Not Stalking. Just Looking.

⸻

It was supposed to be casual.

Just stress relief after long missions, a tangle of limbs and gasps in dark corners, and then back to professionalism in the field.

That was the deal.

But somewhere between bruised ribs and whispered spells, Harry had fallen in love.

And he hadn’t meant to. Not with him. Not like this.

Now every glance, every brush of fingers, every night spent in silence afterward left him aching.

And Harry didn’t know what it was to Draco.

⸻

They were partnered as Aurors.

Sleeping together was strictly against protocol.

But nothing about them had ever followed the rules.

Still, Harry couldn’t help wondering if that was all they were to Draco — a risk, a thrill, an indulgence.

He never said anything. Never asked.

Because he didn’t want to hear the answer.

⸻

Harry Apparated into Draco’s flat just past midnight, landing quietly in the bedroom — something they’d both done dozens of times. The room was dim, empty, still warm from the fire.

He was about to call out when he heard voices from the living room.

“…don’t understand why you stay,” came Lucius Malfoy’s voice from the living room fire. “There are far better ways to use your talents. We have connections in Prague, estates ready. You’d have respect.”

Harry stilled, staying just out of sight behind the doorframe.

Draco’s voice followed, sharp and clipped. “You think this is about respect?”

“I think it’s beneath you. Playing sidekick to Harry Potter.”

Harry’s stomach twisted.

Draco’s reply came slower. Measured. Tired.

“I won’t leave. I can’t.”

Lucius scoffed. “You’re choosing him over your future?”

There was a pause. Then:

“I’m choosing not to live without the part of me that feels like home… and that part is him.”

Harry stopped breathing.

The fire dimmed. Footsteps moved across the flat and away from the hearth.

Draco didn’t see him.

Harry remained frozen in place. Reeling.

——-

I didn’t want to include these tags due to spoilers, so I’ll just add it here at the end:

#Harry falls first

⸻

“Harry, are you even listening to me?”

“Er—sorry, what?” Harry dragged his gaze from Malfoy back to the witch across from him.

Clara frowned. “You weren’t listening. You weren’t even looking at me.”

Her eyes flicked across the Leaky Cauldron. “Who’s he? Your ex?”

Harry blinked. “What? No! I’m not— I wouldn’t—”

She raised a brow. “Then why do you keep glancing at him when you’ve got me in front of you?”

Harry grimaced, lowering his voice. “Don’t say that so loudly. He’s got ears like a hawk. Could you not stare at him, please?”

“Why? Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous? I don’t give a toss about him.”

“I meant jealous over me, Harry, not him.”

He flushed, rubbing his neck. “I just—” Harry stared into his Butterbeer. “I want something. A reaction. But with that perfect bloody mask of his, I can’t even tell if he notices.”

“You’re using me.”

“What? No!” Harry said. “I like you! You’re gorgeous. I just… maybe I want him to see I’m here. With you.”

“So you do want to make him jealous.”

“I don’t know,” Harry muttered. “But a few days ago, he told me I wasn’t his type, and—Merlin, it’s insulting.”

She laughed. “So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him?”

⸻

“Harry, are you even listening to me?”

“Er—sorry, what?” Harry dragged his gaze from Draco Malfoy back to the stunning witch sitting across from him.

Clara frowned. “You weren’t listening. You weren’t even looking at me.” She sounded more surprised than upset.

Her eyes slid across the Leaky Cauldron to where Malfoy sat at a corner table. “Who’s he? Your ex?”

Harry’s mouth dropped. “What? No! I’m not— I wouldn’t—”

She raised a perfectly arched brow. “Then why do you keep glancing at him when you’ve got me in front of you?”

Harry grimaced, lowering his voice. “Could you not say that so loudly? He’s got ears like a bloody hawk. And… everyone knows we hate each other.”

That didn’t even begin to explain the way his pulse kept jumping every time Malfoy shifted in his seat.

“Could you not stare at him, please?”

“Why? Are you jealous?” She asked.

“Why would I be jealous? I don’t give a toss about him.”

Her smirk sharpened. “I meant jealous over me, Harry, not him.”

Harry flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… don’t want him to think we’re talking about him.”

“Harry,” she said flatly, “we are talking about him.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. No idea why.”

“Well, from where I’m sitting, it’s obvious. You keep watching him, like you’re expecting a reaction.”

“I just—” Harry hesitated, staring into his Butterbeer. “I want something from him. A reaction. But with that perfect bloody mask of his, I can’t even tell if he’s paying attention.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re using me.”

“What? No!” Harry said quickly. “I like you! You’re gorgeous. I just… maybe I want him to notice I’m here. With you.”

“So you do want to make him jealous.”

Harry dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, all right? But a few days ago he told me I wasn’t his type, and—Merlin, it’s insulting.”

Her laugh was low and warm. “So you’re sulking because Malfoy said you weren’t hot enough for him?”

⸻

Lift — Harry’s POV

Harry isn’t exactly surprised when Malfoy slips into the Ministry lift after him and taps his wand to the panel, locking the doors.

Grey eyes fix on him—intent, unreadable—and Harry resists the urge to fidget. Instead, he crosses his arms.

“Something bothering you, Malfoy?”

“You don’t actually mean to pretend ignorance.”

Harry sighs. “Fine. You think we need to talk badly enough to hold up one of the main lifts, then let’s talk. But honestly, I don’t know what else there is to say.”

Malfoy shifts his stance, something almost uncomfortable flickering over his face before it’s gone. Oddly, it makes Harry feel like the ground between them is a little more level.

⸻

Flashback — On Mission, Draco’s POV

They’re supposed to be clearing the last corridor. Harry’s in the lead, wand raised, scanning each doorway with maddening care. Two other Aurors hover a few metres back, checking the rear.

Malfoy’s covering their flank when movement flickers at the edge of his vision—too late. The curse hits him square in the chest, sharp heat exploding through his ribs before sinking deeper, burrowing.

The world tilts. Sound thins. His pulse roars in his ears.

He’s aware, distantly, that he should check the perimeter, that someone might still be behind them—but the thought burns away almost instantly, replaced by something heavier. Hotter. Urgent.

Potter’s just ahead, turning to look at him. Sweat at his temple. Mouth parted.

Malfoy moves before he thinks. Closes the space in two strides.

Harry’s saying something—maybe his name—but Malfoy’s already pressing him back into the wall, pinning his hips in place, one hand braced at his jaw. The curse thrums low and relentless in his blood, drowning out everything else.

In fact, he seemed to be paying quite rapt attention in all the meetings, apparently unaware of his own crotch, his messy hair, the tarnished quality of his uniform buttons.

Draco sniffed. Still, the implication was clear; the thing needed room to breathe, to stretch out, to—

The above teaser is from the following fic

Hung Like a Horntail by lq_traintracks ~2.3k

Summary: Draco's become a bit obsessed with Harry's sizable package. It's a little distracting. Even more so when it's up your arse. (Or "Harry's Big Dick is messing with Draco's life."

⸻

Draco sits at the edge of the bed, stiff-backed, hands twisted in his lap.

Harry stands between his knees—shirt open, chest flushed, skin damp from the shower.

“Just going to look?” Harry asks, voice low.

Draco swallows hard. “I… I don’t…”

Harry leans in slightly.

“You can touch.”

Draco blinks up at him. “Oh. Uhm. Where?”

Harry smiles. Slow. Crooked.

“Anywhere you like.”

Draco’s hand rises, uncertain, and lands lightly at Harry’s hip.

Harry exhales. Forehead brushing close.

Draco’s voice comes out hoarse.

“You said I could touch.”

Harry’s smile turns feral.

⸻

They’re in the Auror lounge. Half the department is still there, lounging in chairs, finishing their food and paperwork. Harry’s mid-blunder in their chess game.

Which is when Malfoy says, far too calmly,

“You know, Potter, you get hard when we spar. I’ve noticed.”

Harry chokes on air. “What—”

⸻

Draco spots Potter the second he walks in.

Of course he does. Potter is always where he’s least wanted, smirking like he owns the place and looking like he didn’t spend last night pressed against Draco’s mouth saying don’t stop.

Draco’s date—Connor? Colin?—is rambling about craft beer.

Potter leans against the bar, orders something loud, and doesn’t look at Draco.

Draco doesn’t look either.

Until Connor reaches for his waist, and then—Potter’s voice. Calm.

“You’re very handsy for a first date.”

Draco turns, slow. “Excuse me?”

Potter shrugs, all charm and venom. “Didn’t think you liked being touched by strangers.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry.

Connor blinks. “What’s he on about?”

“Nothing,” Draco snaps.

Potter smiles. “Sure.”

Connor’s frowning now. “You two…?”

“No,” Draco lies. Too fast.

Connor stares. “Right.” He stands. “Good luck with… whatever this is.”

Draco doesn’t stop him. Just downs the rest of his drink and turns slowly back to the bar.

Potter’s still there. Smiling now.

Draco glares. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Potter says, and sips his drink like he didn’t just detonate Draco’s evening for sport.

“You’re unbelievable.”

The worst part?

He liked it.

⸻

The water’s running.

Harry’s already in the shower, back turned, steam curling around him like it’s in love.

Draco doesn’t mean to stare. He really doesn’t.

But then Harry shifts. Turns slightly.

Draco freezes.

Oh.

Oh.

No one warned him. Not the other trainees. Not common decency. No one said Harry Bloody Potter was—was—

Draco stares at the wall. Tries to think of dementors. Arithmancy. Anything.

It doesn’t help.

The water stops. Footsteps behind him. A towel being snapped open.

Draco doesn’t turn. Can’t.

He hears Harry exhale, low and satisfied, like the whole world’s just cooled down.

Draco’s pulse begs to disagree.

Somewhere behind him, Harry says casually, “You coming?”

Draco closes his eyes.

⸻

Harry’s shirt is nowhere to be seen.

He’s out in the garden, dirt on his hands, sweat on his chest, jeans slung low like they’ve given up. Every movement is lazy, sun-warmed, obscene.

Draco watches from the doorway. Not breathing, really.

Harry bends to adjust something near the herbs, and Draco nearly whimpers.

His mouth is dry. His wand hand’s twitching.

There’s a smear of dirt across Harry’s stomach. It trails under the waistband like it has somewhere better to be. Draco grips the doorframe.

Then Harry turns.

Sunlight catches his collarbones. His eyes. That ridiculous smile.

“Hungry?” he asks.

Draco swallows.

⸻

“You’re dripping on my floor,” Draco says.

Harry doesn’t move. His hair is soaked. His t-shirt clings to him like a second skin. Rainwater pools at his feet.

“Forgot my wand,” Harry says.

Draco raises a brow. “Your wand.”

Harry nods.

They stare at each other. Rain slides down the bridge of Harry’s nose, disappears under his jaw. His jeans are sticking to his thighs.

Draco swallows. Loudly.

Harry’s mouth twitches. “You gonna hex me dry, or just watch?”

Another pause. Draco’s tongue flicks over his bottom lip.

“Both,” he says.

Harry steps closer, dripping on the rug now.

⸻

He’s wearing Harry’s shirt. Again.

It’s the grey one — soft with age, a little too thin, loose at the neck — and it hangs off Draco like it’s been trying to become his all along.

Harry stands in the kitchen doorway, heart caught in his throat like a teenager’s. Draco doesn’t look up. He’s barefoot, one hand braced on the counter, the other stirring sugar into tea. Slow. Thoughtless.

Harry’s shirt rides high on one hip.

“You could’ve asked,” Harry says, too sharply.

Draco finally glances over. “You weren’t wearing it.”

“That’s not the point.”

A long pause. Draco doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to take it off?”

Harry opens his mouth. Closes it.

Silence.