An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The_Sinking_Ship @the-sinking-ship
Chapters: 18/18
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Characters: Pansy Parkinson, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Blaise Zabini, Hannah Abbott
Additional Tags: Getting Back Together, Breaking Up & Making Up, Enemies to Lovers, Case Fic, Head Auror Harry Potter, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Post-War, Dual Timeline, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Draco Malfoy, Competent Draco Malfoy, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Rimming, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, drinking to excess, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, some homophobic language/internalized homophobia, potions overdose, One Night Stands, Draco/OMC (past), references to Harry/OMC, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, and Harry doesn't hate it, Harry rides a motorbike, and Draco pretends to hate it, Humor, Happy Ending, Pining, Harry/Draco Big Bang 2021, Digital Art, Art, Illustrations
Draco thought he could avoid Potter for the duration of his brief return to England. He’d stick to his schedule and be back home in Paris, where he belonged, in a few short months. No trouble at all. He had plenty to occupy him, what with the opening of the London branch of his successful apothecary, his innovative research, drinks with Pansy, a backlog of unread potions periodicals.
Except Head Auror Potter is everywhere — in Draco's chair, at his door, in his dreams. All six feet of motorbike-riding, combat-boot-wearing, sex-hair-sporting Saviour of the World packed into one unfairly fetching uniform. Potter won’t leave Draco the bloody hell alone, won’t let him breathe, let him forget, let him sleep.
Because no matter how fast Draco Malfoy runs, Harry Potter is always hot on his heels.
"We aren't here for the same reason, Potter. I'm here because, back where we come from, I'm spit on in the streets. I'm taunted, threatened, and cursed. I'm treated like scum by the bastards who used to lick my boots. But here? I can be whoever I want to be. Here, I'm no one. But then you show up and take that from me. Everything I've ever wanted, you take from me." The words hissed between his teeth, seething things that burned their way out like acid. Because Draco had been holding it in for so bloody long. He'd been angry for as long as he could remember, and not once was he allowed to let it out. So, it sat there, simmering away beneath his ribcage, and all it took to claw itself free was the mere sight of Harry Potter, standing here, in his place — the only place Draco was safe. It was unacceptable. Infuriating.
Draco tore at the buttons on his cuff and yanked back his sleeve to reveal the stark black lines of the Dark Mark on his forearm. He crowded into Potter's space, shoving the tattoo under his nose, waiting for the inevitable disgust to surface.
But Potter didn't recoil. In fact, he barely even blinked. His gaze slid from the mark on Draco's arm back to his face, his eyes searching and a crease forming between dark brows. Potter was near enough now that Draco could see his pupils dilate, swallowing the emerald green in black. He could feel Potter's breath stutter in his lungs, the surprised puff of it against his face. Draco wanted to hold his breath because up close, Potter smelled nice. Masculine and warm and soaked in liquor, and it made Draco's mouth fill with saliva and his stomach tighten. But he leaned into his anger, let it drive him forward because it was too late to go back.
"This right here," Draco hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "This is the reason I'm here. It's because I have nowhere else to go. And if that means I go home with a bartender or some other bloke I just met, it's because I want to get fucked. So, tell me, Potter. Who do you know that wants to fuck a Death Eater?"
Potter's hand shot up and locked around Draco's wrist, blunt fingertips dragging across the raised edges of the Mark. Draco tried to withdraw, tried to yank his hand away, but Potter's grip was firm and hot and all he managed to do was stumble closer.
Draco's anger turned quickly to panic. Potter was too close. He could smell the whisky on his breath and the warm, leathery scent of his aftershave, and it made Draco's mouth water. It was all wrong because this was Potter. Harry Potter who made Draco's school days a living hell. Harry Potter who never had to work hard for a single thing in his life, who bested Draco at everything he tried. Harry Potter, who kept Draco and his mother out of Azkaban with a few fumbling words to the Wizengamot. Harry Potter, who split Draco from groin to shoulder and left him bleeding on the floor of the girls' lavatory. Harry Potter, who thought himself so much better than Draco that he didn't need his friendship.
Potter's eyes moved from the Dark Mark on Draco's forearm to his face, skimming across Draco’s features with a thoughtful expression.
"I think I might," Potter said, fingers tightening around Draco's wrist.
All of Draco's thoughts stuttered to a halt. He must have misheard Potter. He'd clearly drunk too much or was finally going mad because there was no way Potter just said what Draco thought he heard him say.
"That's ever so charitable of you," Draco growled through gritted teeth. When he pulled his hand back, Potter's fingers slid away slowly, grazing Draco's skin, his nerve endings sparking with electricity in their wake. "But I'm not interested."
Potter's eyes sparked behind the lenses of his glasses, and a lick of fear whipped through Draco's belly. He knew that look. This wasn't the first time Draco stood nose to nose with Potter, and he could be certain that Potter was about to do something monumentally stupid and probably dangerous.
"Are you sure about that? I've seen you watching me."
"I'm practising my wandless magic. Trying to set you aflame," Draco drawled.
Potter huffed a humourless laugh and stepped forward.
Draco recoiled, his back bumping against the cold tile of the bathroom wall. This time, Potter advanced on him. Draco's brain was scrambling for some kind of explanation. Part of him wanted to turn tail and run for the door, because there was no way that this was going to end in anything other than humiliation. Potter was toying with him. He had to be. But another part of him, a part that Draco tried desperately to subdue, wanted to believe it was real, wanted to believe that the darkness in Potter's eyes wasn't borne of cruelty and hatred, but something else.
Draco swallowed hard and watched as Potter tracked the movement of his throat.
"Tell me you don't want to kiss me, and I'll go away."
"I'd rather snog the giant squid," Draco retorted.
Potter huffed an exhale and raised his palms in surrender. He fell back a step, taking the warmth and the intoxicating scent of him away. Draco's brain shorted out. Before he was even aware of what he was doing, he'd fisted the front of Potter's t-shirt and dragged him against his body. And then they were kissing. It was hard and messy and Potter just melted into him, his arms winding instantly around Draco's waist, pressing them together.
Draco released his grip on Potter's shirt and sank his fingers into that infuriatingly messy hair, gripping the back of his skull with wide-spread fingers, preventing him from pulling away, afraid he might come to his senses. But Potter didn't pull back. He plunged his tongue between Draco's lips with a moan that Draco felt in his cock. He gasped when Potter's hands pushed under his shirt, running hot and hungry across the planes of his back. Potter's mouth disappeared from his, and Draco had barely a moment to utter a whimper before he felt the heat of Potter's lips against his throat, his tongue flicking right below his ear, the sting of his teeth at the spot where Draco's neck met his shoulder.
"Fuck," Draco groaned, and he heard Potter's responding rumble.
Potter was practically grinding against him, devouring Draco with his mouth, and Draco was dizzy from it. His body was alight where it pressed against Potter, and the desperate ache of arousal in his gut bloomed and spread like wildfire. It was at once too much and not enough. He wanted Potter's skin against his own, needed to feel the hot press of his hands against bare flesh or else he might go mad.
Draco fumbled over the buttons of his shirt with one hand while yanking at the hem of Potter's with his other.
"Oh god, yes," Potter breathed against Draco's neck, pulling back just long enough to help him struggle with his buttons.
Just then, the door swung open with a noisy squeak. Potter's reflexes were faster than Draco's, and he abruptly shoved him, stumbling backwards, into the toilet stall and kicked the door shut behind them. He crowded Draco against the wall, hands on his arse, dragging Draco's clothed cock almost painfully against his own, all the while kissing Draco with delicious ferocity.
It was brilliant. Draco wasn't sure he'd ever been so turned on in his life.
While it certainly wasn't his first grope in a dirty loo, they were usually fumbling and uncomfortable and, more often than not, Draco found himself hoping it would be over before his clothes suffered any irreparable damage. But not with Potter. Hell, Draco wouldn't have been arsed if Potter just vanished his clothes and took him right there. And where the hell did Potter learn to kiss like that? He was rough and possessive, confident in the way he moved his hands and licked into Draco's mouth.
Distantly, as if through a fog, Draco heard a voice and then a rattling at the stall door.
"C'mon mates, 'urry it up, will yeh? I'm full to burstin' 'ere!" The stranger shouted, pounding on the door with a fist.
Potter pulled away, growling. He grabbed Draco's wand from where it sat exposed, tucked in the waistband of Draco's jeans, and cast a wordless stunning charm so strong, the metal walls of the stall shook. There was a responding grunt and thunk, and Draco could see one dirty trainer attached to a leg splayed arse up on the floor.
"Sorry," Potter said with a wince. "Might have overdone it a bit there. He'll be alright, I'm sure."
