Author: tigersilver
Title: HD 'A Good Thing (Why Ruin It?)'
Rating: R
WC: 4,900
Pairing: H/D (Drarry, actually, so Top!Draco)
Warnings/Summary: In honour of the slythindor100* LDWS Fest. One of their recent prompts was 'Veritaserum'. Also in honour of hd_seasons* , where the theme for the Liplocked Fest is 'snogging'. I couldn't participate in either, sadly, but this bunny bit me. Nasty thing!

HD 'A Good Thing (Why Ruin It?)'

Draco whirled through Potter's Floo with his usual contained fluidity, arriving on Potter's small hearth with a long stride that took him the three full steps across the spark-proofed rug. An automatic wand wave and a careless hand through the hair left him spotless; he was on Potter before Potter had a chance to greet him.

"Potter. Ready for supper? Or an appetizer first?" he said, and took the man between both hands. Leaned in to claim Potter's mouth with his already open, not waiting for a reply. They'd just parted ways but an hour before at the Ministry, but Draco had been antsy since their early morning Staff check-in and he was weary of the feeling.

Relief. He craved relief.

"Malf—" Potter managed, before Draco snogged him again, changing up the angle of his jaw so he could forage deeper, both hands buried in Harry's hair. Harry obliged, which was exactly what was wanted.

"Wha—?" he tried again a moment later, but Draco didn't allow him room to maneuver—or finish asking whatever it was. A shove and a twist had their legs neatly interwoven and Draco's hands firmly grasping Potter's side and spine. He sank in again, tongue all about seeking, and slurped his way 'round Harry's teeth and gums, under his tongue, which twined and twisted, and deep into the spongy flesh of cheeks.

Draco was clad in his winter cloak, a many caped garment in charcoal-coloured lambswool, and he'd changed from his Unspeakable robes to a pair of well-fitted Muggle-style denim trousers and very dark green sueded-silk shirt, tails left carelessly untucked beneath an embroidered vest of black leather. Decked out in his pointy-toed, highly polished, coal black dragonhide half-boots and with his hair artfully mussed, he cut a handsome figure and knew it. Potter, garbed in his usual after-work outfit of ancient greyish denims and a t-shirt, had been staring with lips parted when he'd swept in, which was precisely what Draco wanted.

Attention: he loved it.

"Um," Harry said, when Draco finally allowed him the chance, and both were panting heavily against the other's lips. "I, er. I was wondering if we could—"

"Hmm? What, Potter?"

Draco interrupted him, taking the opportunity to nibble his way along Harry's jaw and then follow that line logically over to an earlobe. He mouthed the swell of it, nipping just enough to elicit the moan he wanted, and then slid his smeared lips over Harry's again. The man sagged into him, apparently giving up on whatever bee he had in his bonnet, for the moment. Which was all well and good; Draco wasn't here for conversation.

He thrust his tongue straight back into that glorious mouth and proceeded to fuck it, jabbing and licking, biting 'round the edges and into the soft flesh of Harry's lips, in and out, rolling back the red inner flesh and biting. Harry groaned through a frantic swallow of mingled saliva, and Draco smiled. He wanted this badly; it had been two whole Merlin-bedamned days since they'd been together outside of the office, and he was hungry for more than food.

"Mmm-no, no," Harry shook his mussed head again, fretfully. But he wasn't exactly fighting Draco off, either. Not with his body, at least.

"Don't want to go out, no?" he murmured after another long moment of devouring Potter's lips, stifling the 'No'. He didn't care to hear them, the negatives. Raised one blond brow superciliously and smirked. "That's alright by me, Potter. Order your take-away and we'll stay right here."

"No! No—erm, that's not what I meant, Malfoy." Harry managed to yank his neck and head back a little ways, enough to summon up a scowl and shoot it off to Draco.

"Yes? Spit it out, Potter," Draco ordered, but then he undermined any chance of that, by shifting diametrically along the length of Potter, wrapping his arms a little tighter and trapping the smaller man's legs irretrievably between his protected ankles. He was that inch or so taller, and there was that angle he could bring to bear—he used it, bringing a knee forwards, bent, and conveniently knocking Potter's weight off kilter. Perforce, Potter was carried along at a stumbling drag, backwards, until his spine fetched up against his own sitting room wall.


The archway that led to the kitchenette was next to it; the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms and loo lay on the other side through a second arch; they were but seventeen short steps away from Potter's bedroom. Draco grinned his pleasure and latched onto Harry's throat with a little growl.

"You were saying?" he asked, his satisfied voice muffled by the skin of Harry's neck. "Potter?"

He'd been waiting, and not too patiently, all for this—dinner and a shag, or maybe a shag and then dinner. Didn't matter, the order. Didn't matter what they ate or where, either. It was sufficient he was where he wanted to be and he was going dizzy on the strength of that, alone.

"No—um—I meant," Potter, evidently derailed, spat out little bursts of words, his green eyes wide behind the rapid flutter of his sooty lashes.

"What did you mean, then?" Draco wanted to know, between short little sucks that had Harry writhing. "Mmm? Tell me?"

"Ummm…" Harry moaned, and then set his hands on both of Draco's wide shoulders, shoving him back a bare inch or so. "Um. Stop. Stop that. If you can back the hell off for two seconds, Malfoy, I will."

"Can't wait," Draco replied promptly. "I want you, Potter."

He dove back in, not waiting to be denied, not waiting for anything, inserting his eager tongue into Harry's ear this time, swirling it about in a way he knew left Potter's knees rubbery. Harry liked it when Draco invaded all his orifices; preferred it more when Draco ganged up his tongue and digits and prick on him, filling as many of Harry's holes as possible, all at once.

This was a taste, he thought, an appetizer, and ran his fingertips over Harry's mouth, silently coaxing for entry.

"Hmmm," Harry conceded again and took in those fingers instead. "Mmm'foy," he mouthed 'round them, and the world itself dipped sideways, before taking a great upwards swoop. Certainly the wall did, and the room behind them, that Draco knew as well as he knew his own, after two years.

"Mmm, I so do," he murmured in reply, knowing the vibration of his voice would make Harry shiver. He was lightheaded, he realized, and blamed it on deprivation. Made his head buzz and his blood sing in strange high tune, waiting and wanting.


Whatever—it worked; Harry shuddered, beneath the grope and twist of fingers and the open-jawed gnawing, and Draco snuffled along his collarbone and up, searching with his lips and reluctantly taking away his fingers, till he could at last relax against the heat and slippery silk of Potter's lips, the damp hand sipping down and then up off the slope of Harry's shoulder to ruffle his hair into random curls. The other roamed down, squeezing at waist and then spreading possessively over Harry's bum, to grasp it and flex there, pulsing. He tightened his grip, both at Harry's nape and his beautiful tight bottom, and managed to bring them yet closer, his weight an anchor to keep Harry pinned in place.

His lover simmered below him, blinking and twitching under hands and mouth and eyes, and Draco's cloak was like a bloody sauna. He shrugged it off with a relieved sigh. The brooch clattered away in a tinkle of metal on tile, unheeded.

And was struck again by what had dragged him here in the first place; the force that drove him to fondle and pat and herd Potter, until he had him just where Draco wanted him. Seventeen steps? He could do it in ten!

Potter was always so hot—literally. He steamed with innocent sex appeal, Harry did. Draco—once he'd figured out why Potter left him so fucking hot and bothered nearly every time they were thrown together—had made his move, wasting no time. Been repulsed the first few tries, naturally. Potter had been with the Weasley chit for a while, then with that wanker Finch-Fletchly for a month, then with Anthony Goldstein for maybe three dinners and possibly a meaningless lay. It was when Blaise took to talking up his chances—how he and Potter might hook up at a Ministry social—that Draco had finally put his extremely expensive hand-made leather boot down quite firmly.

Laid his groundwork first, like a good little agent-in-training. Chatted Potter up here and there, bought him drinks, played a few rounds of darts and generally got his foot in, making nice. Then, at one of Weasley's interchangeable weekend parties, he'd used a Jellylegs on a happily soused Potter to send him reeling, straight into his open arms. Had snogged the little git up against the wall and in clear view of all the blokes and bints they both worked with, and then dragged him off to Granger-Weasley's blue-and-white chintz loo, to stake his claim with one of his trademark blowjobs.

Best three minutes he'd spent, he reflected after, pouring Potter into bed back at his flat. Hadn't looked back since, really. Not in two years.

It had worked beautifully, his plan of seduction, after a fashion. Potter had been a bit disbelieving that Draco wanted him, but Draco was excellent at the art of persuasion. It was an art, his sly wooing of Potter. He'd done it by dint of always being available and Johnny-on-the-spot—with dinner invites, with flowers (Potter was such a bloody girl; raved over chocs, too), with a friendly shoulder to lean on when Potter wanted to vent all his training woes on someone who understood him, and then too, with sex, sex, and more sex. Which, by leagues and miles, was the most effective technique Draco had going. Potter loved to shag; no, he more than merely loved it. He was a fucking physical chap for all his brooding looks and slight figure, just as Draco was; twisty and limbre and very fit under those scarlet robes of his. But Draco had the advantage, being experienced in many more ways than Potter could even conceive of, poor sod, and he'd kept it for more than two years now.

"Then what, Potter?" he questioned again, teasing, rubbing his greedy hands down Harry's flanks. He wasn't bad at inflicting a bit of righteous confusion, either; could divert Harry as he wished, if he set his mind to it. "You wanted to say something?"


Harry pried his eyelids open with difficulty. Draco knew he was susceptible to petting; he kept it up, a slow steady glide of hands everywhere he could reach, without ever lifting them. Pressed Harry back into the painted plaster and ground his hips into the firmness that met them, too, for emphasis.

He really was in need; there was no blood left in his braincase—it was all fled to his poor cock, throbbing. He could barely think fast enough to be facetious, much less clever. Harry had been away for a whole day, rounding up a stray hippogriff in northern Wales, and they'd not managed to meet up the day previous.

Draco hated waiting.

"Um, well," Harry muttered finally, not meeting his lover's eyes. "I was thinking—I need—ah, we need to sit down, before we go any further, and have a little chat—"

Oh, fuck. Draco knew where this was going—and it wasn't happening; not on his watch. Total mood killers, these 'little chats' of Potter's. The Weasley must have taught him about those, and he could hex her for it, ruining Potter's sweet boyish naiveté with the howling cryout for womanish chatter.

In Draco's opinion, nothing could kill a decent shagging moment faster than the words 'We have to talk.'

"Don't think—feel," he interjected, instantly on the offensive. "Feel this, Potter," he groaned, and rolled his hips into Harry's at a much faster rate, so the fabric of their jeans pressed taut against the flesh beneath, threads scraping; the metal buttons of their flies catching in a tangle. "Feel me."

His dick had been half-hard for what seemed like years; he jiggled it now behind the constricting stretch of his silk skivvies and felt Harry's answering shiver. Git was as hard as he was; this silly want Harry had for a talk could go hang. They'd better things to do with their time.

Draco had Potter's jeans unbuttoned and shoved down his hips in a flash and his hand on that cock of his immediately thereafter, stoking and stroking. A little wrist action, and Harry was mouth open and eyes closed…which was also perfect.

Harry groaned; Draco grinned, pleased as punch.

"You're beautiful, you know that?" he asked Harry, which he hadn't necessarily meant to confess, but Harry recovered enough to smile tentatively at him, and a little flattery never hurt any situation.

"I am?"

Dinner could wait.

"Potter," he moaned, and pressed harder, falling into a rhythmic pump, frotting up against the give and take of Harry's body. He adored Harry's body: so supple, and smelt so good, salty and clean and of heather. The firm flesh and angles—Harry's chin, Harry's ribcage, Harry's arse—the hollows and dips; all of it fascinated Draco. He'd lie in whichever bed they landed in and touch for hours, keeping Harry on the edge or petting him into a decent sleep, either/or, but always touching. As if Harry were the potion Draco needed to get by: his full blown addiction, and Draco a greedy git who indulged himself and guzzled Harry down, over and over.

"Harry," he whispered into the light stubble on Harry's chin, and kissed him again. He didn't want to talk, or eat, or anything but this. Only this.


But Potter was insistent, despite Draco; was wrenching away, or snaking himself, rather, slipping his slight form sideways and wriggling, even as Draco's fingers clenched on retreating cloth. Git shimmied himself over far enough to twist off the dividing wall between the flat's living room and kitchenette, and sprang completely away, hiking his trousers up as he scrambled, to arrive standing a foot or so distant from Draco, panting furiously.

Draco thought instantly of Harry's Patronus, the stag, and knew this was how it would look, brought to bay. He stilled, and waited, canny in his nebulous fear.

"Malfoy, I—we should—I have something I need to talk to you about. Tonight. Right now."

"Potter!" Draco groaned, reluctantly following, a hand carefully outstretched. "Not now, alright? Wait a bit—I want you. And—and, I can't think straight with it. I want you very much, Potter. It's been two days."

"But—but, that's it, Malfoy!" Harry protested, hands out before him and stumbling backwards again, along the edge of the living room proper. "I—we—need to discuss this—this thing. It's been on my mind and I have to!"

He was pale, but for two spots flushing his cheeks, and his eyes glittered, feverishly. It sent a wickerd-arse chill panging right through Draco's midsection, that.

Draco admired all of Harry; really, he did. Had come to, over time: his single-mindedness, his quicksilver temper, quick to flashpoint and quicker to subside…even those rather girly 'feelings' he hid so well. All of it was essential bits of Harry; it made him what he was, what Draco craved—and what Draco owned, whether Harry realized it or not. Potter was Draco's, like it or not. But it irked Draco, too, this small rebellion of his.

It had been two days. Potter should be gagging for a shag as much as he was—and, more importantly, he should be better able to control Potter's tendency to go all emotional. He should be the one calling the shots and Harry should be the one going along with. Within reason, of course. Draco meant no harm; he just couldn't let Harry know…exactly. Bad, that would be bad. Very.

Granger-Weasley had said Harry's childhood had been 'less than optimal'; the Weasley chit had talked of gaps in Harry's trust, his inability to feel 'properly', whatever that meant. It was all so much rubbish, likely, but Draco wasn't taking chances, not with Harry. They had sex to tie them together, and companionship. Work and mates in common and shared experiences, going years back. That was the stuff that counted, the meat of it. He didn't need Harry scampering off with some wrong-headed notion they needed 'more' between them—or worse yet, have him come to believe they didn't have 'enough'. They had plenty. It was working, ticking over like a well-oiled Muggle machine, thanks to Draco's care and tending, and it would continue…if they didn't talk it to death.

So that was the primary thing: shut Potter up. Distract him. Which might be difficult, as Draco didn't feel so hot. He'd almost believe he was ill, but no—this was all down to wanting Harry. Frustration could do that to a man; put him off his mettle, fuck him up.


Draco threw up his hands and shook his head, decisively, firmly. He assumed an expression he sincerely hoped was both come-hither and reassuring. Weird mix, but that was what Potter needed now. Pets and fucks.

"Not now, Potter. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now, you need to come here," Draco urged and he opened his arms, advancing steadily, because Potter wasn't going to get another sodding chance to pull this shite on him. Potter just needed a good shag, same as Draco did. They were men, bloody men—they didn't need much other than a good shag to set them straight. Blow out the cobwebs.

Release. It was that. Harry just needed a chance to get it all out—and Draco could give him that chance, as often as he needed it, in spades.

"No, really, Malfoy, I want to talk to you."

He was a lot closer now than he had been a moment ago, but not quite close enough.

"Come on, Potter. Forget about that for now; come on over here. I want to hold you, have a little snog—and there's dinner yet. We're set to go out, Potter, remember? You said you wanted it."


Harry was abruptly wild-eyed, the green flashing and rolling. He shied another step, like a spooked stallion—a Welsh pony, maybe. All sturdy and smallish and stubborn as a bloody mule. But Draco was finally able to lay his hands gingerly on Potter's shoulder blades, all the same. He sidled in, sideways, so Potter wouldn't notice.

"No, Malfoy," Harry told him. "Look, I've been thinking this over—what I want. I mean, it's been—it's been great, these last two years—"


Draco halted, his hands ceasing their reflexive ghosting just above Harry's shirt, where his fingertips had been the only contact between them. Harry stilled as well, crossing his arms over his chest. His lower lip was thrust out; it looked chewed upon and not just by Draco—and he looked to be all of three years old and very mutinous.

Draco felt as though he'd been walloped. Fucking poleaxed, out of the clear blue. What in Merlin-fuck had brought this on? Had he done something? Had someone dared mess with Harry? Because he'd destroy them, grind them into the soil, so shredded they'd not even be food for the earthworms.

"Potter, what are you saying, exactly? You bored? It's the 'same old, same old', right? Too much of a good thing, yeah? Well, we can fix that right up; I know a few tricks I've not even showed you yet—come closer. We'll get this sorted."

"No," Potter said again, and backed up again, but not by much. He'd made the hearth rug with all this retreating and Draco was afraid he might bolt altogether, the little git—leave him stranded.

He had always had to be handled, Potter did, and quite carefully. Luckily, Draco had puzzled him out, because flowers and sweets were only effective the first few times and Draco was in for the long haul. So... Harry was a bit shy, even for an ex-Gryffindor, and he didn't like random strangers to get too close to him. Didn't know what to do with them; didn't like them asking him questions. He valued his space, Potter did, same as Draco, and was damned mulish about allowing people to intrude.

"No. Malfoy. We need to discuss this. I'm not—I won't just forget about it, or be—be diverted, alright? It's important—important to me, at least. I need to know, Malfoy. I need you to tell me."

"Then what, Potter?" Draco demanded. He tapped a toe impatiently. Dinner, then. He could change the subject over a meal; then they'd stop by the new gallery he'd been saving up for a weekend night. Better sooner than never, right? It would serve as an excellent distraction. "Do you want to head on out, then? Talk about whatever it is that's so important over dinner? Because if we're not going to shag, then I am hungry. I could eat. Can talk at the same time," he essayed a charming grin, one he had down pat. "Multi-talented, don't you know?"

"Um, no." Harry flushed, a bit shamefaced. "That's not what I meant, actually. I'm not—I'm not really in the mood to eat out, Malfoy. My stomach's all wonky, right now. Er. Not sick, though. I'm not ill."

"Is it?" Draco was across the short distance that separated them in a flash, hands back on Harry, whether they were wanted or no. He didn't care about that; worry over mending fences later.

"Here, Potter?' He laid his palm across Harry's midsection. Placed the other on the git's scarred forehead, half-over those incredible green eyes, silently thanking Salazar he'd been blessed with cool fingers. They'd served to soothe even his own headaches; they might help Harry's.


Harry, startled, jumped, but didn't instantly pull away, so Draco took heart again. Rubbed Harry's temples and smiled down at him. Harry smiled right back; maybe not with a lot of enthusiasm, but then, he wasn't coming across as a man who planned on fleeing the second Draco dared blink, either.

It was alright; Draco was certain of it. Just a hump. Random, but Harry was random.

And this wasn't so serious, then. Maybe someone had just made a passing nasty remark at work, about them—about him. Happened all the time, that. There were still plenty who didn't really approve of his connection to Harry; mostly those who simply didn't know Harry well enough to know what made him happy, but were still of the opinion they owned a piece of the Saviour, simply because he was the Saviour.

The other kind—the ones that really knew Harry, the Gryffs and the Weasley-Granger lot—they'd gotten over their own egos eons ago. They'd bowed to the inevitable, some sanguine, some not: their Harry seemed happy enough having Malfoy in his life—in his bed—and they were satisfied Harry was doing well.

But, yes. People still gossiped. They were petty or small-minded, or just plain nosy gits. He could jolly Harry out of it, given a smidgen of opportunity; pet him a bit and stroke his ego; listen. Then they'd shag and order in some grub and he'd spend the night at Harry's flat.

No, not so bad, Draco decided. Just a little change of plans, was all.

"How do you feel about me, Malfoy?" Harry asked. Out of the clear blue again and to speak of pole-axing? It was happening, right here and right now.

The frigging room spun. For real. Draco let his body sink forward, till their foreheads pressed together. He felt…a bit shaky, and maybe it wasn't the case of stony-blue bollocks he was sporting. Maybe it was something else.

How did he feel? Oh, for fuck's sake! What kind of stupid, namby-pamby sort of question was that?

Draco's fingers tightened on Harry's shoulders. He didn't know what to say, really—how to reply to a question of that ilk. But his mouth was moving. He heard his own voice, and wondered why. What was he saying?

"I want to fuck you, Harry, and feed you, and then fuck you again, till that frown goes away," his mouth blurted out, fairly calmly, actually, for something so—so crude, and Draco blushed. At himself. Gods, but that was raw! He sounded all of sixteen again; not at all a sophisticated man of twenty-two, a man who knew how to play the game and keep his lover, but more like the veriest twat of a boy, stumbling.

Come on! What the fuck was up with that?

"How long do you want to do that, Draco?" Harry asked softly, nestling into Draco's (probably blushing bright red) chest, and the brush of his long lashes against Draco's nose was the most wonderful thing he'd ever felt.

"Wh-what? What did you say, Potter?"

"How long do you want to fuck me, Draco—and feed me, for that matter? How many days—months? How long a time, Draco?" he repeated, when Draco only gawped at him, stupid mouth stupidly open.

"Forever," Draco's mouth glibly announced, and his heart bloody stopped working. Ceased beating in his chest and stood stock still. It was very, very quiet in Harry's flat. "Why?" He had to ask.

Shouldn't, yeah, but had to. Merlin damn it.

"I needed to know," Harry replied simply, and tilted his head back by a few inches; just enough for Draco to see clearly the little git was grinning like a loon. And then arsehole Potter stuck his ruddy tongue out at Draco and wriggled it insouciantly, right under his nose, practically licking it, and Draco goggled.

"And now I do, thanks."

He knew Harry had some quirks and maybe he acted oddly upon occasion—hoarded food, yelled out some pretty strange stuff when he was dreaming, and never, but never bought new clothes unless Draco forced him—but, this? What had Draco ever done to deserve this? Other than make a total sop of himself, of course, acting like a teenager in the midst of a huge swooning pash over some pop idol.

Draco didn't get it. Wasn't, er, twigging.

"Excuse me?" he gasped. "Pardon?"

"Veritaserum," Harry remarked, as if it were nothing much. "Nicked it from Dawlish's office. On my tongue, when you first snogged me, coming in. I had to ask you a question."

"Oh? And…did you get the answer you wanted?"

That was another thing Draco had to know. He might've just fucked up his chances; in fact, the odds were really supremely high he had, and Harry was biding his time and waiting for the right moment to hand him his congé and then—and then. "Or not?"

"I did," Harry smiled up at him most beatifically. It was also lovely, that. Not anywhere near as good as shagging, but..still. Very nice. "It was fantastic, thanks. So, er, Draco?"


"Ask me a question. Go ahead."


"Ask me something. Something you really want to know, alright? That you've always wondered. About me, I mean. Not to be a conceited prat, but there's probably something, right?"

"Yes," Draco replied promptly. "I've wanted to know why you never stayed with anyone—and what would make you stay. What I could do to keep you with me."

"Then ask away, Draco." Harry stuck his red, red tongue out again and wiggled it, and that left Draco feeling dizzy as fuck. Bastarding sneaky little Slytheriish prat, Potter. "Veritaserum, remember? Six drops, three for you and three for me. Potent stuff."

It struck Draco he should really be feeling immensely angry, right at the moment. And he wasn't. At all.

"Right." Now Draco got it—finally. Duh! He didn't know why it had taken him so very long; maybe it was only the potion, fogging his faculties, but if Harry had ingested it too, then Draco was damned well leveraging that small advantage. If nothing else, he had to keep this on even par, and not lose any more ground than he already had. He'd ask Harry about the sex; force him to admit it was what he needed. "So, Potter. You going to dump me now—or what? For what I said?"

Apparently, Draco's mouth wasn't a team player. It seemed to have gone independent.


"Sure about that?" Draco seriously considered hexing his own lips right off. It would be kinder.


"How long? How long do I have? How much time?"

Oh, gawds, the real death knell to a relationship—sodding begging for more time from an unwilling partner. He'd fall through the fucking floor from shame if he weren't already glomming on Potter.


Harry blinked, blushed, glanced away and back, fidgeting, and twisted his very nice firm lips into something rather shy and utterly adorable, and what ended up to be an utterly brand new expression for him. One Draco had simply never seen Potter wear, not in two years. Not ever.

Draco worked on much simpler items, such as lung function. It was taking a significant time for that to kick back in, he felt, seeing stars…or perhaps that was just the lights in Harry's amazing eyes.

"Forever?" he parroted, soon as he was able, all systems mainly 'go!'


Harry nodded emphatically, blushing yet a deeper rose, and this time met Draco's stare head on and wide-eyed.

Draco blinked.

"Then fucking come here, Harry."