Title: Poems on the Underground
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Draco/OMC (implied)
Summary: Post-Voldemort. Harry and Draco are friends with benefits, and Draco can’t help being so photogenic.
Rating: Hard R?
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Ambiguous relationships
Word Count: 2,146
Author's Notes: Thanks to f for a great beta job, as usual! The request was for fluff and smut, with a happy or positive ending. I hope you like!
He was waiting for Harry, as usual. In a top hat and jeans and dark cerise-stained lipstick, his eyes slanting in amusement even as he slouched further down the wall, rubbing shoulders with several layers of grime and casual trails of put-out cigarette ends.
Coming up the stairwell, Harry furrowed his eyebrows, a half-frown, before shifting his shopping bags from one arm to the other, using free fingers to flick Draco’s top hat upwards. Draco’s lips were outlined in an exaggerated pout, the colour forcing a faint bloom across his cheeks. The heavy-liddedness of his eyes, Harry was sure, was mostly the effect of expertly applied eyeliner; grey outlining dark grey.
‘What, no Damien to take you out today?’ Harry muttered under his breath even as he jiggled the key into the lock, hearing the soft snick of the mechanism sliding open. It had been a long day, and the headache he had woken up with was still a lingering presence, throbbing lightly. He left the groceries on the dining table – two apples, a Twix bar, instant coffee, praline-flavoured macaroons and three bottles of Japanese beer.
‘What’s got you in a snit today, Potter?’ He heard the words echo behind him as he made his way to the loo, dodging a stack of paperwork wavering on the edge of his study desk. He leaned his head against the narrow bathroom wall as he relieved himself, breathing in the lemon scent that Dobby always left behind when he cleaned the flat.
Draco was nowhere to be found when he came out, having taken the time to pull off his stringy work tie and haphazardly roll up his shirtsleeves. Laundry day soon – again. Harry wondered whether Hermione would somehow find out if he bribed Dobby to do his ironing, in addition to all the other chores around the house.
The flat was tiny, a little cubbyhole in an unfashionable part of Camden, which Harry had magically expanded to allow more space. He had also carved a window into the sitting room wall that was invisible to his Muggle neighbours. It let in the light and, if you stood at a particular angle, had a view that stretched across townhouses and council flats all the way to Regent’s Park.
He found Draco in the kitchen, a dash of glamour against the tiles, pawing through his shopping bags and letting out a happy ‘Ha!’ when he found the Twix bar. The macaroons, on the other hand, he left alone - leaving them nestled in their pale green, gilded box, the name of his favourite French bakery tattooed on the side.
Coming up behind him, Harry stepped closer and lightly draped his arms along Draco’s waistband, leaning in so that the fine blonde hairs in the nape of Draco’s neck tickled his nose. Draco smelt of dirt and cigarette smoke.
‘Damien’s out today. Gone to Bath for a goblin conference.’ Harry wrinkled his nose, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder. His hair rustled against the velvet of Draco’s jacket in counterpoint to the discreet tearing of a chocolate wrapper. ‘Won’t be back till tomorrow. I was bored at home, Pansy’s busy with the arrangements for the masquerade ball - so I went to Soho with Finnegan, before coming to find you.’ Draco was smiling; Harry could hear it in the lilt in his voice.
‘Make yourself useful then, since you insist on leaving your Kensington pad to crash in my space; make me tea.’
Draco huffed out a laugh before turning in the loose bracelet of Harry’s arms, his jeans sliding against Harry’s work slacks. His lips looked bee-stung in the kitchen shadows, lit by the glow of distant streetlamps - Harry shivered as they grazed the stubble pebbling his jawline. Silhouetted against the kitchen table, Draco pecked him on the cheek, a soft press of lipstick against skin.
‘Bad day at work, eh? Go on, sit outside, I’ll bring in the tea set.’
Harry felt a knot of muscle across his shoulders relax at the words, and left the kitchen to the sight of Draco reaching up on tip-toe, hat tilting as he grabbed his box of specialty Darjeeling hidden on the high shelf.
Harry had insisted on buying a flat – and all its accompanying accruements – on his own meager salary as junior Curse-breaker at Gringotts. Sirius’ and his parents’ money was left intact in their vaults, accumulating interest and cavern-dust, save for the yearly amount deducted toward a handful of children’s charities and orphanages.
There were various throws and cushions donated by his slew of friends, the remnants of various flat-warmings and sleepovers. The wallpaper and carpet came with the keys, and the carpet in particular suffered through three applications of Scourgify and Molly’s secret-recipe stain remover before Draco deigned to step foot on it. In addition, the flat was dotted with such Muggle peculiarities as electric sockets and fluorescent lights, though Harry kept a candlestick or two on the mantelpiece above the restored fireplace, especially for Draco.
They watched a bit of Wizarding television while eating Thai takeaway, the candlelight casting shadows on Harry’s unadventurous pad thai and Draco’s laab mu and son tam. Harry had stripped down to his shirt, socks and boxers, squeezed comfortably into a corner of his couch with Draco bracketed between his legs, draped across the carpet, waving chopsticks with one hand and putting out his cigarette with the other. His top hat adorned a Weasley-orange beanbag in a corner, listing rakishly to the side.
Randalf Greenhopper was interviewing a purple-pantalooned wizard from Skye and Harry could feel himself drifting off, his movements sluggish even as he ran his fingers through the fine blond strands of Draco’s hair. Draco’s cotton shirt caught against the short hairs on his leg as he nattered on about underage wizards desecrating his high street with lurid, moving graffiti. His hair, when left to its own devices, was poker straight with a high sheen, framing his face in soft wisps. It was the furthest thing imaginable from his own hair, Harry thought even as his fingers stilled, the room retreating to a hazy, soft-focused glow and the fragrance of Thai spices.
When he woke, it was to Banished takeaway boxes and utensils, and a shirtless Draco nuzzling his cock through his boxers. As Harry watched, he dragged the tip of his tongue against the rise of Harry’s cock, wetting the round protrusion of its head in tandem with Harry’s surprised groan, his mouth curving in the flickering glow from the television. Harry arched his back and clutched at Draco’s hair, feeling the threads slip through his fingers.
Harry could feel himself clenching his buttocks as Draco’s tongue continued its small, kittenish laps, mouth puffing and then hollowing out as he blew a puff of air across Harry’s cock-head, straining against his boxer stripes. He gasped – fuck – as Draco trailed his fingers along the thick vein on the underside of his prick, before tugging on the elastic waistband and lifting his cock gently up and out, burying his nose against the wiry hairs on Harry’s balls as he breathed.
There were stars (Draconis) on the underside of his eyelids when he came inside the soft, sucking heat of Draco’s mouth, hips thrusting against Draco’s face before collapsing forward, crushing Draco against the maroon carpet, boxers sliding down about his knees. Draco was laughing even as he pressed his mouth against Harry’s, viscous liquid smearing his lips, salty-sweet, his eyes alight.
Harry awoke to the faint rustling of paper. He turned his head to see Draco on the floor, a thick book balanced on his stomach, his face softer and makeup-free in the morning light. There was a gnawing ache in his belly, Harry realised, as he watched Draco unawares – his eyes gliding lazily across printed text as a breeze from the open window lifted his hair.
He was naked beneath the sheets, and the space beside him on the bed was cool to the touch – Draco must have Apparated home and back again, for fresh clothes as well as his reading. Harry felt a brief pang of loss, quickly stifled, before raising himself up on both arms, causing the bedcovers to slip down towards his stomach.
Lifting his head, Draco caught sight of Harry and his rumpled bed-head, darkly haloed against the grey silk bedsheets Draco had chosen, the exact shade of his eyes.
He smiled, and Harry felt his gut contract, even as his lips curved in answer.
They went to Hyde Park – Draco helped Harry ring in sick for work, on account of it being Friday and almost the weekend, anyway.
They brought Draco’s macaroons and ate them by the Round Pond, watching swans flap their wings, white blurs against the trees. Lying half on top of Draco, stretched out on dewy grass, Harry buried his face in Draco’s chest, feeling Draco’s fingers caress his neck, the sun through the leaves lighting his hair like gold thread, dream-spun.
Draco was reading a tome on Wizarding finance, Harry found out. He assumed it was Damien’s influence – Damien, who was thirty-five to their twenty-two, and one of the richest wizards in Britain. Damien, who looked after Draco – fed, loved and coddled him, something Harry wasn’t sure he knew how to do, even as he breathed in Draco’s day-smells of argyle sweater and cashmere socks.
Sometimes Harry wondered what it would have been like without the war, without the Ministry stripping the Malfoy fortune bare, without his damnable pride to prove that he could lead a normal life beyond the cachet of the Potter and Black heir; the damaged boy hero.
Sometimes he wondered, even as he knocked Draco’s book away and dragged his tongue across the roof of Draco’s mouth, to Draco’s laughingly exasperated you’re such a deviant, Harry – whether it wasn’t all worth it, hard Malfoy angles against his own and lips that lost their sneer when he was around.
He was whispering to Draco now, tonguing the corner of his lips, teach me, teach me all about the diminishing utility of wealth, and rising house prices, and Draco tugging his shirt from his jeans and running cold hands up the slope of his back, rubbing their groins together and kissing him back.
There was time for a muttered Imperturbable and Invisibility Charm before the squawking of the birds faded into the London air, before the distant trees darkened, burnt at the edges, turning gold as Harry cradled Draco in the dip of his pelvis, tasting salty round nipples as he came all over Draco’s fine-boned hand.
They Apparated straight onto the well-worn carpet in Harry’s bedroom, its light blues and turquoise bringing out the sky in Draco’s eyes as he gasped under the expert application of Harry’s mouth, nuzzling his navel as he reached for Draco’s trousers. Draco still wore his shirt – Harry was sure his own had been left behind for the ducks to puzzle out, even as he pushed Draco’s shorts and trousers down around his ankles, spread-eagling his thighs. Draco’s cock bobbed between them, pink and edged with gold down, like a fine confectionary that Harry yearned to lick all the icing off, holding Draco’s wrists down on either side of the carpet.
They fucked with Draco on top, his hips moving up-down in a posting motion - as if he were cantering on one of Damien’s prize horses - Harry’s dark prick slipping in and out of his arse as he watched sweat gather in the hollow of Draco’s throat. Draco was beautiful, back arched, knees spread, mewling for more, Haarry, even as Harry thrust into him, slim musculature back-lit against the white tulle curtains that billowed against his skin.
One day, Harry thought, when they were a little older, wiser; he’d take Draco to the Orient, to eat the food he loved so much – minced beef salad and sticky rice parcels, lemongrass and dill. To where he’d fit right in, with his bright laugh and fine hair and cat-like, slitted eyes. Watching Draco turn away, murmuring into his wizard mobile, voice carefully neutral as Harry watched him from the waste of flung pillows and sweat-damp sheets, Harry ignored the faint trace of pain low in his abdomen.
Stealing a quick, musky-flavoured kiss, his glasses clinking against the steel of Draco’s phone as Damien’s voice drifted in, ‘…and remind Dobby to have my suit pressed for the meeting tomorrow, sweetheart…’, he trailed an invisible path along Draco’s shoulder with his tongue, H-a-r-r-y, dotting the effort with kisses, soft and sweet.
One day, all this – this tenderness and familiarity; the stolen hours when Draco’s attention wasn’t focused on something else – wouldn’t be enough, he knew. But for now, Harry thought, circling his arms around Draco’s waist, watching his gilt-edged eyes darken, lace-winged as he held Harry’s own - for now he could wait, until they were both ready.
I fell in love years ago,
and now I’m finished.