harry was putting down. “Unless this is just an excuse to torment me.”
“I don’t need any excuses to torment you,” Harry said.
“May I speak frankly?”
Harry blinked, confused. “I didn’t think you knew how to do otherwise.”
Malfoy’s lip quirked up at the corner and he gestured to the plated tea set between them. Harry must've looked like a caveman, selecting a cup by its delicate handle. He took a slow sip. It was rich and aromatic.
The old fashioned way, then.
“I think you wanted an excuse to see me."
Harry ignored him, and continued. “My area of interest is more along the lines of… replications.”
“Replications,” Malfoy repeated, deadpanned. He nursed his tea.
“Adult toys.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Harry could practically see the cogs in Malfoy’s head turning—his silver eyes twitching. Did he know he’d already been caught, or was he trying to convince himself it was a cosmic coincidence?
“Why are you here?” Malfoy asked, his eyes narrowing.
“I already told you,” Harry said, shrugging. “Research.”
Malfoy stood, setting his cup down. The glassware clinked like a wind chime. “Best to not be distracting you, then.”
Harry leaned further back in his chair—letting his knees fall open just barely. Once again, Malfoy’s eyes gave his interest away. Harry wished he could grip his prick right then and there—offer Malfoy the genuine experience and hope the man didn’t hex his mouth shut for such a terrible line.
Could Malfoy tell his trousers were tight? How sweet it would be to unclasp them—to let in the peaty air of the library or the warmth of the fire.
“It’s late,” Malfoy said, pausing at the door. Looking back, one more time. “There’s a guest room, if you desire.”
Merlin, do I desire.
Everything was going exactly how Harry hoped it would.
As to avoid suspicion, Harry kept busy in the library for another hour before retiring to the offered room. The bed was as large and ostentatious as the rest of the house, with inviting pillows that were probably nicer than anything Harry had used before. He sank into the soft bedding, allowing himself to enjoy the moment of opulence.
Hardly any time at all passed before he felt it. The sizzle up his spine, alerting him that the sigil he’d set earlier had been activated.
The box had been opened.
Harry was hard in seconds, blinking up at the ceiling—imagining the look of the replica in Draco’s soft hands. He couldn’t believe the man dared to be so bold, given his guest only a few doors down the hall.
Who was Harry kidding? Of course he would.
How had they both missed the signs? They could have been experiencing each other for years—more so than they‘d already had. More than just snarky snippets and at times, outright harassment.
The invisibility cloak stored easily beneath Harry's Auror robes. He unrolled it like a flag and draped it over himself.
With charm-silenced footsteps, Harry was truly a ghost in the Malfoy manor. The flames in the hallway swayed as he passed them, making the whole world feel like a broom-dive. It was as he approached the door that he sensed it. A Muffliato, humming soft magic from inside. Harry had been a teenager, and not too long ago, in fact. He knew a masturbation precaution when he saw one.
Harry opened the door as slowly as he could, just enough to ease his invisible self in. Malfoy probably hadn’t heard it because he was too busy moaning—an erotic cacophony, now no longer muted.
Spread out on the bed was Draco Malfoy, completely bare. Harry had never seen so much of his ivory skin—swore he’d commit the memory to the pensieve, as Draco stretched himself open on his fingers.
He had to have been at it for a while, because they were dripping in lubricant and sank easily inside him. Draco’s prick bobbed. Untouched. Neglected. It was such a shame.
Harry circled the bed, cautious not to make a single sound. It was his own private peep show. The erotic image of Draco lining up the dildo glistened behind the sheen of the cloak.
He pressed—popped the head in so easily, Harry almost blinked and missed it. It was maddening, to see his own cock sinking inch by inch into the object of his affections, but to not be able to participate.
Harry expected Draco to set a charm on the toy to do all the work, but once again the man took a more traditional route, using his own hand to thrust the shaft in. Out. In.
Having started slow, Draco picked up the pace, holding one thigh at a spectacular angle while he aimed right for his sweet spot. Found it, if the sound that ripped from his mouth was any indication.
The wail drifted off into soft little noises, like he was trying not to be too loud. His lips moved. Formed one stretchy word silently over and over, and Harry might’ve been hallucinating from how little blood there was left in his brain, but he swore it was his own name.
Say it, Harry willed, eyes locked on the pistoning motions of the silicon prick as Draco worked his wrist. Toes clenching. Thighs dropping open like a welcome home present.
“Harry,” he whimpered, twisting it. Jamming it over and over again into his spot.
Harry squeezed his prick through the fabric of his trousers. Nearly finished early at the sound of his name. He had to touch. His eyes lulled as he grinded into his palm and pictured himself doing all the work—letting Draco lie back and just spoiling him rotten with his cock.
Fuck. Harry was jealous of a dildo. He’d laugh if he weren’t so invested in the show. Instead he thought, now this—this is getting caught. And because Harry was a wizard of very little brains, it seemed, he ripped off the cloak and let it puddle on the floor.
“Merlin!”
It only took a second for Draco to respond—to shoot upright and try to take the dildo out while cursing. Harry loved the way swear words sounded in Draco’s mouth.
Much like earlier with the door, Harry intervened. Grabbed Draco’s wrist before he could pull the dildo all the way out. Everything was quiet, save the sharp back and forth of their breaths. Harry waited for Draco to scream—to break his nose, and rightfully so. He could practically hear the sound of Robards dismissing him on charges of sexual misconduct.
But Draco didn’t. He dropped his eyes to Harry’s hand, then back up. “Are you going to do something, Potter?” he croaked. “Or just stand there looking stup—uuuh.”
Harry moved—sinking the dildo back in, dead set on that spot. Draco’s hand fell away and his eyes rolled as Harry fucked him steadily with the toy. Each thrust driving a drip of spend out of Draco’s prick.
“That how you like it, Malfoy?” Harry asked, breaking the spell of silence.
Draco’s face flushed petal pink.
“My prick, scratching all those itches inside you?”
“Harry!” Draco gasped, grabbing his own and squeezing it—staving off his orgasm, at least for the time being.
“Why did you buy it, Malfoy?” Harry asked.
“Fuck you!”
“Did you think of me? Who am I kidding? Of course you did.” Harry punctuated his sentences with sharp, deep jabs. Draco moaned like an animal. “It wasn’t cheap, was it? How many galleons did you spend so you could feel me?”
“You planned this,” Draco gasped. His eyes were wet with pleasure. “You arsehole! You knew the whole time!”
“Can you blame me?” Harry whispered, feasting on the sight Draco made spread out on the bed. “When I found out you… well, I don’t think I’d ever felt more jealous of anything in my life.” It was an unexpected confession, but Harry stood by it. “but wouldn’t you rather have the real thing?” he asked, slipping the dildo completely out. Draco gasped at the sudden emptiness.
“That is the worst pick up line I have ever heard,” Draco huffed, propping himself up on his elbows and staring Harry down from between his legs. Expression rife with appetite. “Alright. Put your fucking prick in me, Potter, or I’ll be forced to do it myself.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” Harry mumbled, Undoing his trousers. He cast a lubrication charm on his hand and stroked along his length. There was no way he would last long, but he wanted every second to count. It was finally happening.
“Are you going to fuck me anytime today?” Draco snipped.
“You want me so badly, don’t you?” Harry hummed, rubbing his head along Draco’s slick opening. “Why else would you keep me in your bedside table?”
Harry sunk in, pinning Draco’s legs open like the pages of a book. The sight alone almost made Harry lose it, because Draco swallowed up his prick like he was practiced at it.
Because he was practiced at it. Gripped Harry’s shoulders with his crescent moon nails and held on for dear life as Harry fucked him. Pulled out, and shoved back in again and again. Punching every sound he could manage out of Draco’s pretty mouth. He was captivated by it—by the glisten of spit wetting those sleek lips.
“You wanted to get caught,” Harry panted, running a thumb along one of Draco’s nipples. Pinching. Everything was so tight and so warm. Draco’s body kept drawing him in, gripping like it never wanted to let go. They’d always had a tendency to hold on to each other. “Fuck. You fit like a glove.”
Draco moaned, glassy-eyed. Finally broke skin on Harry’s shoulders, but he couldn’t care less. Not when Draco made such a pretty picture. Hadn’t it always been the two of them against the world? Harry couldn’t help himself. He swooped down and caught Draco’s lips in a kiss.
Draco gasped—more shocked than he’d been when Harry had popped his prick in him. The kiss was crossing a line—softened Draco’s writhing into something languid and vulnerable. Harry fucked his tongue into Draco’s mouth in time with his hips, and the noise Draco made was almost bird like—a soft ah ah ah.
Harry wanted to immortalize the sound.
“Harry,” Draco gasped, sliding his hands up to cup the back of Harry’s neck. To hold him in place and look into his eyes. “Why now?” he asked. “After all this time?”
Harry shook his head—dropped down to gnaw on the sharp line of Draco’s chin. His skin tasted like aloe and salt. “I didn’t know—” Harry’s hips stuttered. He gasped, his fogged over glasses slipping off. It didn’t matter where they landed. “I didn’t know you wanted me.”
Fuck, Harry had never felt so exposed during sex, despite being still mostly clothed. Draco’s expression was soft beneath the faint candlelight, but it cut like a knife, just like the rest of him.
“I’ve always wanted you,” Draco confessed.
Harry was close. “Should’ve known—” he grunted. “We’d find ourselves here.”
“Well, you certainly took your time, didn’t you?”
“I’d ask you to stop talking but the sound of your voice is doing all kinds of things to me right now, and I never want it to end. Come on, say something else.”
“You’re an imbecile,” Draco gasped.
Harry’s hips stuttered. He was there, at the precipice—rolling his prick in and out of Draco fucking Malfoy. Maybe he really was caught in a sleeping draught. If so, he never wanted to wake up. Wanted to live in the sweetest dream he’d ever had.
Draco dragged his leg back further—allowing Harry to really fucking give it to him. To grab Draco’s sobbing prick and give the head a solid squeeze and twist, popping him off like a champagne cork. Draco thrashed. Clenched. Spilled all over himself with a strangled moan. Ripped the orgasm out of Harry along with a shout.
“Draco!”
Bells rang in Harry’s ears. The image of Draco was ethereal. His face relaxed from the bliss, his spiny demeanor peeled away to reveal the vulnerable flesh inside.
The room fell quiet. Harry collapsed forward onto Draco, burying his forehead into the arch of his shoulder. They were both covered in a sheen of sweat that caught bits of the firelight like ribbons of gold. Everything was hazy and sweet.
“Well,” Draco said, breathless. “You can’t argue with the advertising.”
Harry peeled himself back just enough to look at Draco, whose eyes were twinkling with mirth.
“Hmn?”
“‘With this purchase, you too can get railed by the famous Harry Potter’.”
Harry groaned and covered his eyes. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Do you pay a visit to every consumer, or—?”
The unsaid question was perfectly clear. Did this mean something? Do we mean something?
“Raffle, actually,” Harry said. “Guess you were the lucky winner.”
Then Harry kissed him again. Gripped the soft tufts of Draco’s blonde hair and stroked his tongue along the line of his lips.
Something warm and wet rolled against Harry’s arm. He pulled back and picked up the discarded dildo.
“I don’t think you’re gonna need this anymore.”
Draco hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s alright. I’ve always got the Oliver Wood edition.”
“What?” Harry balked.
The quirk of Draco’s lips was back. Harry thought it best to go ahead and shut him up, the old fashioned way.