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Back to Part Four
"Wait up, Ianto!"
Despite being grateful that Jack had followed him from the Broomsticks, Ianto didn't slow his long strides. The last thing he wanted was to have this out with his boss in front of the Hogwarts alumni still wandering through the village. It was bad enough that Malfoy had gotten involved. Ianto shuddered at the disturbing memory of that dance. It had been shocking to hear the class bully mention Jack's name, but even more worrying was how Ianto could almost still feel the imprint of hands on his hips, his pent-up arousal that he'd buried deep and violently as soon as Malfoy took his leave. And then to see the two of them sitting at the bar, chatting like old friends…
"What are you doing here, Jack?" he growled.
"I came to find you!" Jack said. Ianto was pleased to notice he sounded a little breathless. He sped his steps up by a notch. "You wouldn't say where you were going, so I put a tracker in your car."
Right. Because he could not be trusted, and all those apologies and attempts to atone for his betrayal of Torchwood had been for naught. Jack had offered his forgiveness, offered another chance as if he'd meant it, but he didn't. He couldn't. Ianto would forever bear the presumption of guilt.
But the truth of it was that he was guilty. He did have a secret, one bigger even than Lisa. And he needed to keep it.
"Ianto, wait! We need to talk about this."
Ianto froze, foot on the first step to Hogsmeade Station, fists clenched to restrain the sharp tongue that he would surely regret unleashing on his boss. Talk was the last thing they needed, especially when Jack's way of talking made Ianto imagine things untenable. Absolution. Honesty. Maybe even genuine affection. Silver-tongued persuasion had never sounded so good as it did on Jack's lickable lips.
No. Jack needed to be returned to the Muggle world. Jack had to be Obliviated. And Ianto must make sure that he never, ever did anything again that hinted he was more than a teaboy.
Jack caught him up while he hesitated, spurring Ianto to repeat what he'd said before. "You should not be here."
"Ianto, you're a wizard! Why didn't you tell me?"
And wasn't that just like the man? Ignoring what was important, latching onto whatever thoughts interested him. Positively infuriating. Ianto answered with clipped precision, wondering when his long-forgotten hex reflex had re-emerged. "There are rules that prevent us from revealing our true existence. Not unlike yourself." Ianto was pleased at getting Jack's attention, albeit a bit disappointed that Jack had underestimated him. Who did he think ran Torchwood's archives anyway? He'd been trusted with those secrets, just like he had governed his own. And with that thought to brace him, his oak wand slid into his palm. "We also have our own version of Retcon for cases like this."
"You'd rather do that than explain why you lied to me?"
Jack's voice wasn't angry. Anger, Ianto could have dealt with. But this quiet resignation was crushing. This was about trust, after all, and why Ianto would never have it. He steeled himself with rationality and the explanation that hopefully Jack could appreciate. "I … I didn't lie. I couldn't tell you. Our secret is more closely guarded than Torchwood's." And wasn't that the truth. No one had ever declared themselves a wizard when ordering pizza. "It has to be that way, Jack. When we're discovered, people aren't just upset, they're terrified. Look at the witch hunts, Jack, the Inquisition, Salem…"
"I didn't say I wanted it broadcast to the world," Jack interrupted, "but you should have told me. I need to know what you can do, just like I need to make sure Gwen can shoot straight and Tosh can hack any network."
Jack didn't get it. He couldn't, Ianto knew, and that wasn't his fault. Ianto wasn't sure he got it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd erased someone's memories. He'd never doubted that it was for the best. But this … this was Jack, his boss, head of Torchwood Three. Surely there were exceptions?
But no, there weren't. There were responsibilities of possessing magic, Ianto had learned that when he'd gotten his wand. But he had responsibilities to Jack as well, and Ianto knew he had to try to explain—Jack would still be Obliviated, but first he had to understand. "This isn't a line I left off my C.V. I'm nothing special. I don't even do magic anymore."
"No?" Jack smirked. "That's a shame. I wanted to know more about this Joy of Wizard Sex book."
Heat flooded Ianto's cheeks, his mouth left hanging open around the comeback he wanted to make. Jack noticed, of course he noticed, and he laughed as he reached for Ianto. The coarse wool tickled Ianto's chin but Jack's hands felt strong on his back. He leaned into them, content to breathe in the faint scent of Jack's aftershave, putting off the chore of Obliviation until later.
And then he heard words that made him think it might be very much later indeed.
"You are special, Ianto Jones. I just didn't realise quite how much until tonight."
Jack's hand cupped his chin, guiding their faces closer until there was only a hair's breadth between them. They'd been this close once before. Ianto remembered the moment with startling clarity: first the panic he'd felt, the smell of death and metal around them, and then the exhilarating pressure of Jack's lips reeling him back from the brink of insanity. It surprised him how much he wanted to feel them now, and how much he wanted this time to be different. His lips moved, wishing somehow to voice this, but before words could escape Jack was kissing him. Not with the urgency of their last kiss, no. The sensation was every bit as overwhelming as it'd been last time, but this time Jack was slow and thorough, as if he wanted them both to forget that last time. Ianto had no objection to that. He opened his lips wider, releasing a surprised gasp at just how good it felt when Jack's insistent tongue plied its way inside.
But it was Ianto who pushed further the kiss that Jack seemed content to savour for hours. It was he who breached Jack's mouth with a bold slide of his tongue, his thoughts no longer on the memory of their last kiss but on the presence of this very real one. Hot and wet and so very welcoming, and Ianto needed more. Inside Jack's great coat his hands slid, across starched cloth softened by the trapped heat, across slabs of muscle that flexed under his palms as Jack pulled him closer.
Jack wrested back control with even more demanding kisses that roamed down Ianto's chin and across his jaw. Everywhere Jack touched seemed to tingle for a moment afterward, surely more than from just the cool night air, and Ianto briefly wondered what Jack's life force might truly mean—thoughts banished when Jack's teeth chomped down on his earlobe. Surprised to discover a new erogenous zone, Ianto's hips shot forward and tried to burrow into Jack's groin. Jack just chuckled warmly in his ear and, when Ianto tried to back away, gripped his bottom.
"You don't really want to leave, do you?"
As if that seductive growl weren't incentive enough to stay, Jack chose that moment to thrust forward hard enough that Ianto could feel exactly what he'd be missing. Ianto could only grunt as his back slammed against the station wall, enough answer to spark another knowing chuckle in his ear. His simmering arousal rose to full boil, his need to feel Jack without so many annoying layers of cloth in between now more urgent than ever. But first, Ianto had to make sure they weren't interrupted—and the only way he knew to do that was with magic. Reluctantly flicking his wand, he whispered the first spell he'd cast in years: "Celo occulum." As the temperature dropped like shutters around them, Jack eyed him with a mix of curiosity and glee. "A concealing charm," Ianto said shyly as Jack slid his fingers down the smooth oak stick—and who but Jack could make that look so dirty? Embarrassed, Ianto put his wand away, resorting again to comforting rationale. "It works like a time-dilation field, like the one around Hogsmea–"
Jack's response was to clamp his hands on both sides of Ianto's face, pulling him into another penetrating kiss. Seconds later fingers scrambled for his buttons, spreading his shirt wide, sliding it to the edge of his shoulders. Jack's hand raked through the thatch of dark hair there. "You are a surprise," he murmured, and Ianto wasn't sure whether he meant magic or something else, but it hardly mattered as Jack began twirling his left nipple like it was the knob on a rift detector. Ianto bit back his gasp when the teasing took on a deliciously harder edge, his flesh pebbling between nails and bites. He'd imagined that Jack would be like this, all forceful touch and sharp spikes of stimuli, but Ianto hadn't imagined that he would enjoy it quite this much.
Ianto let Jack push the shirt and jacket off his shoulders, not minding a bit when it fell to the dirty ground. He felt the rough brick of the wall against his bare back, not caring if his back was left scraped and raw. All that mattered now were Jack's hands roaming over his arms, across his chest, down his ticklish sides. Through his fingertips he seemed to be reading Ianto's skin like a blind man reading Braille. He touched everywhere, leaving Ianto flushed and feeling as aroused as he'd ever been.
Aroused, and rapidly approaching frustration as Jack's fingers slipped under his waistband and then back out again, Ianto took matters into his own hands. He wrestled with Jack's zipper, pushing unwanted trousers down his thighs and revealing the hard bulge barely constrained in his briefs. When Ianto palmed the damp cloth, pressing his fingers solid along Jack's length, Jack groaned, strangled and needy. Not a sound that Ianto had ever expected to hear from Jack's lips, so he pressed again, this time reaching further, stretching his fingertips until they just grazed the knotted sac underneath.
"Ianto…"
The unguarded desire in his name was thrilling. Ianto had imagined touching Jack like this many times, but in his fantasies he was always the one wanting. To hear Jack's need shattered his inhibitions. He plunged his hands under the elastic waistband and pushed Jack's pants down, taking hold of his impressive prize. It swelled in his hand and twitched with an impatience that reminded Ianto of Jack before his first morning espresso. Now it was Ianto's turn to torment. Delicately his thumb caressed the crown, coaxing a bead of silky liquid from the slit before his fingers ever wandered down Jack's taut shaft.
The hands that had stilled on Ianto's hips moved again, attacking his zipper with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. Ianto felt cool air kiss his bare skin for an instant before Jack's fingers encircled him. He thrust hard, the irresistible grip pulling him forward, his hand tightening on Jack at the same time and aligning their erections side by side. Brushing against each other, their scent grew and floated up to Ianto's nose. Raw, musky, it teemed with the life that their first kiss had lacked.
After a few long glides, knuckles grazing together, Jack took them both in hand. As long fingers stretched around his girth and Jack's cock rubbed slickly on the other side, Ianto felt his usually tight control begin to slip. He gripped Jack's hips as an anchor, the feel of sharp bones and flexing sinew grounding him enough to gaze up at Jack's face. The man was staring down at their hands, looking like he was watching something amazing and beautiful. Ianto could almost forget that this was Jack, worldly, experienced Jack. That expression, that bliss, because of him … Ianto's self-control took another running leap at that notion.
Jack's touch was expert, though, of that there was no doubt. Every downstroke sent sparks flying through Ianto's body, every upstroke left him panting more desperately. Jack kept their pace just irregular enough, keeping Ianto on that precarious edge for longer than he believed he could stand. "This is what Jack likes, then," Ianto thought, clinging to data and detachment to waylay his looming climax. With scientific precision he noted the firm, almost painfully tight pressure punctuated by the flurry of loose slides across a wet palm, the sweep of a rough thumb over the glans, the ragged groan when Ianto's fingers slipped into the crease between his cheeks. Ianto catalogued them all in the last remaining corner of his consciousness, alongside Jack's preferences for strong black coffee and sweet Tennessee whiskey.
But his thoughts were no match for the force building inside him, dangerously, recklessly, like skating too far on a razor-sharp edge and knowing his balance would inevitably betray. When he couldn't hold back anymore, when he felt his toes curl, when he knew that with his next exhalation he would release all that was inside, he whispered, "Consum uroborus."
The flush of wandless magic barely registered as his orgasm rocketed through him, but Jack's earsplitting groan told him that the Ouroboros Spell had worked. As Ianto's climax spewed jets of pearled fluid across Jack's hand the sensation ricocheted; in return Jack's orgasm slammed back over Ianto. His every sensation crackled over Ianto's exposed nerves, racing through them like flashfire, then whiplashing back into Jack in an endless circle of pleasure.
It could have been hours before the crashing stimuli subsided, as far as Ianto could tell. His body felt completely tattered, so boneless he would've been unable to stand if not propped between Jack and the wall, so deeply satisfied that he wished not to move for days. He shuddered again, a last aftershock quaking through his hips. Jack reacted with a shiver a split-second later; recalling that Muggles were more affected by these spells, Ianto touched Jack's arm to steady him.
"Are you all right?"
Jack whipped his head up, staring at him, speechless. Fleetingly, Ianto wondered if he had noticed how "sir" was choked back at the last minute, or if the spell had done more serious damage. Then he saw that Jack's eyes, too often veiled even when he was smiling, danced brightly.
"Are you joking? I've never felt better." His fingers, still curled lightly around Ianto's wilting cock, gave a little squeeze. "We're a mess, though."
"Here, let me." Ianto drew his wand, feeling strangely conspicuous as he mumbled, "Scourgify."
Jack stared at his clean hand, amazed, while Ianto retrieved his clothes. "No wonder the Hub's so neat."
Pocketing his wand with a grimace, Ianto backed away. "I don't do magic in the Hub. I don't do magic anymore, full stop."
"But you did then. Because you'd already decided to Retcon me, right?"
Jack's eyes bored into him as he dressed, so dark there was almost no hint of the blue Ianto knew was there. Ianto might have suspected legilimency if he didn't know better; as it was, Jack had managed to read his mind anyway.
"I … it's called Obliviation, and yes, I … well, I thought I would."
"You thought?" Jack tilted his head, curiosity creasing his brow. "You mean now you're not sure?"
Ianto shook his head. He hadn't meant to say that, he knew what he should do. But now his doubts resurfaced. Jack had witnessed the birth of the last two centuries, outliving even Professor Dumbledore; he'd died again and again to save the human race, magical as well as Muggle. Ianto wasn't qualified to make the decision he was about to make, but they'd crossed so many lines tonight that Ianto wasn't sure how to backtrack. He was sure of one thing, though: Jack couldn't be Obliviated like some Muggle who'd unwittingly stumbled onto a Quidditch pitch.
Quietly, incisively, Jack's voice pierced his thoughts. "I'm not just anybody, Ianto. You know I can keep a secret. And there's got to be a way that you can use your magic when you need to, without anyone finding out. I can help you figure that out."
Maybe it was the Ouroboros Spell still echoing each other's thoughts, or maybe Jack and he had reached the same decision independently. Ianto wasn't sure anymore. But as Jack moved closer, invading the distance that Ianto had put between them, Ianto knew that he wouldn't Obliviate him. Gingerly he took Jack's offered hand, his fingers hooking lightly on the man's wide palm.
"Besides," Jack said, his familiar cheeky grin returned, "I'd hate to forget what just happened. I think we should try that again when we get back to Cardiff. Maybe in a bed. Or on Gwen's desk. Or in the Archives."
Making his voice stern helped stifle Ianto's laughter. "I don't think that behaviour would be appropriate in the Archives, sir. We wouldn't want to damage the records."
Laughing, Jack handed him his jacket, brushing off some dust that the spell had missed. "You really are a bookslug, aren't you?" He smirked at Ianto's look of mock indignation.
"I'm a Ravenclaw, and proud of it. And if you're nice I'll show you our Tower."
"This could work," Ianto allowed himself to think for the first time. Jack, Torchwood, magic … different aspects of his life that he'd always walled off, but that might instead fit together, might support each other like the cornerpieces of a house. With Jack beside him, they started down the path to Hogwarts.
*****
"Hold up, Malfoy! We need to talk."
Draco didn't stop; on the contrary, his strides grew longer. He'd never once made things easy for Potter and he was not about to start now.
He was disgusted with himself for running away, but that was nothing to how he would feel if he stayed. He hadn't lied when he told Jack this reunion wasn't going as he'd hoped. But then Draco had abandoned his faith in the fairness of the universe the day he turned seventeen. It wasn't hard to do with Aunt Bella's maniacal cackle drowning out the sounds of his "birthday present," a blubbering Muggle he'd been given to cruciate. This, though, this was open mockery from the gods. Seeing Potter on the dance floor, looking implausibly fit and moving with a sensuality that made Draco's mouth water, this was a great sucker-punch from the gods on high.
And yes, maybe it'd been foolish to expect the same dishevelled boy he'd known. It was probably even more foolhardy to think his own nagging interest might have seen some sense over the years. But nothing had prepared him for the staggering wave of want that surged through him when he looked into his nemesis' green eyes.
Of course Potter had fled, and why wouldn't he? It was only fitting that now, when Potter was intent on talking—Merlin, talking with Potter! Who had ever heard such nonsense?—that he return the favour. But as it turned out, the Man Who Lived To Annoy was proving every bit as persistent as the young Boy Nuisance. The sharp click of dress shoes on cobblestone grew nearer, Draco's head start dwindling to nothing.
"You can't just leave like that."
Draco stopped so quickly that his pursuer's next step sent him flying past. As Potter nearly tripped, Draco complimented himself; he could hardly have planned it better. "Oh, pardon me. I've been away for some time, I didn't realise that permission was now necessary to leave a pub. My deepest apologies."
"Malfoy…"
That exasperated tone always had made Malfoy want to tighten the screws. He wished he was a better man now, more mature, but the truth was that he was suddenly thirteen years old and brimming with anger he didn't understand.
"Tell me, for future reference you understand, is it your permission in particular that is required? Or will the word of any Auror suffice?"
"Merlin, Malfoy, why do you have to be this way?"
The exasperated tone was deeply rewarding. Draco was also happy to note that he still stood a few inches taller than Potter. It helped that the man slouched so. Right now his shoulders slumped like a willow tree, inspiring Draco to lift his chin to better stare down his nose.
"What way is that? I simply wish to know the details of this proscription. I should not wish to inadvertently damage my reputation."
"There's no proscription. Your reputation is safe."
There was no exasperation this time, just a lifeless voice that felt surprisingly like a death rattle in Draco's chest. He told himself it was just surprise; resignation was not something he'd ever seen in Potter.
"Then if you don't mind, I'll be on my way."
Longing for the crack of robes that should have signalled his dramatic exit, Draco stepped off the Hogsmeade street onto the well-trod path to Hogwarts. After a good few yards he let out the breath he'd been holding. No crunching footsteps were coming up from behind. Potter hadn't followed. Strange, then, this crushing sense of disappointment. "That's what I want!" he admonished himself sharply.
A few steps further, and Draco veered off the wide path through a break in the birches. He wasn't up for the Slytherin common room just yet. They'd want a show—proof that Draco Malfoy, rising from the ashes of the war, had been the true phoenix of Hogwarts. They'd want to see that he was still worth following.
Potter hadn't followed.
This changed everything. Potter had always followed, always. His failed attempts at stealth had provided hours of entertainment to the Slytherins; his obsession with Draco had given rise to all kinds of speculation that Draco had not bothered to dissuade. It didn't hurt to have his housemates questioning his motives as much as the Gryffindor was.
He'd recognised that familiar disgust in Potter's eyes tonight, back there on the dance floor. He knew it should have bothered him. Years of slaving to become something worthy, devouring goblin treatises and Muggle economics textbooks alike, building a career on his intellect and hard work instead of his family name, these were all swept away by Potter's repulsed glance. Those flashes of green should have hit him hard as a killing curse, flames of hatred from the man who'd never see more than an enemy.
The thing about it was, though, that when these flares did hit, they soothed Draco more than his mother's best warming charms. He relished the shockwaves roiling through him, rejoiced as they crackled through his gut. Draco was fully aware of just how fucked up that was. How fucked up he was. But that was a secret he'd learned to live with.
When Potter didn't follow, though … well, it felt like flying from a sunny day into a storm cloud. Compared with the memory of icy pellets stinging his face and the sudden bone-deep chill that froze his fingers to the broomstick, the chill of this Scottish night felt toasty in comparison.
Draco leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak and tried to settle his disquiet thoughts. The lake stretched before him, a pool of spilt ink reflecting a moon just days past full. Just days more and it would become a sliver, and he would be shut of this place and its memories. As the silence stretched on and the moon traced an arc across the starry sky, he could imagine that time and distance might truly work, that this ridiculous obsession might wane and he might finally get on with his life.
"Think the giant squid is still alive?"
The unexpected voice shattered his peace. Draco hated Potter's presumptuous tone that assumed he wanted company. He hated his treasonous mind even more because he did. His fingernails digging into the crusty bark, Draco channelled his bitterness into the most disdainful voice he could muster.
"I wouldn't know. Perhaps if we'd had a qualified Magical Creatures teacher we'd know more of its lifespan." How had Potter managed to move so quietly? Somewhere along the way the gangly boy he'd known had grown into a sleek and stealthy creature. The universe had flown past mockery into outright cruelty. "Stalking me still, I see?"
"Damn it, Malfoy, I'm not stalking you!" The reaction was the same as ever, kindling ready to spark. But somehow Potter managed to douse the flames before they could ignite. "I just … I wanted to talk. It's been a long time, you know. The reason we hated each other doesn't even exist anymore."
"Your hair is reason enough," Draco wanted to say as Potter carded his unruly mop. He wasn't sure why he bit back the words, whether it was indeed maturity or this nearly dizzying relief that Potter was here. Or maybe Potter's words actually made sense, reluctant as he was to admit that. Except they really didn't. "Talk? Us?"
Potter snorted, obviously thinking the idea just as absurd. "I know, it sounds crazy, doesn't it? But you … you were helping a Muggle."
"I trade Muggle securities, I work with Muggles every day. A few of them do manage to survive."
Potter had a nice laugh, Draco decided. His astonishment fled when Potter leaned a shoulder against the oak tree. Not touching him, the trunk was thankfully wide enough that there was some distance between them, but Draco still felt a proprietary annoyance.
"I just didn't expect it," Potter was saying. "You've changed."
And that rankled. "Really, I can do without you pronouncing judgment on my lifestyle. Especially when you make it a habit to date Hufflepuffs."
"I wasn't the one doing the bump and grind out there on the dance floor."
"I beg to differ. You were giving the whole school a show. Honestly, Potter, I'd never have imagined you had it in you." And wasn't that a poor choice of words, for what he had imagined in Potter made feverish crimson bloom across Draco's neck. He thanked the darkness for shrouding him in puritan greys.
A shuffle beside him drew his awareness, discomfort rolling off the Gryffindor like fog off the sea. Something clicked in Draco's head then, the too-quickly fading memory of how their bodies had moved together surging back as he realised that Potter had noticed him on the dance floor. Another shift, the crack of a twig underfoot as his rival prepared to bolt, the next move in this endless game of tag they played. Unless Draco could put an end to it once and for all. His voice turned sly as a bold idea muscled its way to his tongue. "Or maybe that's why you're here. Got a taste and want more?"
Potter had gone deathly quiet. It was terribly inviting, his lack of refusal. Not allowing himself to contemplate about what he was doing, Draco pivoted away from the tree, stopping directly in front of the other man. His hand snaked out, his palm crushing starched linen. The fabric shifted slightly; he felt the metal bite of a zipper, beneath that something tensed, unformed but definitely alive.
Potter was so still it seemed he'd stopped breathing.
"Is that what you want then? A quick hand job to take away the stench of Hufflepuff?" His hand burned, that fire that always blazed inside Potter threatening to burst free and engulf him. "Or do you want me down on my knees, sucking you off?"
Potter gasped. "Yes … no …"
"Make up your mind," Draco growled. He squeezed Potter's awakening cock, noticing that it had no such doubts. "The offer's not likely to be restated."
"Yes," Potter panted, like he had trouble drawing breath around the hugeness of the word, "gods, yes!"
Draco sneered as he knelt. His expression might be lost in the darkness but he felt stronger for it. A sweet, earthy fragrance rose from the crushed grass under him, grounding him, steadying his hand as he smoothly unzipped the expensive slacks. Potter was still jumpy as a Snidget, Draco could almost feel the strained hum rising off him, and it would never do to reveal that he was affected just as strongly.
Peeling his trousers back, Draco found silk boxers still protecting Potter's modesty. He was momentarily surprised. In his previous imaginings of this moment Potter was always conveniently bare underneath. Now the soft cloth begged to be touched; damp with sweat and excitement, it made this encounter more real than the tree root pockmarking his knee. He briefly considered what colour Potter would have chosen for this night. Garish red, most likely; even a Gryffindor wouldn't be so gauche as to wear gold silk boxers, surely.
But no colour could detract from the muggy heat that begged Draco to press his face against the swelling erection. To feel it go from interest to arousal, skin stretching and growing, pressing hard against the curve of his cheek, that truly would be heaven. That would undo him. And so he resisted, his breath measured as his fingers appraised Potter's length. His longest finger delicately stroked the tip, setting his mouth to watering when wetness seeped through the soft fabric.
Potter's hips pressed frantically forward, his body already begging for more friction than the smooth satin allowed. It felt heady, this power, and that as much as the hard flesh in his hand shot bolts of lightning straight into Draco's groin. This was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake, for years his nemesis, for decades his obsession, and now the man was making little mewling noises that sounded remarkably like Millicent's cat. All for the sake of Draco's hand on his boxers.
The mewling grew more desperate, the sounds blending with Draco's own silent desire. He tugged the silk away, leaving Harry's cock bobbing like a kite on a string. Potter was longer than Draco had imagined; thicker, too. Just one more evil twist of the universe's knife. With an intentionally ungentle tug, Draco pulled Harry's cowled skin over his crown, at the same time forcing his tongue inside the bunched-up flesh. Faint flavours spread over his tastebuds as he lapped fiercely at the slit; diluted and unsatisfying, it was still enough to give him a hint of what Potter tasted. "Afternoon rain on an ocean strand," he thought, traces of salt tainting the clean water. And the smell … the smell was pure intoxication, sweat and arousal boldly assaulting Draco's nose, and an overpowering musk that in his memories he had always associated with his school years. Now he realised it came from Potter alone. His nostrils flared, inviting every pore of his body to drink in the luscious scent.
Potter was practically hyperventilating above him, his hips so taut that his chest heaved above. One might think the Boy Hero never got any; Draco realised he liked that thought more than he probably should. He took his time drawing his hand down the length of Potter's cock, feeling the hard flesh quiver like the strongest steel girders might quake in a seismic shift. His tongue laved the silky foreskin until it lay flat, only then letting Potter slide deeper into his mouth. His lips stretched; the man was definitely a mouthful, and that thought sent his free hand fumbling for his own zipper and a single indulgent squeeze. It would be far too easy to finish himself off in a few quick strokes; Potter's strangled grunts were the perfect accompaniment for a fast, dirty wank. But he would save that for later, this moment with Potter so completely at his mercy replayed time and again at Draco's leisure.
"…fuck, Draco," he heard, the indulgent vowels making his name sound rich as the most expensive cognac. And yes, that sound would definitely join his future repertoire. Those words had left Potter's tongue so many times, always spit with malice or riddled with disbelief. Never intoned with such immense gravity, with such intense amazement, and certainly never inspiring Draco to give just as much as he took. He rewarded the words by moving his mouth and fist in tandem, and Potter's erection seemed to swell more with each pulling stroke.
Keeping up an ever-intensifying pace on Potter's cock, Draco's free hand snaked up the inside of his thigh, relishing how the muscles there strained with gorgeous tension. After ten years the man still had the body of an athlete; strength thrummed under just the thinnest layer of skin. Pity, thought Draco, that he'd not have the chance to explore how Potter could really move. Those restrained thrusts against the heel of Draco's hand hinted at the kind of control that Draco had always loved pushing to the limit.
He tested that semblance of control now by palming the sac hanging between Potter's legs. Like grape clusters it dropped, so plump and juicy that Draco wished for another mouth just so he could feel the delectable flesh heavy on his tongue. With a deep groan of appreciation, Potter's fingers grappled for purchase across Draco's scalp. An admonishing hum and sharp squeeze reminded the Gryffindor who was in charge. There was a whimper of response, a strangled little sound of surrender that floated out onto the lake and was lost … but not before it detoured straight into Draco's cock.
Draco was sure he was harder than he'd ever been. No surprise, really. He'd imagined this moment hundreds of times … no, make that thousands of times, if he counted those years in school, shackled by hormones and ignorance of the intersection between rivalry and want, between loathing and lust. If he counted the stream of wiry, dark-haired men whose thick accents softened when they reached this point, when they started murmuring the same nonsensical sounds that Potter made now, when he could almost believe emerald-green eyes might be staring down at him.
Draco looked up, almost shocked to see it really was Potter staring down. Even in the colourless night there could be no mistaking the dark, dishevelled hair falling over his shoulders, the eyes wide with wonder, the mouth hanging open like an unstoppered bottle whose contents have already spilt out. Potter's cock slipped another fraction further inside Draco's mouth, with each slide the tip nudging the back of his throat with a combination of awkwardness and insistence that was so very typical of the man. Merlin but his throat was going to hurt tomorrow, and Draco welcomed every single rasp. The ultimate notch on his bedpost, the physical proof that the great Harry Potter had unravelled, just for him.
With so much delicious cock inside his mouth, with his nose buried in the mess of dark pubes, Draco's hand found his own neglected erection; the touch, the immense relief of it, nearly undid him. If Harry's strangled howls weren't enough to bring him off, his hand wet with saliva and Potter's own fluids would surely make quick work of it. He fought against it, though, forcing his attention to the sharp root digging into his knees, desperate to stretch this out, to make time his ally in convincing his mind that the unbelievable was indeed true.
He sent his other hand exploring further between Potter's legs, a curious finger squeezing its way up the crevice to his hidden well. Just teasing the velvety skin around the rim curled his toes, sent a shiver swirling through him. Fuck. Potter's hole was so tiny, so tight … Draco gripped his fist tighter, imagined he was forcing himself inside, feeling the muscles first resist, waves of sensation rippling all around him, Potter's body fighting to take more of him, deeper and deeper...
Then Potter, the real Potter, dragged Draco from his imagination and into this real world where even pebbled knees and the painful fist in his hair couldn't distract him from the wonder of a tight hole swallowing his digits. Where even watery eyes and a throat stretched with each deep thrust couldn't stop the ecstatic shiver that grew, up his thighs, into his belly, his shoulders, all connected to a single nerve ending clutched in his slick palm, building irreversibly, despite his best efforts to slow it and make it last. Draco pumped his fingers into Potter's arse, hard and too dry but Potter's writhing and wanton groans insisted he wanted it like that. Maybe he needed an ache to remember tomorrow; maybe he needed a notched bedpost too, and that thought made Draco push even deeper.
His knuckles buried, his fingertips stroking the hard gland inside, Draco felt the weight on his tongue somehow swell even more. Potter was trying to say something, probably muttering a warning too late, but Draco had already recognised the telltale signs, had already attuned his entire body to Potter's. The splash of silky come landed on his tongue, the perfect sharp bitter sweetness soaking his taste buds, the perfect complement to this heady smell and the bite of nails in his scalp and Potter's helpless, happy keen. It sent Draco spiralling over the edge, that swirling sensation lifting him higher, holding him there as the world spun without him, as his own riotous orgasm poured itself over his hand and onto the waiting ground.
Potter himself was splayed there an instant later, his knees proving useless. He sprawled, back against the tree trunk, legs wide and bare, looking so thoroughly debauched with lips glistening that Draco wanted … "No," he reminded himself, "a kiss is for a lover. This is …" This was Potter, and he was both less and more at the same time.
He was also reaching out an uncoordinated hand, tugging Draco towards him, and he scowled when he saw that Draco had brought himself off. "I wanted to do that," he grumbled. The retort that the Chosen One didn't always get what he wanted evaporated when Potter's tongue darted out, swiping through the seed pooled in Draco's palm. Draco's heart pounded so hard he suspected it might burst free of his chest. All his nerves were now centred in his hand, under Potter's thorough tongue. Studiously he cleaned each digit with lingering licks and deliberate, slow sucks designed to make Draco regret taking matters into his own hand.
Just as Draco was finding it impossible to breathe, Potter stopped. He looked up with what might have been a bashful look, surprising after what he had just done. Merlin, what perversity and innocence Potter was revealing tonight, and what Draco wouldn't give to explore this more …
He shook his head hard as he stood awkwardly. Casting scourgify cleaned the dirt and flecks of sticky come from his trousers; it also gave him the chance to regain his composure. He spared a glance down at Potter, the thought of offering a cleaning spell flickering briefly through his mind, but the man hadn't yet moved a muscle.
"Going to sit there all night, Potter?"
"I was thinking about it." Making no move to dress again he bent his knee, concealing his resting cock in the shadows. Draco wondered why that should have made him even more aware of it than before. "Not really in the mood to go back to the party now, you know."
Draco's back stiffened at the implied insult. "No, of course not," he snarled. Obviously Potter would not wish to return to his friends. The Chosen One would never admit to what they'd just done. Not that Draco wanted to boast of it, but his reasons were different. He would distil this experience alone, extract its essence in its most concentrated form, undiluted by his housemates' inquiries. His need for privacy wasn't motivated by the shame that Potter no doubt felt.
"You don't have to leave right away, do you, Draco?"
Draco turned back to face the source of that earnest question, confusion sharpening his voice. "You want me to stay?" Potter's nodding grin threatened to disarm him—a terribly dangerous step, Draco realised. Turning his back for good was the only sure way to protect himself. That step seemed too far, though, and his curiosity was too strong. "Why? You want to be friends now? Because of what just happened?"
"Actually, I was kind of hoping for that before. Now…" He looked up at Draco with a smile that could have powered cities. "Now I think I might like to be more than that."
More. More of those incredible moans, of that delicious cock. More time to explore the mysteries of that body, to see what he could make it do. Yes, yes, Draco definitely wanted more; he was already salivating at the wanking material a single night with Potter could provide. But then he remembered where they were.
"What are you suggesting, Potter? That I ditch my friends so we can fuck in Gryffindor Tower? I'm not terribly fond of red and gold, you know."
"No, and I'm not ready to be tied up in the Slytherin dungeon." Potter stood up, doing up his trousers as he stepped towards Draco. "Not yet, anyway," he added, and his voice was so coy that Draco would have sworn he was blushing.
"Yet." Draco's brain seemed stuck on that word, playing it over again and again, until he was taken by surprise when fingers brushed down his arm. He couldn't think of any other reason he let their fingers lace together so easily.
"I was thinking we might go out, you and me," Potter was saying, "if you were staying in London for a bit. Or maybe I could come to Canada, I've got holidays coming up…"
And he hardly heard anything more, because that something in his head was starting to click again. Something that he knew would be crazy and dangerous and exciting, if he'd only just let it. And then Potter wasn't saying anything more, because Draco was kissing him and thinking that he just might be ready for it.
*****
*****
On to Part Six
"Wait up, Ianto!"
Despite being grateful that Jack had followed him from the Broomsticks, Ianto didn't slow his long strides. The last thing he wanted was to have this out with his boss in front of the Hogwarts alumni still wandering through the village. It was bad enough that Malfoy had gotten involved. Ianto shuddered at the disturbing memory of that dance. It had been shocking to hear the class bully mention Jack's name, but even more worrying was how Ianto could almost still feel the imprint of hands on his hips, his pent-up arousal that he'd buried deep and violently as soon as Malfoy took his leave. And then to see the two of them sitting at the bar, chatting like old friends…
"What are you doing here, Jack?" he growled.
"I came to find you!" Jack said. Ianto was pleased to notice he sounded a little breathless. He sped his steps up by a notch. "You wouldn't say where you were going, so I put a tracker in your car."
Right. Because he could not be trusted, and all those apologies and attempts to atone for his betrayal of Torchwood had been for naught. Jack had offered his forgiveness, offered another chance as if he'd meant it, but he didn't. He couldn't. Ianto would forever bear the presumption of guilt.
But the truth of it was that he was guilty. He did have a secret, one bigger even than Lisa. And he needed to keep it.
"Ianto, wait! We need to talk about this."
Ianto froze, foot on the first step to Hogsmeade Station, fists clenched to restrain the sharp tongue that he would surely regret unleashing on his boss. Talk was the last thing they needed, especially when Jack's way of talking made Ianto imagine things untenable. Absolution. Honesty. Maybe even genuine affection. Silver-tongued persuasion had never sounded so good as it did on Jack's lickable lips.
No. Jack needed to be returned to the Muggle world. Jack had to be Obliviated. And Ianto must make sure that he never, ever did anything again that hinted he was more than a teaboy.
Jack caught him up while he hesitated, spurring Ianto to repeat what he'd said before. "You should not be here."
"Ianto, you're a wizard! Why didn't you tell me?"
And wasn't that just like the man? Ignoring what was important, latching onto whatever thoughts interested him. Positively infuriating. Ianto answered with clipped precision, wondering when his long-forgotten hex reflex had re-emerged. "There are rules that prevent us from revealing our true existence. Not unlike yourself." Ianto was pleased at getting Jack's attention, albeit a bit disappointed that Jack had underestimated him. Who did he think ran Torchwood's archives anyway? He'd been trusted with those secrets, just like he had governed his own. And with that thought to brace him, his oak wand slid into his palm. "We also have our own version of Retcon for cases like this."
"You'd rather do that than explain why you lied to me?"
Jack's voice wasn't angry. Anger, Ianto could have dealt with. But this quiet resignation was crushing. This was about trust, after all, and why Ianto would never have it. He steeled himself with rationality and the explanation that hopefully Jack could appreciate. "I … I didn't lie. I couldn't tell you. Our secret is more closely guarded than Torchwood's." And wasn't that the truth. No one had ever declared themselves a wizard when ordering pizza. "It has to be that way, Jack. When we're discovered, people aren't just upset, they're terrified. Look at the witch hunts, Jack, the Inquisition, Salem…"
"I didn't say I wanted it broadcast to the world," Jack interrupted, "but you should have told me. I need to know what you can do, just like I need to make sure Gwen can shoot straight and Tosh can hack any network."
Jack didn't get it. He couldn't, Ianto knew, and that wasn't his fault. Ianto wasn't sure he got it. It wouldn't be the first time he'd erased someone's memories. He'd never doubted that it was for the best. But this … this was Jack, his boss, head of Torchwood Three. Surely there were exceptions?
But no, there weren't. There were responsibilities of possessing magic, Ianto had learned that when he'd gotten his wand. But he had responsibilities to Jack as well, and Ianto knew he had to try to explain—Jack would still be Obliviated, but first he had to understand. "This isn't a line I left off my C.V. I'm nothing special. I don't even do magic anymore."
"No?" Jack smirked. "That's a shame. I wanted to know more about this Joy of Wizard Sex book."
Heat flooded Ianto's cheeks, his mouth left hanging open around the comeback he wanted to make. Jack noticed, of course he noticed, and he laughed as he reached for Ianto. The coarse wool tickled Ianto's chin but Jack's hands felt strong on his back. He leaned into them, content to breathe in the faint scent of Jack's aftershave, putting off the chore of Obliviation until later.
And then he heard words that made him think it might be very much later indeed.
"You are special, Ianto Jones. I just didn't realise quite how much until tonight."
Jack's hand cupped his chin, guiding their faces closer until there was only a hair's breadth between them. They'd been this close once before. Ianto remembered the moment with startling clarity: first the panic he'd felt, the smell of death and metal around them, and then the exhilarating pressure of Jack's lips reeling him back from the brink of insanity. It surprised him how much he wanted to feel them now, and how much he wanted this time to be different. His lips moved, wishing somehow to voice this, but before words could escape Jack was kissing him. Not with the urgency of their last kiss, no. The sensation was every bit as overwhelming as it'd been last time, but this time Jack was slow and thorough, as if he wanted them both to forget that last time. Ianto had no objection to that. He opened his lips wider, releasing a surprised gasp at just how good it felt when Jack's insistent tongue plied its way inside.
But it was Ianto who pushed further the kiss that Jack seemed content to savour for hours. It was he who breached Jack's mouth with a bold slide of his tongue, his thoughts no longer on the memory of their last kiss but on the presence of this very real one. Hot and wet and so very welcoming, and Ianto needed more. Inside Jack's great coat his hands slid, across starched cloth softened by the trapped heat, across slabs of muscle that flexed under his palms as Jack pulled him closer.
Jack wrested back control with even more demanding kisses that roamed down Ianto's chin and across his jaw. Everywhere Jack touched seemed to tingle for a moment afterward, surely more than from just the cool night air, and Ianto briefly wondered what Jack's life force might truly mean—thoughts banished when Jack's teeth chomped down on his earlobe. Surprised to discover a new erogenous zone, Ianto's hips shot forward and tried to burrow into Jack's groin. Jack just chuckled warmly in his ear and, when Ianto tried to back away, gripped his bottom.
"You don't really want to leave, do you?"
As if that seductive growl weren't incentive enough to stay, Jack chose that moment to thrust forward hard enough that Ianto could feel exactly what he'd be missing. Ianto could only grunt as his back slammed against the station wall, enough answer to spark another knowing chuckle in his ear. His simmering arousal rose to full boil, his need to feel Jack without so many annoying layers of cloth in between now more urgent than ever. But first, Ianto had to make sure they weren't interrupted—and the only way he knew to do that was with magic. Reluctantly flicking his wand, he whispered the first spell he'd cast in years: "Celo occulum." As the temperature dropped like shutters around them, Jack eyed him with a mix of curiosity and glee. "A concealing charm," Ianto said shyly as Jack slid his fingers down the smooth oak stick—and who but Jack could make that look so dirty? Embarrassed, Ianto put his wand away, resorting again to comforting rationale. "It works like a time-dilation field, like the one around Hogsmea–"
Jack's response was to clamp his hands on both sides of Ianto's face, pulling him into another penetrating kiss. Seconds later fingers scrambled for his buttons, spreading his shirt wide, sliding it to the edge of his shoulders. Jack's hand raked through the thatch of dark hair there. "You are a surprise," he murmured, and Ianto wasn't sure whether he meant magic or something else, but it hardly mattered as Jack began twirling his left nipple like it was the knob on a rift detector. Ianto bit back his gasp when the teasing took on a deliciously harder edge, his flesh pebbling between nails and bites. He'd imagined that Jack would be like this, all forceful touch and sharp spikes of stimuli, but Ianto hadn't imagined that he would enjoy it quite this much.
Ianto let Jack push the shirt and jacket off his shoulders, not minding a bit when it fell to the dirty ground. He felt the rough brick of the wall against his bare back, not caring if his back was left scraped and raw. All that mattered now were Jack's hands roaming over his arms, across his chest, down his ticklish sides. Through his fingertips he seemed to be reading Ianto's skin like a blind man reading Braille. He touched everywhere, leaving Ianto flushed and feeling as aroused as he'd ever been.
Aroused, and rapidly approaching frustration as Jack's fingers slipped under his waistband and then back out again, Ianto took matters into his own hands. He wrestled with Jack's zipper, pushing unwanted trousers down his thighs and revealing the hard bulge barely constrained in his briefs. When Ianto palmed the damp cloth, pressing his fingers solid along Jack's length, Jack groaned, strangled and needy. Not a sound that Ianto had ever expected to hear from Jack's lips, so he pressed again, this time reaching further, stretching his fingertips until they just grazed the knotted sac underneath.
"Ianto…"
The unguarded desire in his name was thrilling. Ianto had imagined touching Jack like this many times, but in his fantasies he was always the one wanting. To hear Jack's need shattered his inhibitions. He plunged his hands under the elastic waistband and pushed Jack's pants down, taking hold of his impressive prize. It swelled in his hand and twitched with an impatience that reminded Ianto of Jack before his first morning espresso. Now it was Ianto's turn to torment. Delicately his thumb caressed the crown, coaxing a bead of silky liquid from the slit before his fingers ever wandered down Jack's taut shaft.
The hands that had stilled on Ianto's hips moved again, attacking his zipper with the eagerness of a child on Christmas morning. Ianto felt cool air kiss his bare skin for an instant before Jack's fingers encircled him. He thrust hard, the irresistible grip pulling him forward, his hand tightening on Jack at the same time and aligning their erections side by side. Brushing against each other, their scent grew and floated up to Ianto's nose. Raw, musky, it teemed with the life that their first kiss had lacked.
After a few long glides, knuckles grazing together, Jack took them both in hand. As long fingers stretched around his girth and Jack's cock rubbed slickly on the other side, Ianto felt his usually tight control begin to slip. He gripped Jack's hips as an anchor, the feel of sharp bones and flexing sinew grounding him enough to gaze up at Jack's face. The man was staring down at their hands, looking like he was watching something amazing and beautiful. Ianto could almost forget that this was Jack, worldly, experienced Jack. That expression, that bliss, because of him … Ianto's self-control took another running leap at that notion.
Jack's touch was expert, though, of that there was no doubt. Every downstroke sent sparks flying through Ianto's body, every upstroke left him panting more desperately. Jack kept their pace just irregular enough, keeping Ianto on that precarious edge for longer than he believed he could stand. "This is what Jack likes, then," Ianto thought, clinging to data and detachment to waylay his looming climax. With scientific precision he noted the firm, almost painfully tight pressure punctuated by the flurry of loose slides across a wet palm, the sweep of a rough thumb over the glans, the ragged groan when Ianto's fingers slipped into the crease between his cheeks. Ianto catalogued them all in the last remaining corner of his consciousness, alongside Jack's preferences for strong black coffee and sweet Tennessee whiskey.
But his thoughts were no match for the force building inside him, dangerously, recklessly, like skating too far on a razor-sharp edge and knowing his balance would inevitably betray. When he couldn't hold back anymore, when he felt his toes curl, when he knew that with his next exhalation he would release all that was inside, he whispered, "Consum uroborus."
The flush of wandless magic barely registered as his orgasm rocketed through him, but Jack's earsplitting groan told him that the Ouroboros Spell had worked. As Ianto's climax spewed jets of pearled fluid across Jack's hand the sensation ricocheted; in return Jack's orgasm slammed back over Ianto. His every sensation crackled over Ianto's exposed nerves, racing through them like flashfire, then whiplashing back into Jack in an endless circle of pleasure.
It could have been hours before the crashing stimuli subsided, as far as Ianto could tell. His body felt completely tattered, so boneless he would've been unable to stand if not propped between Jack and the wall, so deeply satisfied that he wished not to move for days. He shuddered again, a last aftershock quaking through his hips. Jack reacted with a shiver a split-second later; recalling that Muggles were more affected by these spells, Ianto touched Jack's arm to steady him.
"Are you all right?"
Jack whipped his head up, staring at him, speechless. Fleetingly, Ianto wondered if he had noticed how "sir" was choked back at the last minute, or if the spell had done more serious damage. Then he saw that Jack's eyes, too often veiled even when he was smiling, danced brightly.
"Are you joking? I've never felt better." His fingers, still curled lightly around Ianto's wilting cock, gave a little squeeze. "We're a mess, though."
"Here, let me." Ianto drew his wand, feeling strangely conspicuous as he mumbled, "Scourgify."
Jack stared at his clean hand, amazed, while Ianto retrieved his clothes. "No wonder the Hub's so neat."
Pocketing his wand with a grimace, Ianto backed away. "I don't do magic in the Hub. I don't do magic anymore, full stop."
"But you did then. Because you'd already decided to Retcon me, right?"
Jack's eyes bored into him as he dressed, so dark there was almost no hint of the blue Ianto knew was there. Ianto might have suspected legilimency if he didn't know better; as it was, Jack had managed to read his mind anyway.
"I … it's called Obliviation, and yes, I … well, I thought I would."
"You thought?" Jack tilted his head, curiosity creasing his brow. "You mean now you're not sure?"
Ianto shook his head. He hadn't meant to say that, he knew what he should do. But now his doubts resurfaced. Jack had witnessed the birth of the last two centuries, outliving even Professor Dumbledore; he'd died again and again to save the human race, magical as well as Muggle. Ianto wasn't qualified to make the decision he was about to make, but they'd crossed so many lines tonight that Ianto wasn't sure how to backtrack. He was sure of one thing, though: Jack couldn't be Obliviated like some Muggle who'd unwittingly stumbled onto a Quidditch pitch.
Quietly, incisively, Jack's voice pierced his thoughts. "I'm not just anybody, Ianto. You know I can keep a secret. And there's got to be a way that you can use your magic when you need to, without anyone finding out. I can help you figure that out."
Maybe it was the Ouroboros Spell still echoing each other's thoughts, or maybe Jack and he had reached the same decision independently. Ianto wasn't sure anymore. But as Jack moved closer, invading the distance that Ianto had put between them, Ianto knew that he wouldn't Obliviate him. Gingerly he took Jack's offered hand, his fingers hooking lightly on the man's wide palm.
"Besides," Jack said, his familiar cheeky grin returned, "I'd hate to forget what just happened. I think we should try that again when we get back to Cardiff. Maybe in a bed. Or on Gwen's desk. Or in the Archives."
Making his voice stern helped stifle Ianto's laughter. "I don't think that behaviour would be appropriate in the Archives, sir. We wouldn't want to damage the records."
Laughing, Jack handed him his jacket, brushing off some dust that the spell had missed. "You really are a bookslug, aren't you?" He smirked at Ianto's look of mock indignation.
"I'm a Ravenclaw, and proud of it. And if you're nice I'll show you our Tower."
"This could work," Ianto allowed himself to think for the first time. Jack, Torchwood, magic … different aspects of his life that he'd always walled off, but that might instead fit together, might support each other like the cornerpieces of a house. With Jack beside him, they started down the path to Hogwarts.
*****
"Hold up, Malfoy! We need to talk."
Draco didn't stop; on the contrary, his strides grew longer. He'd never once made things easy for Potter and he was not about to start now.
He was disgusted with himself for running away, but that was nothing to how he would feel if he stayed. He hadn't lied when he told Jack this reunion wasn't going as he'd hoped. But then Draco had abandoned his faith in the fairness of the universe the day he turned seventeen. It wasn't hard to do with Aunt Bella's maniacal cackle drowning out the sounds of his "birthday present," a blubbering Muggle he'd been given to cruciate. This, though, this was open mockery from the gods. Seeing Potter on the dance floor, looking implausibly fit and moving with a sensuality that made Draco's mouth water, this was a great sucker-punch from the gods on high.
And yes, maybe it'd been foolish to expect the same dishevelled boy he'd known. It was probably even more foolhardy to think his own nagging interest might have seen some sense over the years. But nothing had prepared him for the staggering wave of want that surged through him when he looked into his nemesis' green eyes.
Of course Potter had fled, and why wouldn't he? It was only fitting that now, when Potter was intent on talking—Merlin, talking with Potter! Who had ever heard such nonsense?—that he return the favour. But as it turned out, the Man Who Lived To Annoy was proving every bit as persistent as the young Boy Nuisance. The sharp click of dress shoes on cobblestone grew nearer, Draco's head start dwindling to nothing.
"You can't just leave like that."
Draco stopped so quickly that his pursuer's next step sent him flying past. As Potter nearly tripped, Draco complimented himself; he could hardly have planned it better. "Oh, pardon me. I've been away for some time, I didn't realise that permission was now necessary to leave a pub. My deepest apologies."
"Malfoy…"
That exasperated tone always had made Malfoy want to tighten the screws. He wished he was a better man now, more mature, but the truth was that he was suddenly thirteen years old and brimming with anger he didn't understand.
"Tell me, for future reference you understand, is it your permission in particular that is required? Or will the word of any Auror suffice?"
"Merlin, Malfoy, why do you have to be this way?"
The exasperated tone was deeply rewarding. Draco was also happy to note that he still stood a few inches taller than Potter. It helped that the man slouched so. Right now his shoulders slumped like a willow tree, inspiring Draco to lift his chin to better stare down his nose.
"What way is that? I simply wish to know the details of this proscription. I should not wish to inadvertently damage my reputation."
"There's no proscription. Your reputation is safe."
There was no exasperation this time, just a lifeless voice that felt surprisingly like a death rattle in Draco's chest. He told himself it was just surprise; resignation was not something he'd ever seen in Potter.
"Then if you don't mind, I'll be on my way."
Longing for the crack of robes that should have signalled his dramatic exit, Draco stepped off the Hogsmeade street onto the well-trod path to Hogwarts. After a good few yards he let out the breath he'd been holding. No crunching footsteps were coming up from behind. Potter hadn't followed. Strange, then, this crushing sense of disappointment. "That's what I want!" he admonished himself sharply.
A few steps further, and Draco veered off the wide path through a break in the birches. He wasn't up for the Slytherin common room just yet. They'd want a show—proof that Draco Malfoy, rising from the ashes of the war, had been the true phoenix of Hogwarts. They'd want to see that he was still worth following.
Potter hadn't followed.
This changed everything. Potter had always followed, always. His failed attempts at stealth had provided hours of entertainment to the Slytherins; his obsession with Draco had given rise to all kinds of speculation that Draco had not bothered to dissuade. It didn't hurt to have his housemates questioning his motives as much as the Gryffindor was.
He'd recognised that familiar disgust in Potter's eyes tonight, back there on the dance floor. He knew it should have bothered him. Years of slaving to become something worthy, devouring goblin treatises and Muggle economics textbooks alike, building a career on his intellect and hard work instead of his family name, these were all swept away by Potter's repulsed glance. Those flashes of green should have hit him hard as a killing curse, flames of hatred from the man who'd never see more than an enemy.
The thing about it was, though, that when these flares did hit, they soothed Draco more than his mother's best warming charms. He relished the shockwaves roiling through him, rejoiced as they crackled through his gut. Draco was fully aware of just how fucked up that was. How fucked up he was. But that was a secret he'd learned to live with.
When Potter didn't follow, though … well, it felt like flying from a sunny day into a storm cloud. Compared with the memory of icy pellets stinging his face and the sudden bone-deep chill that froze his fingers to the broomstick, the chill of this Scottish night felt toasty in comparison.
Draco leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak and tried to settle his disquiet thoughts. The lake stretched before him, a pool of spilt ink reflecting a moon just days past full. Just days more and it would become a sliver, and he would be shut of this place and its memories. As the silence stretched on and the moon traced an arc across the starry sky, he could imagine that time and distance might truly work, that this ridiculous obsession might wane and he might finally get on with his life.
"Think the giant squid is still alive?"
The unexpected voice shattered his peace. Draco hated Potter's presumptuous tone that assumed he wanted company. He hated his treasonous mind even more because he did. His fingernails digging into the crusty bark, Draco channelled his bitterness into the most disdainful voice he could muster.
"I wouldn't know. Perhaps if we'd had a qualified Magical Creatures teacher we'd know more of its lifespan." How had Potter managed to move so quietly? Somewhere along the way the gangly boy he'd known had grown into a sleek and stealthy creature. The universe had flown past mockery into outright cruelty. "Stalking me still, I see?"
"Damn it, Malfoy, I'm not stalking you!" The reaction was the same as ever, kindling ready to spark. But somehow Potter managed to douse the flames before they could ignite. "I just … I wanted to talk. It's been a long time, you know. The reason we hated each other doesn't even exist anymore."
"Your hair is reason enough," Draco wanted to say as Potter carded his unruly mop. He wasn't sure why he bit back the words, whether it was indeed maturity or this nearly dizzying relief that Potter was here. Or maybe Potter's words actually made sense, reluctant as he was to admit that. Except they really didn't. "Talk? Us?"
Potter snorted, obviously thinking the idea just as absurd. "I know, it sounds crazy, doesn't it? But you … you were helping a Muggle."
"I trade Muggle securities, I work with Muggles every day. A few of them do manage to survive."
Potter had a nice laugh, Draco decided. His astonishment fled when Potter leaned a shoulder against the oak tree. Not touching him, the trunk was thankfully wide enough that there was some distance between them, but Draco still felt a proprietary annoyance.
"I just didn't expect it," Potter was saying. "You've changed."
And that rankled. "Really, I can do without you pronouncing judgment on my lifestyle. Especially when you make it a habit to date Hufflepuffs."
"I wasn't the one doing the bump and grind out there on the dance floor."
"I beg to differ. You were giving the whole school a show. Honestly, Potter, I'd never have imagined you had it in you." And wasn't that a poor choice of words, for what he had imagined in Potter made feverish crimson bloom across Draco's neck. He thanked the darkness for shrouding him in puritan greys.
A shuffle beside him drew his awareness, discomfort rolling off the Gryffindor like fog off the sea. Something clicked in Draco's head then, the too-quickly fading memory of how their bodies had moved together surging back as he realised that Potter had noticed him on the dance floor. Another shift, the crack of a twig underfoot as his rival prepared to bolt, the next move in this endless game of tag they played. Unless Draco could put an end to it once and for all. His voice turned sly as a bold idea muscled its way to his tongue. "Or maybe that's why you're here. Got a taste and want more?"
Potter had gone deathly quiet. It was terribly inviting, his lack of refusal. Not allowing himself to contemplate about what he was doing, Draco pivoted away from the tree, stopping directly in front of the other man. His hand snaked out, his palm crushing starched linen. The fabric shifted slightly; he felt the metal bite of a zipper, beneath that something tensed, unformed but definitely alive.
Potter was so still it seemed he'd stopped breathing.
"Is that what you want then? A quick hand job to take away the stench of Hufflepuff?" His hand burned, that fire that always blazed inside Potter threatening to burst free and engulf him. "Or do you want me down on my knees, sucking you off?"
Potter gasped. "Yes … no …"
"Make up your mind," Draco growled. He squeezed Potter's awakening cock, noticing that it had no such doubts. "The offer's not likely to be restated."
"Yes," Potter panted, like he had trouble drawing breath around the hugeness of the word, "gods, yes!"
Draco sneered as he knelt. His expression might be lost in the darkness but he felt stronger for it. A sweet, earthy fragrance rose from the crushed grass under him, grounding him, steadying his hand as he smoothly unzipped the expensive slacks. Potter was still jumpy as a Snidget, Draco could almost feel the strained hum rising off him, and it would never do to reveal that he was affected just as strongly.
Peeling his trousers back, Draco found silk boxers still protecting Potter's modesty. He was momentarily surprised. In his previous imaginings of this moment Potter was always conveniently bare underneath. Now the soft cloth begged to be touched; damp with sweat and excitement, it made this encounter more real than the tree root pockmarking his knee. He briefly considered what colour Potter would have chosen for this night. Garish red, most likely; even a Gryffindor wouldn't be so gauche as to wear gold silk boxers, surely.
But no colour could detract from the muggy heat that begged Draco to press his face against the swelling erection. To feel it go from interest to arousal, skin stretching and growing, pressing hard against the curve of his cheek, that truly would be heaven. That would undo him. And so he resisted, his breath measured as his fingers appraised Potter's length. His longest finger delicately stroked the tip, setting his mouth to watering when wetness seeped through the soft fabric.
Potter's hips pressed frantically forward, his body already begging for more friction than the smooth satin allowed. It felt heady, this power, and that as much as the hard flesh in his hand shot bolts of lightning straight into Draco's groin. This was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake, for years his nemesis, for decades his obsession, and now the man was making little mewling noises that sounded remarkably like Millicent's cat. All for the sake of Draco's hand on his boxers.
The mewling grew more desperate, the sounds blending with Draco's own silent desire. He tugged the silk away, leaving Harry's cock bobbing like a kite on a string. Potter was longer than Draco had imagined; thicker, too. Just one more evil twist of the universe's knife. With an intentionally ungentle tug, Draco pulled Harry's cowled skin over his crown, at the same time forcing his tongue inside the bunched-up flesh. Faint flavours spread over his tastebuds as he lapped fiercely at the slit; diluted and unsatisfying, it was still enough to give him a hint of what Potter tasted. "Afternoon rain on an ocean strand," he thought, traces of salt tainting the clean water. And the smell … the smell was pure intoxication, sweat and arousal boldly assaulting Draco's nose, and an overpowering musk that in his memories he had always associated with his school years. Now he realised it came from Potter alone. His nostrils flared, inviting every pore of his body to drink in the luscious scent.
Potter was practically hyperventilating above him, his hips so taut that his chest heaved above. One might think the Boy Hero never got any; Draco realised he liked that thought more than he probably should. He took his time drawing his hand down the length of Potter's cock, feeling the hard flesh quiver like the strongest steel girders might quake in a seismic shift. His tongue laved the silky foreskin until it lay flat, only then letting Potter slide deeper into his mouth. His lips stretched; the man was definitely a mouthful, and that thought sent his free hand fumbling for his own zipper and a single indulgent squeeze. It would be far too easy to finish himself off in a few quick strokes; Potter's strangled grunts were the perfect accompaniment for a fast, dirty wank. But he would save that for later, this moment with Potter so completely at his mercy replayed time and again at Draco's leisure.
"…fuck, Draco," he heard, the indulgent vowels making his name sound rich as the most expensive cognac. And yes, that sound would definitely join his future repertoire. Those words had left Potter's tongue so many times, always spit with malice or riddled with disbelief. Never intoned with such immense gravity, with such intense amazement, and certainly never inspiring Draco to give just as much as he took. He rewarded the words by moving his mouth and fist in tandem, and Potter's erection seemed to swell more with each pulling stroke.
Keeping up an ever-intensifying pace on Potter's cock, Draco's free hand snaked up the inside of his thigh, relishing how the muscles there strained with gorgeous tension. After ten years the man still had the body of an athlete; strength thrummed under just the thinnest layer of skin. Pity, thought Draco, that he'd not have the chance to explore how Potter could really move. Those restrained thrusts against the heel of Draco's hand hinted at the kind of control that Draco had always loved pushing to the limit.
He tested that semblance of control now by palming the sac hanging between Potter's legs. Like grape clusters it dropped, so plump and juicy that Draco wished for another mouth just so he could feel the delectable flesh heavy on his tongue. With a deep groan of appreciation, Potter's fingers grappled for purchase across Draco's scalp. An admonishing hum and sharp squeeze reminded the Gryffindor who was in charge. There was a whimper of response, a strangled little sound of surrender that floated out onto the lake and was lost … but not before it detoured straight into Draco's cock.
Draco was sure he was harder than he'd ever been. No surprise, really. He'd imagined this moment hundreds of times … no, make that thousands of times, if he counted those years in school, shackled by hormones and ignorance of the intersection between rivalry and want, between loathing and lust. If he counted the stream of wiry, dark-haired men whose thick accents softened when they reached this point, when they started murmuring the same nonsensical sounds that Potter made now, when he could almost believe emerald-green eyes might be staring down at him.
Draco looked up, almost shocked to see it really was Potter staring down. Even in the colourless night there could be no mistaking the dark, dishevelled hair falling over his shoulders, the eyes wide with wonder, the mouth hanging open like an unstoppered bottle whose contents have already spilt out. Potter's cock slipped another fraction further inside Draco's mouth, with each slide the tip nudging the back of his throat with a combination of awkwardness and insistence that was so very typical of the man. Merlin but his throat was going to hurt tomorrow, and Draco welcomed every single rasp. The ultimate notch on his bedpost, the physical proof that the great Harry Potter had unravelled, just for him.
With so much delicious cock inside his mouth, with his nose buried in the mess of dark pubes, Draco's hand found his own neglected erection; the touch, the immense relief of it, nearly undid him. If Harry's strangled howls weren't enough to bring him off, his hand wet with saliva and Potter's own fluids would surely make quick work of it. He fought against it, though, forcing his attention to the sharp root digging into his knees, desperate to stretch this out, to make time his ally in convincing his mind that the unbelievable was indeed true.
He sent his other hand exploring further between Potter's legs, a curious finger squeezing its way up the crevice to his hidden well. Just teasing the velvety skin around the rim curled his toes, sent a shiver swirling through him. Fuck. Potter's hole was so tiny, so tight … Draco gripped his fist tighter, imagined he was forcing himself inside, feeling the muscles first resist, waves of sensation rippling all around him, Potter's body fighting to take more of him, deeper and deeper...
Then Potter, the real Potter, dragged Draco from his imagination and into this real world where even pebbled knees and the painful fist in his hair couldn't distract him from the wonder of a tight hole swallowing his digits. Where even watery eyes and a throat stretched with each deep thrust couldn't stop the ecstatic shiver that grew, up his thighs, into his belly, his shoulders, all connected to a single nerve ending clutched in his slick palm, building irreversibly, despite his best efforts to slow it and make it last. Draco pumped his fingers into Potter's arse, hard and too dry but Potter's writhing and wanton groans insisted he wanted it like that. Maybe he needed an ache to remember tomorrow; maybe he needed a notched bedpost too, and that thought made Draco push even deeper.
His knuckles buried, his fingertips stroking the hard gland inside, Draco felt the weight on his tongue somehow swell even more. Potter was trying to say something, probably muttering a warning too late, but Draco had already recognised the telltale signs, had already attuned his entire body to Potter's. The splash of silky come landed on his tongue, the perfect sharp bitter sweetness soaking his taste buds, the perfect complement to this heady smell and the bite of nails in his scalp and Potter's helpless, happy keen. It sent Draco spiralling over the edge, that swirling sensation lifting him higher, holding him there as the world spun without him, as his own riotous orgasm poured itself over his hand and onto the waiting ground.
Potter himself was splayed there an instant later, his knees proving useless. He sprawled, back against the tree trunk, legs wide and bare, looking so thoroughly debauched with lips glistening that Draco wanted … "No," he reminded himself, "a kiss is for a lover. This is …" This was Potter, and he was both less and more at the same time.
He was also reaching out an uncoordinated hand, tugging Draco towards him, and he scowled when he saw that Draco had brought himself off. "I wanted to do that," he grumbled. The retort that the Chosen One didn't always get what he wanted evaporated when Potter's tongue darted out, swiping through the seed pooled in Draco's palm. Draco's heart pounded so hard he suspected it might burst free of his chest. All his nerves were now centred in his hand, under Potter's thorough tongue. Studiously he cleaned each digit with lingering licks and deliberate, slow sucks designed to make Draco regret taking matters into his own hand.
Just as Draco was finding it impossible to breathe, Potter stopped. He looked up with what might have been a bashful look, surprising after what he had just done. Merlin, what perversity and innocence Potter was revealing tonight, and what Draco wouldn't give to explore this more …
He shook his head hard as he stood awkwardly. Casting scourgify cleaned the dirt and flecks of sticky come from his trousers; it also gave him the chance to regain his composure. He spared a glance down at Potter, the thought of offering a cleaning spell flickering briefly through his mind, but the man hadn't yet moved a muscle.
"Going to sit there all night, Potter?"
"I was thinking about it." Making no move to dress again he bent his knee, concealing his resting cock in the shadows. Draco wondered why that should have made him even more aware of it than before. "Not really in the mood to go back to the party now, you know."
Draco's back stiffened at the implied insult. "No, of course not," he snarled. Obviously Potter would not wish to return to his friends. The Chosen One would never admit to what they'd just done. Not that Draco wanted to boast of it, but his reasons were different. He would distil this experience alone, extract its essence in its most concentrated form, undiluted by his housemates' inquiries. His need for privacy wasn't motivated by the shame that Potter no doubt felt.
"You don't have to leave right away, do you, Draco?"
Draco turned back to face the source of that earnest question, confusion sharpening his voice. "You want me to stay?" Potter's nodding grin threatened to disarm him—a terribly dangerous step, Draco realised. Turning his back for good was the only sure way to protect himself. That step seemed too far, though, and his curiosity was too strong. "Why? You want to be friends now? Because of what just happened?"
"Actually, I was kind of hoping for that before. Now…" He looked up at Draco with a smile that could have powered cities. "Now I think I might like to be more than that."
More. More of those incredible moans, of that delicious cock. More time to explore the mysteries of that body, to see what he could make it do. Yes, yes, Draco definitely wanted more; he was already salivating at the wanking material a single night with Potter could provide. But then he remembered where they were.
"What are you suggesting, Potter? That I ditch my friends so we can fuck in Gryffindor Tower? I'm not terribly fond of red and gold, you know."
"No, and I'm not ready to be tied up in the Slytherin dungeon." Potter stood up, doing up his trousers as he stepped towards Draco. "Not yet, anyway," he added, and his voice was so coy that Draco would have sworn he was blushing.
"Yet." Draco's brain seemed stuck on that word, playing it over again and again, until he was taken by surprise when fingers brushed down his arm. He couldn't think of any other reason he let their fingers lace together so easily.
"I was thinking we might go out, you and me," Potter was saying, "if you were staying in London for a bit. Or maybe I could come to Canada, I've got holidays coming up…"
And he hardly heard anything more, because that something in his head was starting to click again. Something that he knew would be crazy and dangerous and exciting, if he'd only just let it. And then Potter wasn't saying anything more, because Draco was kissing him and thinking that he just might be ready for it.
*****
On to Part Six
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I'll comment more coherently once I get home this evening. For now, just know that I thought this was SO good. Off to try and concentrate on Environmental Liability cover now...
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