Unsolicited Partners

"Draco, we've found you a wife."

Draco lifted one eyebrow and peeked over the top of his book at his mother. Two years had passed since the death of Dumbledore and the end of his school career. Well, not two years. Seven hundred and twenty-three days because it would be Dumbledore's memorial ceremony in a week's time and people didn't forget that easily.

They still spat at them on the street, globs of saliva staining his mother's hems and shining on the front of his shoes. It was not uncommon for them to be refused service and if Draco wasn't a dab-hand at making Polyjuice, they'd probably starve for lack of food. The house-elves had been confiscated long before Granger had even made her way into the Ministry.

Draco wondered who in their right mind would accept such a connection now that the family name was in ruins. "A Mudblood, who knows no better?"

Narcissa pursed her lips and raised an eyebrow back at him.

Draco sighed. It would do no harm to appease her. He could scare off any delusional little woman his mother stuck in front of him. "Alright. Whatever."

"Brilliant. I'll have her brought over tomorrow."

She was a little thing who looked vaguely familiar and it wasn't until her mother, a thick-set woman standing at the little doll figure's elbow announced themselves, that he figured out who she was.

"Hello Mr Malfoy, I am Amelia Greengrass, and this is my daughter, Astoria."

Daphne had been very pretty at school and she had liked to make scathing comments about how ugly tattoos were whenever politically connected students walked by. She'd had guts. Draco had liked her. Her little sister on the other hand…

Draco remembered her vaguely, a little hang-on with a mousy disposition and only half the wit of her sister's charm. Daphne's absence in this scene was not a mystery, but why the little girl with a perfect shy smile, head tipped to a ditsy angle and small buckled shoes scuffing nervously against either toe, was standing in front of him was anyone's guess. Hadn't Daphne informed her sister of his family? Didn't the mother know about the stigma and spittle on the streets?

"We'll just leave you two alone," said Mrs Greengrass sweetly. She gave her daughter a little nudge forward and whisked out the door with a bright smile.

"Be nice," warned Narcissa. She too left, locking the room up as she went.

As soon as the doors closed, Astoria's face fell from its whimsical stupidity and turned stony with a business like air. Draco blinked. "Am I agreeable to your standards?" she asked. Her voice was sharp.

A façade, thought Draco. A commendable trait for any pureblood and she hid herself from her own family, even better. But it would have to be more than one good trait to convince him to march down the aisle.

"Frankly," began Draco from his reclining position. He wasn't about to stand up out of courtesy for this…girl. "I should be asking you that question. What are you doing here, offering yourself to me? Not only would connections to my family be unfavourable to you, but I am also gay."

He let his mind drift to the magazine awaiting him in his chambers and wondered how long it would take for her to scream 'ugh, filthy wand-jockey! Burn the sodomite!' and leave.

"I knew that," she said, blithely. "I'm after the title. I believe that the name of this family can be rebuilt and both of us could become upstanding members of society again with the right political guidance. It will take time and effort."

Draco raised an eyebrow, attention firmly back in the room and onto this stern looking toddler-woman.

She sighed. "I have higher expectations for my life that being another one of the dull Greengrasses." She sneered over her own surname as she tugged dispassionately at the ugly dress her mother had forced her into. "Your family name has more nobility and is more well know, although at the moment for the wrong reasons. A good reputation has to be built on better foundations than my own family name. Yours however, is ideal. Think of this as a business deal, Mister Malfoy."

Draco sat up, leaning forward and looking at her seriously. "It sounds good, but you are forgetting. I am gay."

"I will turn a blind eye to your lovers, if you return the favour with mine."

Draco mulled over the offer for a moment. If he was frank with himself, he knew this would probably be his one and only marriage prospect and what she was offering him was a good deal; family duty and honour and cock.

Draco stood up. "I want an heir in the first five years."

She hesitated then rallied herself. "…Okay. But I get to screen your lovers, so that you are only taking to bed the most political people. It won't take long for word to get out that we're not monogamous, and I'd rather you associate us with the right sort of people."

Potter's words echoed in his head as he evaluated her. I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks…

"How harsh will this screening be?"

"I'm pretty sure you will not have too many problems." She slipped him a genial smile, running her eyes up and down his body as if assessing the quality of a purchase at the market. "After all, it is not like you are going to accept a Muggle or Weasley into your bed yourself, are you?"

It was the insult to Weasleys that capped it off. "Alright," he smiled, "Deal."

She pointed to the floor. "Then down on one knee, Mister Malfoy, and ask me to marry you. Politely."

Draco fell to one knee, smirking. The doors to the room opened and his mother and Mrs Greengrass squealed loudly as Draco threw a smug grin at the devious little woman. "Miss Greengrass, will you do me the honour of marrying me?"

The door opened with a loud bang and Draco raised his head from between Justin's legs to see his wife standing in the doorway. She looked beautiful in her dress. Justin gave a manly yelp and scrambled to the top of the bed, panicking out 'oh I'm so sorry, I'm so –'

"Draco." Astoria smiled tightly, coming over to the bed to perch herself down next to her husband. She ignored the Hufflepuff too. "I thought we had discussed this. You are supposed to talk to me first before you do this."

Draco looked a Flinch-Fletchley and then back to his wife. She looked stern.

Raising himself up, Draco accio'd a cigarette from his robes that were piled on the floor and lit it quickly with a wave of his hand. "Sorry, darling," he said at last. He motioned towards Flinching Fletchly. "Do your thing. You have as long as it takes me to finish this."

She turned her glare towards the Hufflepuff. "What job have you got? Are you currently out of the closet? Have you been affected by the Malfoys in the past? Are you –"

As she droned on a relentless list of questions, Draco breathed in the tobacco slowly, mildly entertained with watching the interrogation. Ultimately, Justin was a wimp.

She stopped asking questions just as he finished his cigarette.

"Well?" he asked, curious to the first display of the dynamics of his new bride.

"This one won't do." She stood up and plucked lint off her dress absently.

Draco pursed his lips. "It's my wedding night and you're going to take away my entertainment?"

She leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to the edge of his tensed jaw and said, "I'll have a better one sent in within the hour. Send this one away."

It was a test. To see if he could follow the rules of their marriage. He looked at Fletchly whose hole was already stretched and oozing lubricant between his legs as he hugged his knees, huddled against the headrest.

His wife, still in her bridal gown and looking like a saucy mistress of temper, waited for his answer.

"Alright. You'd better go."

Justin looked gobsmacked, he made a motion that could have interpreted as a number of things. Draco assumed he meant 'no nookie?' in a desolate sort of way. Astoria nodded and went to leave. "I'll make sure I get you a really good one, love. I promise."

In the end it was Stamford Jorkins who thought he would make a quick buck. He'd apparently decided that he was bored being the spokesperson for the Ministry, that The Prophet should have begun benefitting him rather than hounding him on the latest scandal of the new Dragon Blood Decree.

Draco had asked him how much Lavender Brown paid him for her gossip column. Jorkins had told him the price was good enough to walk away from another fuck. Astoria had had him escorted from the Manor.

After the first circulation of Lavender's article, reporters came from every publication, pitching tents outside the gates and bombarding them with invasive questions. For weeks every rag contained a picture of his face which led Draco and Astoria to have a long discussion about strategy.

Finally, they stood outside their house and released a statement.

The next day, the picture showed Malfoy Manor standing majestically in the background as Draco stood proud and tall in the face of scandal. Tucked under a protective arm stood his timid but supportive wife. They had both looked blinded by flashlight, but the reel showed his thumb rubbing soothingly over the knuckles of her interlinked hand. It looked like pure affection under the slanderous article that began 'Malfoys deny all…'

They had looked like they were struggling through arduous times as newlyweds. It had looked like injustice and Astoira had placed the picture in a little scrap book. Draco had burnt his copy.

"You need a job." Astoria said, buttering her bread.

"Happy anniversary to you, too." Draco grumbled, scratching his boxers as he sat down at the dining table which had fed many of his ancestors over the years. It was covered in Muggle cereals. He especially liked Frosted Shreddies.

"Oh, anniversary. That reminds me. Some bloke named Jordan sent me a letter."

"…Okay…" Draco didn't care. He was hungover and the cheery light from the windows was melting his retinas.

She pulled out the letter from under her plate. Draco narrowed his burning eyes suspiciously.

"Don't pull that face, you'll get wrinkles." She unfolded it. "So, this Jordan is apparently a friend of that guy I got you on Valentine's, err…"


"Yes, he's a friend of Owen's. And he writes saying that he knows that dating you is subject to approval by me and that this letter is his formal request to get permission to 'woo you'."

Draco scrunched his nose up at the idea of someone 'wooing' him. He'd merely worn a dress that one time and the shop assistant had assured him they were robes. He'd only learned the truth when he'd met Susan Bones wearing the same set in the middle of Diagon Alley. The damn paparazzo who had snapped the picture had called it a faux pas between two queens. Draco had sued.

Draco stabbed at the bottom of his cereal with a spoon. "So, is this what is going to happen? You're going to pimp me out based on how good their penmanship is?"

Astoria didn't seem to notice her husband's psychopathic tendencies towards sugared wheat. She was running a critical eye over every word of the letter, humming thoughtfully to herself. "Possibly. Writing to me in advance will certainly mean I can stop following you out to the pub in case you get drunk and slut over the low-rent bar staff."

Draco sighed. "Right. Fine. I don't care."

"Good. I'll spread the word that I need letters first. Be sure to tell Parkinson." She pulled a face and Draco smiled. She had never liked Pansy. "I'm sure the news will travel fast once she finds out. She's got a mouth as big as an eleven foot cauldron. But what was I saying before? I think you need a job."

"We're independently wealthy," he stated, brushing her concerns aside. He poured himself some more milk and continued spooning his breakfast.

"Yes, but people are more willing to like someone who gets stuck in. No one likes a layabout."

"Layabout," Draco repeated. He could not believe his ears. How could she say such a thing when she was the one who wanted to marry into such a prestigious and wonderful family? "…are you saying that my whole family, renowned men of leisure and wealth are…layabouts?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "So, what job do you think you'd like? Healer, Auror, teacher...something noble is best…" Her words were like daggers in every heart of his ancestor who believed water polo was the only way to spend Wednesday lunchtimes.

The conversation was becoming too much, the urge to scoop out her eyes with his cutlery was too great. Draco needed more sleep. "I don't know. Make up some portfolios and leave them by the kettle. I am going back to bed."

He stood up and walked by her. "You shouldn't have drunk so much." She hissed, folding her arms. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, leaving moist print of last night's whiskey on her skin.

"Have a good anniversary. I'll see you tonight for dinner, say, eight?"

"I'm spending the day with Antoine. Nine would be better."

"Antoine? 'Is he respectable?'" he mimicked, hand perched on one hip, rolling his eyes in the way she did when she found him unbearable. She nudged him.

"Absolutely. He's on the Wizengamot."

"Alright then. Nine. Have a good day."

"You too."

Draco spent the rest of the day sleeping and only bothered to book the restaurant half an hour before their supposed reservation. However, he had managed to get them a table and when Astoria asked, he had told her he'd reserved weeks in advance. No need to tell her he had whispered sweet nothings down the phone into the waiter's ear.

While they waited for their meal to be delivered, there was a commotion on the other side of the restaurant that Draco followed Astoria's eye to. It was only Potter, stumbling in through a horde of reporters all trying to snap a photo of 'The Youngest Head Auror of all Time.' At the age of twenty four, he was streamlining the way for the whole bureau into a more manageable and honest ministerial force. Draco had stopped his subscription to the Prophet when all the headlines were devoted to tracking the Gryffindor. Besides, articles regarding himself and his lecherous wondering ways were getting repetitive.

Front page, Potter hands in application for Head Auror. Turn to page five for updates on his pregnant wife. Turn to page six for photos of his son on his first broomstick ride. Turn to page twenty seven for update on his new glasses. Ridiculous. Draco had wondered how The Prophet even managed to keep up its circulation.


Draco turned his head to see Astoria running her critical eye over Potter, gaze lingering on his face that was highlighted from a distance by the flash photography.

"Astoria, no," warned Draco. He stabbed at his stake. "Don't even think about it. We're not that desperate."

"It might be a good idea, he's very highly publicised and what good are our efforts if no one knows about them…"

"I'm not sleeping with Potter," hissed Draco. "Remember, you're not my pimp!"

She focused her eyes back on him. "Calm down. He's straight. And I was actually thinking about the Auror portfolio."

Draco just looked at his wife with sheer horror. "…I'd rather he shafted me than have him be my boss."

"Draco, don't be crude. I'll write out your application tonight."

Draco growled, flinging himself back into his chair and looking about the restaurant. His eyes briefly met green and Potter sent an awkward wave as he blinked stupidly across the way. Draco snorted, his eyes falling over the man's shoulder to one of the reporters. Handsome and slightly athletic look to him. Though he looked slightly weedy in the shadow of Potter's new Auror-training muscles.

"Get me that one and I'll let you send the application. Though I doubt Potter will hire me."

Astoria looked at the reporter. "Paparazzi. Really, Draco?"

"You've stressed me out, woman. It's either the reporter or you can take it up the –"

"Alright, I'll check his credentials. Stay here." Astoria rose just as Potter was being seated and the paparazzi were being made to leave by management. He watched his wife waylay the manager from throwing out his particular reporter. She spoke softly to his bewildered face, and then tilted her head. The reporter sent a quick look over to Draco, and then began rapidly speaking to her, his hands making nonsensical movements. Draco went to turn to take another sip of his wine and he caught Potter's eye. Potter, waitress at his elbow waiting for an order, raised an amused eyebrow at Draco and slanted a querying glance towards Astoria and the reporter, their heads bent close together.

Draco sneered and went back to his food.

Two minutes later, Astoria sat back at the table, smirking. "Done. He checked out okay, he'll come by ours at ten."

Draco could feel Potter's gaze burning into the side of his head, so he reached across the table and placed his fingers into the pulse on Astoria's wrist. She looked up at him and he gave her a tight smile. "…So, do you want me to return the favour?" He hoped his motions looked like he was whispering matrimonial love over the candles.

"I doubt anyone will want to have sex with your pregnant wife."

"You're barely showing a lump and you're arse hasn't descended yet. Let me get you someone."

She smiled shyly, genuinely pleased with his thoughtfulness. "Okay."

"Point him out for me."

She turned her head about the restaurant. "How about Potter?"

"You'd be lucky," he snorted. "Try again."

"Hmm…the manager. He's not too bad."

"Alright. It's a nice enough restaurant, I suppose." Draco wiped his chin with the napkin and stood up. As he walked over to inform the manager that his wife's pregnancy-pert breasts were up for grabs, he felt a stare creep over his skin. Bloody Potter.

Astoria had not told him that becoming part of the Aurors, a noble calling that would lift the reputation of the not-so-noble House of Malfoys, would mean he'd have to deal with gingers. Ronald Weasley was as insufferable as Draco remembered him from school. Draco had walked in, résumé scroll clutched in one hand and dressed to impress. Weasley had taken on look at him, scoffed "no chance" and fell off his chair laughing.

At that moment, Draco had wished applying for the Aurors was not his first job. Because then his résumé would have had more written on it, which would have required heftier parchment with which he could have beaten insubordinate gingers senseless.

"Scumbag to see you, mate." Said Weasley. He was still chuckling madly as he led Draco into the Head Auror Office.

"Does it hurt that your best friend has managed to outshine you all your life?" queried Draco innocently.

"You –"

"Malfoy, shut up. Ron, I can handle this."

Weasley shuffled out, belligerent at missing Draco's impending rejection. Draco took a moment to look about the room before flopping down in the seat opposite Potter. Potter looked terrible, his hair was sticking up in a million directions as if he'd run his hand through it too many times, the deep purple bags under his eyes and the coffee cup by his wrist were all the telltale signs of a caffeine junkie on an all-nighter. The strain of being leader had left its mark on Potter. The last time he had saw the man on his second wedding anniversary at the restaurant, Potter had looked infinitely healthier back then.

"I got your letter." Potter made a gesture. "Do you think annoying Ron is the way to begin an interview for a new job?"

"I think that as a professional," sniffed Draco, "you wouldn't factor in your subordinate's terrible manners to prospective employees."

Potter snorted, but his mouth had twitched a little. "Alright, whatever. Let's get underway. Why do you want to become an Auror?"

"To help out and make up for the mistakes of the past." Draco managed to keep a straight face as Potter looked slightly off balance. He'd even managed to keep his voice from breaking into high giggles.

"What strengths would you bring to the job?"

"Well I got all O's in every subject so I would be able to transfer a wide range of skills, from transfiguration to potions, to everything that I do, I'm athletic, so the physical part of the job wouldn't be the problem and I have inside knowledge of the Dark Arts that Aurors who have worked here for many years have no chance of understanding. I believe I could be a great asset."

"Hmm…" Potter rolled a quill between his fingers, looking pensive. "And what do you think is your greatest weakness?"

"I would have to say…" Draco paused for a moment, tapping a finger against his lips dramatically, "that I'm a ex-Death Eater and the lure of the Dark Arts may be too much for my evil little mind to bear. That and I'm addicted to sex."



"You can't put sex addict as a response."

"Sure I can."

"No you can't, my next question was going to be how would you get around your greatest weakness to be a part of an effective team?"

"I dunno, have a shag before my shift began, I suppose."


"So, did you get the job?"

"Of course, Darling."


"I start next Monday. Now, I'm going out."

"With who?"


"Again?" The surprise in her voice was hardly flattering. Bitch.


"…do you…like him?"

Draco turned and smiled at her. "He can hammer a prostate better than Thor."

Draco saw her posture relax; she was weary the unlikely prospect of love was the only threat to their marriage. "Oh, alright. See you later then. Well done on getting the job."

"Thank you. But if I should die on the case, I will seek my revenge as a ghost. I'm not planning to move on quietly."

"As if you could do anything quietly."

"I told Astoria you would try to murder me," said Draco darkly. "I've had my suspicions since an early age and I hope she cannot get over the horror when my beautiful, yet mangled body is delivered to her. I hope she is traumatised by my corpse."

Potter looked faintly exasperated. "What did you expect as part of your training?"

"Practise duels?"

"You can do that later. Now, tape up."

"This is so barbaric." Draco looked at the thick sheen of perspiration on Weasley's back as he grunted across the room. Disgusting.

"You should never make the assumption that you opponent won't resort to physical combat. So put these on." Potter dropped what looked like purple ribbons into Draco's hands. Draco watched Potter speculatively as he twisted the ribbons effectively around his own palms and fingers with fast movements.

"What are these for?" asked Draco.

"They're magical."

"This isn't twenty-one questions," replied Draco dryly.

Potter scratched his head, the purple standing in stark contrast to his dark hair. "They're shields, I think. They magically reinforce the hands so they are less likely to break."

"They why," began Draco, taping up himself, "am I not wrapping up my head? It would be a shame to break my beautiful face. Women would weep throughout the whole country."

"Because you only need you hands to write your paperwork," grinned Potter, "No, that's wrong – no…here –" Potter, who had no sense of propriety, grabbed Draco's hands and began mummifying them.

Draco couldn't think. Potter was touching him.

They hadn't touched since the broomstick ride in the Room of Requirement. The smell of sulphur, fire and dead friends.

Potter didn't seem to notice the uncomfortable moment; he circled the ribbons around each of Draco's palms weaving through his fingers and down both wrists. He tucked the ends of the ribbons under the circle of purple around Draco's pulse point, fingers brushing lightly.

"Okay, let me show you how to use the sand dummies and then once I know you can punch without breaking your thumb, I'll put you against an assigned training partner."

Draco had beaten the sandbag into submission that day, and subsequently beaten by Weasely into a fine bloody mess afterwards. Astoria had called a healer when he'd limped through the front door, complaining about ruined merchandise. The Healer had had hazel eyes and a tendency towards lingering on the 'turn your head and cough please, Sir' part of the examination process. Draco approved. Astoria did not.

The first month with the Aurors had not gone well. Mostly because Draco wasn't allowed to fight like a cheap whore. Although it was apparently alright for Weasley to smack his nose into the training mats until someone had to call a caretaker to wipe away the mess. Blood was too slippery to practise on.

"Surely, surely that was a foul! Potter, tell me that you aren't going to let –"

"I saw nothing," said Potter gravely, arms crossed against his chest as he supervised the sparing. Draco kicked Potter in the shin. "Malfoy, you nutter, what are you doing? You can't kick me, I'm your boss."

"Well I'm assuming that you're glasses aren't broken and all five of your senses have taken leave of your body, you blind pillock. I was testing my theory."

Potter glared. "Get back to work."

"Fine." Draco turned around just as Weasley tackled him.

He probably shouldn't have been sucking dick after his lunch break.

It wasn't every day that Miller Prognastov came down to the Auror offices to retrieve some case evidence. He had walked right by Draco's desk on his way out and the slight lingering of his gaze made Draco pen a quick letter home. Astoria's reply came an hour later, and whilst she could have been a little more prompt, Draco had still enough time to run down to the ninth floor to ask Miller if he needed a hand with his penis.

He'd lost track of time and had arrived back in the office without anyone noticing his absence for the last two hours, but Potter had come over fairly quickly. Draco had shuffled a few papers and hoped his mouth hadn't been dick-slick red. His jaw certainly felt raw enough to be.

"File these and remember to get all the paperwork done on the Muggle beating case before you leave." Potter dropped a stack of papers on his desk, giving a quick darting look down to Draco's lips before leaving, shaking his head.

Draco ignored the heat crawling up his neck and the pain in his backside. If he were Head Auror, he'd have a nice comfy chair. Fuck it.

And that's how Draco left two hours later than everyone else that night, working under a single lit lamp sitting on the edge of his desk in the darkness of the office cubicles.

As he was walking through the maze of corridors at ten past seven, he heard a sound coming from the training room.

He pushed open one of the door and peeked inside.

Potter was pummelling a punch dummy about the place. They were essentially sandbags with smiley faces drawn on them, charmed to dodge and weave, some sort of anti-bludger charm. Potter was anticipating and packing the punches against the sack. Muscles were rolling over the width of his shoulders with each strike and his white ribbed vest was stained with exertion. Draco almost looked at Potter's arse because any man with that amount of energy after a long day's work in the office was probably a fine fuck. But then he remembered this was Potter.

He cleared his throat and Potter turned sharply at the sound. The sandbag uncharacteristically hit him in the back of the head before hovering out of range again.

"Malfoy, what are you doing here?"

"Finishing off that paperwork you gave me." Draco smirked as he added, "Boss."

"Oh right. Okay."

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be going home to She-Weasel?"

"Ginny?" Potter looked surprised. "Don't you read the papers, Malfoy?"

"No." Obviously something had happened, but as Draco didn't read papers or gossip at the water cooler, he had no idea what was happening in Potter's life. And neither did he care. "Why are you here this late?"

"Doing ballet." Deadpanned Potter, moving to get a towel and wipe at his armpits. Draco wrinkled his nose.

"Alright then, goodnight twinkle toes."

"Prepare…" hissed Weasley, leaning low like a wrestler, "to die!"

His battle cry as he charged towards Draco was somewhat off putting and Draco had tried to dodge out the way of Rhino-Weasley. Like rhinos however, running away from them was half the challenge. The ginger-headed freak had managed to push him down onto the mats, but because he was half way through evading, he'd landed on his hip instead of his back or front.




"Malfoy?" Potter was jogging over as Weasley climbed cautiously off him, like he expected Draco to leap up and cry 'fooled ya!' "What happened?"

"He broke my fucking hip!" Draco tried to place a hard kick to Weasley's ankle. Pain once again lanced through his side and he gave another manly scream. Very manly.

"Come on." An arm slid round his waist as he was hefted around Potter's stupidly wide shoulders. "I'm taking him to get fixed up. Ron, watch over."

"Alright…" Weasley would probably have apologised to anyone else. Instead he just stood looking awkward as they left. Wanker.

"Roll left…that's it…now roll right…"


"Again, roll right…"

"No, I don – ARGH, FUCKING WANKING TIT!" Draco tried to squirm away from the sterile gloved hands that brought nothing but pain.

"You've got quite the mouth on you, haven't you…right, sit up."

Draco gingerly pulled himself back up, shrugging off Potter's hand as he made to give aid. The Healer scribbled down something on a piece of parchment, then pulled out his wand and tapped it to Draco's hip. The stabbing pain stopped instantly.

"Why couldn't you have done that before?" snapped Draco.

"I wanted firsthand experience on seeing what that foul mouth of yours can do." Said the Healer mildly. Draco was sure that wasn't standard bedside manners and it only took a moment to realise that the Healer had hazel eyes and a high ranking stripe on the pocket of his tunic.

Potter snorted, "Yeah, he always was a gob-shite. You're reputation precedes you."

"Indeed it does." Said the Healer.

Draco looked up further from his clenched fists to see the quirked smile on the Healer's face. Those hazel eyes darted to Potter very quickly and then rested back on Draco, eyebrows raised just a tad.

Draco coughed. "So, all fixed, doc?"

"Yeah, you should be okay. Just be more careful next time. Let me give you my details just in case it happens again."

"Best send them onto my wife," said Draco. Potter frowned at that, clearly cottoning onto something.

"Absolutely." The Healer gave a bright smile and nodded.

As they walked down the corridor, Potter was silent.

"I got a letter from some Healer about you today. Andrew Benslie…"


"He's not very renowned."

"He's got potential," said Draco.

"Hmm, I'm sure. Wait…why does that name ring a bell?"

"Don't know," lied Draco, thinking back to his first day of training.

"Convince me of the benefit here, Draco."

"He can deliver the baby."

"So you plan to keep him until the due date?"

"Why don't you train with the rest of us?" asked Draco, late once again. There had been a lull in the office which Draco dramatised with a severe paper cut; he had to be rushed to a Healer, stat. Hence, leaving work late for the fourth time that week.

"I'm the boss. A tad unprofessional if I tackle my subordinates."

Draco looked at the sack of sand bleeding its grains across the practise mats.

"I don't think anyone would care. I could take you on, Potter."

Potter snorted. He does that a lot, thought Draco, like a wild boar with asthma. "Really…because I'm stronger than Ron now."


"How's your hip?"

"Shut up."

Draco went home, hoping that Potter's bag of sand would beat him to death.

Child birth was disgusting. There was a reason that Draco didn't like pussy and that was because it was wide enough to pass a person through it. If it could push a person through, what was there to say that it couldn't swallow one back up once he pushed his dick inside? It probably had teeth for such purposes.

"Was that why you were gripping the sheets so much when we had sex?" asked Astoria when he shared his theory with her. She looked amused.

"Your cervix was nibbling the end of my dick. I still have the pinch marks."

"Oh, poor you." Her hair was all about her face and Draco's hand was throbbing painfully but none of that mattered because his son looked like a squashed quaffle.

"Are you sure he is supposed to look like that?"

Andrew smiled over at him, wiping the baby over with a cloth. It was wailing rather loudly. "Don't worry, he'll be cute after a feed."

That was the day that Draco held his son for the first time and the day that Potter trumped him by having his second child thirteen hours later.


"Master Malfoy, Finky is being sorry but Master Scoripius is needing you."

"What's going on?" yawned Andrew. As he rolled over sleepily, the sheets slipped off his stomach to show smooth muscle in moonlight. Andrew shaved because he had a hygiene issues and called Draco his dirty slut while running his fingers through dark blond pubes.

Draco shoved at Andrew's shoulder as he climbed out of bed. "Don't worry, go back to sleep."


Andrew snuffled down into the covers as Draco walked down the corridor to find his son's room. "Why didn't you fetch Astoria?"

"Mistress is with a gentlemens."

"Well I was also with 'gentlemens'."

"Finky is sorry, Mistress sent Finky away to get Master Malfoy, and is telling me The Master is to deal with the wet master."

"Wet master?" asked Draco. He never got a reply from the house elf as a screaming toddler attached itself to his leg, snot and tears transferring to his pyjama bottoms. Draco sighed.

Potter looked like shit.

"Malfoy, you look like shit," announced Potter.

They looked at each other, a mirror reflection of the exhaustion of fatherhood. They both had wrinkles in their robes and half cold cup of coffee in one hand.

"I don't like you," stated Draco. He went back to his desk.

It had taken him twice as long to complete the same amount of work as everyone else that day and he sort of dragged the work out a little so he didn't have to go home and face Scorpius' insistence that The Snoo-snoah was under his bed.

The light to the training room was on but no sound was coming out of it. He peered round the corner and saw Potter, trying to punch the sandbag. He was sluggish and didn't land a single hit.

"I got a letter from someone called Marcus Flint. He wants permission to –"

"He's never coming anywhere near me. He has teeth only a Granger would love."

"A who?"

"You're a disappointment to me," said Draco. He gave his wife a grave look.

"Malfoy, you're up."

Draco looked up from his paperwork to Potter who was standing by the exit, coat on and looking serious. "Err…what?"

"Get your coat, field duty."

"…with you."

"I could assign you with Ron, if you'd prefer?"

Draco stood up and grabbed his coat. He pulled it over his shoulders and picked up his wand and its leather stripping.

As soon as they got outside, the rain poured down upon them, drenching them viciously like only English weather knew how. Harry poked Draco in the ribs and motioned to his wand. "Put that on, we can't have the Muggles seeing it."

"It's raining!"

"Put it on."

Unable to disobey the order, Draco flipped one side of his coat over his hip and began binding the leather holster around his thigh. Like a gun, the wand sat in a little leather cradle on the side, angled to the hand, ready for use.

"There, happy? Now that my damn leg is wet."

"Nothing could make me happier. Now move."

It wasn't their first field case together, but the numbers hadn't run into double figures yet. Potter tended to take Weasley or someone who respected him as a boss. And, if Draco was perfectly honest with himself, someone who didn't complain as much as he did.

"I hate the rain."

"Hmm, so I hear."

"It ruins my hair."

Potter gave his hair a considering look, which surprised Draco. "You're right, it does." Or not. Twat. Potter held out a hand to him and Draco looked askew at it.

"Tell me the coordinates."

"Fuck sakes, Malfoy, just come here," growled Harry, reaching across as he spoke to snatch Draco's arm and Disapparated.

They landed in a Muggle back alley, startled cats scattering everywhere. Potter was shite at Apparating because instead of arriving in the middle of the alley, Draco landed in the new location with one of the walls scratching up his back, pulling his t-shirt up and ripping open the skin. Potter landed against his chest, driving his body into the harsh brickwork as their feet landed.


"Malfoy, shut up, for once."

"Get off me."

They struggled apart and Potter had to fix up his back. Potter's wand and fingers moved over the deep graze with gentle motions belied by his gruff breathing and Draco felt strangely bare as he clamped the hem of his shirt under his armpits. They set off the rest of the way by foot.

It had turned out just to be a mild case of Oblivation for some old bag who'd witnessed an old halfblood hag spelling her bins empty because she'd forgotten to put them out for the rubbish men. They Oblivated the distressed Muggle and served a fine to the hag.

On the way back to the alley they had been discussing the follow up paperwork when Potter casually let slip that he knew about the articles Lavender Brown wrote in her gossip column about his family. "So, are you still seeing that Healer? Err, Benslie."

"I don't know what you are talking about, I'm married." Draco studied Potter from the corner of his eye.

Potter hummed thoughtfully.

It was a month after what he had dubbed The Alley Incident that Draco joined Potter on the practise mats.

Potter was strapping up his hands with purple tape, threading it through his thumb and palms as Draco stepped into the room. He didn't know what it was that made him come inside. Usually he walked right on by but today he had a compulsion to join in.

Potter had looked surprised and Draco simply said, "You'll never improve against a sack of sand."

"Oh, and you're so much better, are you?" Draco wanted to wipe that smirk off Potter's stupid face.

"Yeah," said Draco, taping up his own hands, "If I can beat Weasley, I can beat you."

Draco tried to tell himself that Andrew's crooked incisor added charm to his smile as Potter looked ruefully amused. "Ron broke your nose last Tuesday."

"So? I believe I won when I returned the favour and broke his leg. A leg is bigger than a nose." Draco dropped into a crouched stance and waited. Potter appeared a bit unsure.

"Look, not that I don't appreciate it, but I'm your supervisor and –"

"As if I care. Just imagine I've insulted your dead mother and let's train."

Potter still looked unsure but managed to drive a fist into Draco's ribs as Draco sped the first attack forward, hoping to catch him off guard.

It hurt. Potter hit like a brick wall and he made grabby motions like he was a lion swatting at a particularly petulant cub. It wasn't long before Draco found himself pinned to the floor with the heavy Gryffindor weighing him down.

Draco gulped in deep breaths of cold air that hurt his raw lungs and stared up into intense green eyes that were too close. "I won," Potter said quietly. His tone of voice made Draco narrow his eyes. It was not bragging, but a simple declaration that simply implied I knew I would, what did you expect?

Draco hoisted himself up and bit hard into Potter's bicep. Potter yelped and it was only a short squirm and twist before Draco was straddling the boss and hissing, "I won."

It was only in this position that Draco began to truly appreciate how broad Potter was. Draco often sat astride many men, maybe in much more depraved contexts, but his knees were well splayed around Potter's body – pressing into his ribs as he hovered above him. To seat himself would be taking all professionalism out of pinning the boss to the floor.

"Say it. Say I won."

Potter was giving him a stone faced look but eventually bit his lip and turned his head to the side. "Alright, you win."

Draco hopped up, "Woop, round one to me!"

That had been the first time they had sparred together, and though it didn't become a regular thing, if Draco was slipping out late and came across Potter and his haemorrhaging sandbag, he'd sometimes offer a more active opponent.

Twice Potter had called him just as he was leaving and requested a partner, leaning against the empty corridor, purple tape about his fingers.

Draco knocked and waited. There was no reply, but he entered anyway. Potter was sitting at his desk but his arms were folded against the brown wood. His head rested in the cradle of his wrists. He looked the picture of misery.

If Draco had given more of a shit, he would have asked what was wrong.

Slamming the file on the table to make the vibrations resonate Potter out of his stupor, he went to leave.


Draco turned around but didn't make eye contact. Potter might take it as a sign that Draco cared.

The silence stretched for a long time. In his head, he begged for Potter to open the file and ask him a question about the case. He was out of luck.

"Ginny lost the baby."

Draco ground his teeth together and looked up at Potter. He couldn't play ignorant, not a single person in the country didn't know about the impending tribute to Potter's fertility that had been brewing inside Ginny Weasley's thatch.

"What do you want me to say?"

Potter shrugged because he was an idiot for making a statement like that to a work colleague.

"Nothing, just…I needed to tell someone."

"Tell Weasley."

"I want to tell you."

Draco closed the door to the office.

He sat down in the visitor chair. "Why me?"

"Because you give a shit."

Potter was delusional. "Pfft, as if I care whether your wife can't keep her –"

"I meant you give a shit enough to spar with me."

Draco had no idea what sparring had to do with ginger miscarriages but he stayed in the office for an hour, silent and watchful of the world out of the charmed window as Potter dropped his head back to the desk and took choking breaths. Draco had used up any sort of compassion he'd had when he stood up to leave for lunch, his stomach had begun growling in the stilted ambiance of the room. As he was making his escape, Potter had said from between his arms is a rough voice, "We were going to call her Lily."

His tuna sandwich had tasted rough and he'd gone home early that day and played with Scorpius. Potter had probably been sparring with the sandbag.

The next day Astoria had sent a consolatory note to Mr and Mrs. Potter after reading the St Mungo's press leak. It didn't say sorry about the dead featus, just sorry that their privacy had been invaded. Draco had signed his name at the bottom because he was the man of the house and it would not have done good to make Astoria suspicious.

"I win." Potter hissed, his teeth bared as he pressed his bulk into Draco, pinning him with little effort to the mat. A hand, covered in purple tape came up to sweep blonde strands out of his eyes and lips brushed his.

Draco struggled hard as a hand ran down his back and gripped his cock hard, a tongue squirming into his ear.

Draco woke up with a horrified gasp. His body had betrayed him.

"Is it morning all ready?" asked Andrew.

That day Potter had asked him if he wanted to spar, his expression hopeful but the dream had tainted that territory, tarnished the mats with smut and cum and Potter's faltering grin in lieu of his answer looked inviting.

"No. I'm going home."

"To Benslie?"

Draco had stupidly looked over his shoulder at Potter, whose smile had been replaced with the grin from his dream.

"To my wife," lied Draco.

Potter hummed.

Astoria was reading the post, placing them into piles that Draco had labelled in his head 'hate mail', 'unworthy of shagging my amazing stallion husband' and 'Keep on file if stallion dumps physician'. He wouldn't admit to anyone that these probably weren't the labels Astoria had in her own mind.

"Well, well, Draco. You've clearly got charm."

Draco paused in chewing his sausage as Astoria gazed over the letter she was holding.


She glared at him until he stopped showing her his half chewed meat.

Clearing her throat, she began to read with a wicked smile spread across her face. It made Draco worried.

"Dear Mrs Astoria Malfoy nee Greengrass.

Through vigorous investigation I have taken the liberty of verifying the claims about the relationship you and your husband are reported to lead in the Daily Prophet. I was gratified to find strong evidence that supported the rumours that surround your marriage and I hope that I bare no offense as I write to you expressing my wish to court your husband.

Because this liaison, assuming your permission, would impact greatly on my own marriage which my other half believes to be monogamous, I understand and greatly respect your terms of discretion that I have been told is a criteria for your consent. However, if we were to be discovered, I would not discredit any claims you may wish to make to the press and public as I understand my position in society would be a most advantageous connection to your family. I am truthful enough to myself to say this as my interest in your husband extends beyond that of the impact the scandal might have on my current legal obligations.

Please consider my request with all the seriousness of the many other applicants that I am sure are jockeying for Healer Benslie's privilege to wake up beside your husband. I am completely sincere in my request and hope that my great position will influence you into affirmation.

Yours hopefully,

Harry Potter,

Head of Auror Department,

Order of Merlin, First Class

P.S. Unofficially I'm pulling the Hero card here too. I am serious in my intent."

Draco could not believe his ears. He literally could not think of what to do. Other than breathe. He was sure he was showing masticated sausage again but he couldn't bring his jaw back up. He was seriously considering stabbing himself with his fork to make sure he was awake.

Astoria grinned. "If I didn't know better, I would say your boss is jealous of Andrew." She placed the letter into the 'unworthy of shagging my amazing stallion husband' pile and went on sorting. "My father told me sex was always political," said Astoria, "and sleeping with the boss could ruin your career. I'll send him a rejection notice tomorrow."

Draco drew in a breath and began to choke on his food.

Draco slammed open the door and found Weasley and Potter pouring over aerial maps of Brittany.

"Get out."

Weasley looked incredulous. "Get lost, Ferret fac –"

"GET OUT!" yelled Draco. He had little patience for people who didn't know when it was not their business Draco was about to spout his lid off about.

Potter sighed and began rolling up the maps. "Its okay, Ron. We'll talk about it tonight. Curry at my place?"

Weasley looked at Draco and then nodded, clearly suspecting him of having a sort of blonde seizure that only a hero could contain. As the door clicked closed, Draco threw the offending letter on top of the table. It bounced against Potter's hand.

"What is your angle, Potter, because I almost died choking on a sausage when my wife read this to me and I deserve an explanation for what the hell is going on in your pea sized brain. If you think this is funny then you –"

"Was it Benslie's sausage?"

Draco blinked. It was a little too early in the morning for him to continue his thoughts after such an odd image. "What? No! Look, just explain why you wrote this and then I can burn the damn thing and be able to sleep tonight."

"If you burn it, I'll just write another one. Besides, what are you doing with it when I sent it to your wife?" Harry was relaxed, like they were talking about a case. Impersonal and relaxed in his big leather Head Auror chair. Legs slightly splayed as he leaned back; Draco concentrated on keeping his eyes level.

"I -! You…! I don't…" Draco had no idea what to say. He'd stayed awake all night thinking about the letter and it was only now dawning on him that it wasn't a joke or some sort of school boy revenge attempt at blackmail. "You're serious?"

Potter's gaze turned a little more predatory and Draco recognised the look as the one Potter wore with purple tape. "Yes, I'm serious. What did your wife say about it?"

Draco thought back to Astoria humming cheerfully throughout desert and proclaiming her own self-genius at her effective management of the family reputation. She's even done a little jig in her seat as the elves served double white chocolate gateau. "If Potter wants you," Astoria had begun, "then we're doing well. We'll surpass the reputation of your ancestors by miles!"

Draco growled at Potter, "You're application has been denied. Go fuck your sandbag."

"I got another letter."

"I don't care. Burn it."

"Do you want me to accept it?"

"I'm with Andrew."

"He's only a Healer, I suppose. Shame Potter has a wife though, otherwise it would be perfect."

"I like Healers, they have the best hands."

"Well I'm sure Aurors have –"

"Astoria, for the last time. You are not my pimp. Just tell him no."

Weasley wasn't so bad. He moaned about everything and insulted Draco all through the missions but he wasn't Potter who would stand a respectable distance away with an intense look and kept inviting him to spar.

Draco now spent the nights dreaming of purple tape and blood dripping from lightning bolts and he would wake up hard in the mornings and tell Andrew he wasn't in the mood despite the tented sheets. He couldn't bring himself to risk thinking about Potter as Andrew spread his legs for him.

He'd asked Astoria, a fortnight after the awful letter had arrived, if he could quit his job.

She'd told him no.

He'd begged.

She had told him the reputation of the family was too important, to think of Scorpius, and besides all of which, it was simply too entertaining for her.

He hated his wife.

Things at the office were tense. Draco had developed a recent condition were his palms got sweaty and he was incapable of holding a quill properly. He was also plagued with the sensation of the walls watching him, eyes of forest green crawling all over his skin while he filled out paperwork. Every day was a chore.

And then every day became more horrific when Andrew had almost killed a patient on the operating table. The newspapers had jumped right into the scandal when the family decided to sue St. Mungo's, and Astoria had told Draco to break it off with such an unfavourable connection.

Draco had thrown a dinner plate at her. It had been that or throw a hex. He was a man of honour and would not use magic violently on his wife. But it didn't stop him from raging against the injustice of her stupid, stupid rule. Andrew had been good enough a week before, but now that the papers were involved…

"You told me you didn't love him, so what do you care?" Astoria's voice was stony as she mopped delicately at a cut on her forearm. The same spot where Draco's forearm bore the Dark Mark. It would never fade but her cut from the dinner service would heal. Andrew had once told him that tattoos were just scars when it all came down to it. He'd even touched the blackened skin during sex once.

Had he loved Andrew?

Draco looked at his wife for a long moment, then to his son who was still eating, completely unfazed by his father's hysterics. Settling back into his chair, Draco clicked his fingers for a house elf to replace his plate.

"I'll dump him tomorrow."

Potter's eyes burned even more incessantly once Brown's column reported the split.

It was ridiculous. For the last four weeks Draco had dedicated himself to completing all his paperwork on time so that he could leave for home with the rest of the masses, jostle for a Floo connection and trip Weasley up to jump the queue for a fireplace. Go home, fuck his hand, play with Scorpius and stow away into his wife's room to burn Potter's latest letter.

At five to four, the report on the suspicious movements of Avery and his dancing washing line had been returned from the Unspeakable department because he'd filled out the forms for a high powered spy-glass wrong. The form was nine pages long and took almost an hour and a half to fill out all over again. He'd ducked under his desk when Potter had stridden through the empty rows of desks, pulling purple tape from his pocket as he went by. He had been harder to concentrate on the Form of Evil with a hard on.

He'd eventually filled it out and folded all nine sheets into a neat, though admittedly thick, aeroplane and tapped it with his wand to zoom out by itself to the Unspeakable Department. And then he began the arduous task of sneaking out of the building.

He had heard the sound of punching and exertion from inside the room, but he'd been too busy trying to tiptoe down the corridor to notice a stall in noise coming from inside the room. One minute he was being the Master of Stealth and the next a hand had grabbed his waist and he was pinned down on a mat in another room, face smooshed into the floor and a panting body pressed against his back.

"I win."

"Fuck off!" yelled Draco, trying to kick backwards.

A mouth brushed against the shell of his left ear, a stubbled chin digging into his shoulder and hot, moist air ticking inside his ear. He froze. "You've been avoiding me."

Potter was heavy. He was pressing Draco so hard into the floor it was difficult to breathe and he was sure his heart was being compressed in his chest cavity, pausing in its ba-dum ba-dum. It certainly wasn't because Potter's muscles were not the only hard bit he could feel pressing into him.

His thigh twitched and Potter made a little sound, shifting by a fraction to line up his cock to the curve of Draco's arse. Denim was a thick material and Draco hadn't put up any huge objections to wearing these sorts of clothes when Astoria had suggested a more Muggle-tolerant wardrobe. Even through his Muggle loving seams, Draco could feel the slow grind of Potter's hips.

Draco didn't turn his head in case his mouth pressed to the other man's. "What are you doing?" hissed Draco into the floor. Sweat from forming at the base of his spine from the effort to remain stoic. He almost jumped a mile when fingers fell on his waist and then wiggled up searchingly under his top, pads slipping on sweat.

"You've been avoiding me, haven't you? Well, it isn't on, Malfoy. Tell me you don't want me. Tell me," a firm grip flipped him over and the fingers on his back slid round and settled in his bellybutton. Swirling into the dip as green eyes stared too closely into his face. Potter was millimetres away, so close that he blurred. Draco could see nothing but green eyes, but he knew that any attempt to talk would make his lips brush Potter's gritted teeth. "Tell me that I disgust you, and I'll leave you alone."

Draco didn't move. He couldn't think. Astoria had sent denial letters to Potter, and Potter was married and had two boys, and didn't like ex-Death Eaters because he was a hero and he had people like Weasley for friends, and it was all so improbable and would be a scandal that could ruin everything if it came to light in the wrong way and –

Potter pressed a finger hard into Draco's stomach, pushing his bellybutton towards his spine. "Tell me," he begged, trying to get Draco's attention. "Tell me you hate me and I can stop bloody thinking about you all the damn time…just…say something."

Draco licked his lips and thought of the day he'd met his wife. She'd been petite and he owed her for the life he led now. He'd promised her one thing. Permission to choose his lovers. Moving his lips, it took a moment for his voice to be brave the articulation of his thoughts. "You win."

Potter's kiss was full of teeth because the stupid loon was smiling.

Potter's hair was awful. Astoria's hair was spun like silk and he had once walked in to see Kingsley Shacklebolt brushing her hair in the reflection of her vanity, naked together. All her hair had turned static with every run of the brush in the low morning light and Draco remembered through the haze of shock that she was not as pretty as her sister. If Daphne had made the same offer of marriage, Draco might have put more effort into keeping his vow of enforced chastity. Potter's hair was something else though. It was thick and warmer near the roots and Draco found it very difficult to stop carding his fingers through the mess or using it as a anchor while Harry struggled to pull their clothes off without breaking their lips apart.

By the time he'd gotten Draco naked and slick against the mats, he was jabbering nonsense into Draco's neck, too focused, it seemed, on just being close, pressing Draco through the floor again to be near. "What are you into?" asked Harry. His voice was thick and moist against Draco's collarbone; his hands were curving round the swell of Draco's arse, coaching Draco's thighs to press around him.

Draco was suddenly struck with a ridiculous image; a crup trying to mount the back of Hagrid's old boarhound. Potter was a monstrosity of a man, and while Draco prided himself on being svelte, it had probably never entered Potter's mind to let Draco top. Straight men never did and as far as Draco knew, Potter had had only one true love and it had been ginger and female. "You can fuck me," offered Draco graciously.

Potter didn't seem to hear.

One minute he was licking the hollow of Draco's throat reverently, and then the next second he'd disappeared from view and placed his face straight into Draco's naked crotch. Draco had been unprepared to say the least. He swore loudly, both of his hands flying down to grip at that mop of black hair that was bobbing up and down with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. God, it was a terrible blowjob. Potter seemed to be under the impression that his penis was an oversized clitoris and at the same time, it was glorious because Potter's mouth felt like rebellion.

His extramarital dalliances had all been carefully regimented and documented releases of sexual tension before now. As he trust upwards eagerly, his body remembered what true lust was and it was in the shape of a thunderbolt.

"Fucking hell, a bit more…" begged Draco. His hips thrust up without his consent, he desperately tried to push Potter's head down to make that glorious talented tongue and tight suction slip further down his dick. The reaction was not pleasing. Draco almost sobbed when Potter moved away. "You bastard, come bac –"

Harry, unfazed by a patented Malfoy temper tantrum, sat up and began unwinding the purple tape from around his hands. His movements were swift. Before Draco could so much as grab Potter's head a put it back where God should have fused it, Harry grabbed each of his arms and began binding his wrists together. Smiling like a loon, Potter said, "If you don't mind, I'd rather not have two bald patches."

And then he was back. Draco's taped wrists were pinned against his hip as Potter went back to licking and mouthing at his cock. Draco could do nothing left but whine and squirm on the mats.

Draco tensed his thighs as he gathered the courage to look down without blowing his load too soon. Potter's lips were a smear of red in the bright lights of the training room, his dark fringe hanging down over one side of his face and tangling in Draco's wiry curls, and his eyes, open and watchful. They measured every writhe Draco couldn't quite contain with a mirthful twinkle. Thoughts of Dumbledore's influence staved off his orgasm from the brink, which was helpful because Potter gave a cheeky wink before swiftly licking a stripe down his shaft, over his balls and across his hole.


Draco felt his face flush as the sound of slurping accompanied the sensation of Potter's amazing – how had he ever thought this man was straight? – tongue stabbing and swirling around his twitching arsehole. The slick muscle moved in and out to stretch, pulling out to whirl teasingly around the rim and then dip back inside. Draco could not contain voicing how utterly brilliant he found Potter's depravity.

Andrew had called it unhygienic except every once in a blue moon.

"Please, please, god - get up here!" Draco could hardly talk for choking on moans. Thankfully, Potter indulged him. Harry hoisted Draco's bound hands above his head as he raised himself back up to settle against Draco's chest.

Potter hovered above him, close and smiling while two fingers wormed their way inside Draco. He could hardly breathe to think. Potter was so close, so real and hot. Warm fingers were stroking the purple tape about his wrists, tracing circles in time with the hand that was stretching him. Probing, searching fingers that were jabbing in different angles until Draco's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he arched a few extra millimetres into Harry's chest. A chuckle washed warm air over Draco's face as Potter continued to stab at his prostate, merciless in drawing the warmth into his stomach and the pressure into his balls.

Draco had thought Potter was leaning so close because he was without his glasses, which he would have taken off to train.

"God," his green eyes were moving, cataloguing every inch of Draco's pleasure, "I wish I could kiss you."

Draco gave a laugh and leant up, pressing their lips and tongues together. Harry was hesitant. Only when air became a necessity did Draco proclaim Harry stupid. A gay man and a wizard beside, Draco was rigorously clean, arse-breathe was unlikely and he wouldn't have cared a jot either. He gave a little wiggle, hitching one thigh out the way and told Potter's blushing cheek to get a move on.

The fingers twisted a few more times and then the emptiness was replaced with a wet nudge. Harry was panting, muttering indistinct prayers but all Draco could do was tilt his hips up and pump them uselessly. The hand around his wrists gripped tightly and Draco didn't have to beg the idiot to move because with one firm thrust, Harry pushed past through the resisting ring of his body. Draco would liked to have remembered the small 'oh' sound of Potter's first gay experience, but inch by inch of hard cock pushed forward without care. Potter didn't stop to savour anything; he seemed too desperate to pause for the miracle of the sensation.

They both began moving against one another in a furious, desperate pace. Each of their sobs and groans echoed against the sound of flesh hitting flesh, Potter's hips were slapping against his hard enough to leave bruises that would spell 'Harry Potter was here' in broken capillaries. Draco's dick was being pressed into his abdomen, rubbed by Harry's stomach as they kissed in a mindless mixture of teeth, tongue and laughter.

Every time Potter thrust, Draco would slid across the mats, perspiration and desperation slicking his back. Every ten or so thrusts later, Draco would be an inch or two further away and Potter would scramble after him, just like in life outside the training room. Potter was the first to come, scrambling up inside Draco with a cry of utter rapture, mouth slack and eyes closed against the pleasure. Draco felt a moment of smug pride swell somewhere inside him, probably where the head of Potter's cock was giving a last rub against his prostate. He'd put that look on Harry Potter's face.

And then Potter grabbed his cock and looked smug back.

When Draco was sticky inside and out and Potter was refusing to pull out, the sentimental fool, Draco thought about his wife and how she would be furious when she found.

Potter's two boys looked like hyperactive little brats. They jostled and kicked at each other's shins, shoving one another as they said their goodbyes to the backdrop of The Hogwarts Express.

Draco measured Ginerva Potter's face, trying to judge whether her face was only blotchy because she was sending her children off to school. He couldn't tell. Potter himself was lost in a sea of Weasleys but it didn't matter because they would see each other at work in an hour.

Dropping down, Draco pressed a kiss to Scorpius' head, discretely from the rest of the world in the nook of Platform Nine and Three Quarters. His son smiled widely up at him, nervous and excited in a way that only children could be, and allowed Astoria her turn to press him for a hug and last minute advice on how to trick the sorting hat into putting him into any house but Slytherin.

"Any house you like is fine by me, I'll be proud of anything," said Draco. "Write often." Astoria pressed her elbows into his ribs.

Scorpius didn't seem to understand the war going on between his parents and ran off towards the train with a large amount of undignified shoving through Weasley clans.

As the train started up, Draco caught Potter's eye. Ginerva was waving frantically to the train as if her children would never return and then fell into a limp slump as the train disappeared all together. She returned to her husband's side and looped her arm in his.

However, Potter nodded to him.

The plan was to go forward.

Draco slid a finger under the cuff of his long sleeved robe and drew strength enough to say, "I want a divorce."

Astoria head spun round and gave him a silent and very cold look. Ginerva Potter nee Weasley was making odd choking noises from across the platform.

"I built your family back up," Astoria hissed, "I am the one who did it all, you ungrateful whore. You only spread your legs like a cheap –"

"Astoria," Draco cut her off. He fingered the purple careworn tape wrapped neatly around his wrist that Potter had wrapped there lovingly a few hours before. "For the last time, you are not my pimp."

The End