Title: Bargain Benefits
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, brief mention of past Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione briefly mentioned as well.
Summary: Harry doesn’t know what to think when Malfoy approaches him with an interesting trade-off.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): None, really.
Deathly Hallows compliant? It’s Deathly Hallows compliant because of maybe a sentence or two and a few implications. The epilogue is explicitly ignored.
Word Count: 7,916
Author's Notes: I hope this was what you were looking for, kayladie!
"He forced it through!"
Startled, Ron almost upended his coffee as Hermione slapped a document down on his desk. "I didn’t think he’d actually find any substantial support for this, but he did, and he forced it through!" Hermione’s cheeks were bright red and she was breathing harder than usual; after righting his cup, Ron looked up at her, clearly confused.
"Breathe, Hermione," he said. "What are you talking about?"
"What—what am I talking about? Have you not been paying attention to anything I’ve said in the past fortnight, Ronald Weasley?" At this point, Harry was very pleased that he wasn’t in Ron’s shoes—Hermione looked as though she was about to bludgeon her husband, or at least re-introduce him to Oppugno. "The Anti-Magical Creatures law! The one Hughes has been riding on since he was voted into office!" Hermione’s voice was nearing a maniacal shriek, and every Auror within a ten desk radius had looked up to ascertain the disturbance (and, if truth be told, take a break from the dreaded paperwork).
"Hermione, you need to quiet down," Ron said hastily. "People are starting to stare and if you get Robards out here—you know how much support he gave Hughes during the election—"
"Isn’t that just typical," Hermione hissed, her hair seemingly frizzing upwards as she towered over Ron. "Always your first priority—yourself! Who cares if people are being discriminated against because of things that they can’t help? As long as Ronald Weasley doesn’t get in trouble with his supervisor!"
"Hermione," Harry interjected firmly as Ron’s ears reddened, ‘it’s not Ron’s fault that Hughes managed to coerce the Wizengamot to vote his way. And speaking of supervisors, won’t yours be angry about you being down here? I mean, it’s not exactly lunch hour." He looked pointedly at the clock.
Hermione visibly calmed down after shooting Ron another glare. "Well, I suppose she might get a little upset," she conceded grudgingly. "But I don’t care! She’s completely supportive of this disgusting piece of legislation, although I can’t fathom why. It’s going to give everyone in our department twice as much work. Honestly, I’m about to resign. I entered the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to make a positive difference in the lives of magical creatures, not to condemn them to a ‘Ministry-allowed existence’! Do you understand what this edict is going to do?"
"Yes, Hermione," Ron said wearily. "We’ve only heard you rant about it since it was introduced."
"So he got support for every part of it?" Harry asked, cutting off Hermione’s scathing retort. "Not just the bit about the werewolves and vampires?"
"Yes," Hermione said wearily. "Our department now has the position to control not only werewolves, vampires, and Metamorphmagi, but also anyone who has ‘tainted blood’. That is to say, anyone who has a proven blood connection to any magical creature will be subject to strict regulatory measures."
"So they’re going to be looking for part-Giants?" Harry asked, immediately thinking of Hagrid.
"Not only part-Giants, but part-Goblins, part-Trolls and part-Veela, too."
"Even Fleur?" Ron asked, aghast.
"Of course Fleur," Hermione said. "She hasn’t exactly kept her heritage a secret, has she? I’ve seen what they want to do with part-Veela, and it’s disgusting. They’ve developed some sort of potion that’ll restrict her beauty and prevent her from having any more children. And they’re also going to go after Victoire, you know."
"That’s horrible," Ron said faintly, the seriousness of the law finally sinking in now that his family was threatened.
"That’s not even the worst of it," Hermione said. "They’ve got things planned for the part-Giants that make me cringe. And what they want to do to the werewolves—well, just let me say, I would run for America if I was one."
Harry’s stomach turned angrily as he though of Teddy, who no doubt would receive double attention from having werewolf blood and being a Metamorphmagus. "What can we do to stop it?" he asked Hermione quietly, finally voicing the question that had been ringing about in the back of his mind since he learned about the possibility of the law’s enactment.
"Harry, that’s the thing," she said. "I don’t think we can do anything short of fraud. We’d have to change official Ministry record and hide hospital documents. If we did that, we’d be risking a year in Azkaban, at least. The best we could do without risking disciplinary action is go to the press about it. I’m sure Skeeter would jump on an article about ‘our hero, Harry Potter’ denouncing Hughes." She pronounced Harry’s newest title with more than a hint of disgust but sounded worried all the same.
"That’s not good enough," Harry said firmly, making sure no one was eavesdropping. He lowered his voice to an almost-whisper. "If you think I’m just going to let them get at Teddy and Victoire and Hagrid—just tell me what to do." Ron paused before nodding vigorously.
"Well," Hermione said lowly. "Well, I could look into it, I think. If I spend my lunch break going through the technicalities…" she trailed off, looking both anxious and pensive at the same time. "Harry, just come over to our flat after work. I’m sure I’ll have found something out by then. Oh, if we get caught, we are going to be in so much trouble." But her eyes glittered mischievously all the same.
When he wasn’t flouting the law to protect his friends from bigoted laws, Harry rather enjoyed his job. Being an Auror wasn’t exactly what he had expected—it seemed to entail far more paperwork and far fewer daring adventures, but for the most part, it was an okay enough job. There were other drawbacks besides paperwork, however, and it mainly had to do with the placement of the Aurors’ desks.
Little had changed in the Ministry office set-up since Harry had first visited, and the Aurors’ headquarters were still located next to the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. However, during his stint as a temporary Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt had devised some outlandish punishments for those Death Eaters convicted of lesser crimes. He tried to justify such rulings as a way to "integrate them into today’s Wizarding society and dissociate them from Pureblood mania." However Kingsley tried to spin it, Harry still didn’t think it was fair that Draco Malfoy had been given the choice to work under Arthur Weasley for six years, no matter how many entertaining stories Arthur could provide Harry about Malfoy, exploding toilets, and confused Muggle plumbers.
Because Malfoy worked so close to Harry, Harry often saw him several times a day, which was several times too many. Ron often complained about Malfoy-sightings in a loud voice, always muttering about poncy gits who don’t express proper gratitude for people who’d saved their lives. It was true, Harry surmised, that Malfoy had never actually thanked Harry or Ron for their efforts to save him during the battle at Hogwarts, but Malfoy never seemed to go out of his way to nettle them either, which was a grateful surprise. It wasn’t hatred that made Harry angry about being in such close proximity to Malfoy every day (although he did feel a squirm of dislike every time he caught sight of Malfoy’s white-blonde hair). It was something else entirely, and something far more worrisome, because although Harry still remembered all those times Malfoy had got him in trouble, he also couldn’t deny that Malfoy had grown, well, attractive now that he’d been given several years to mature into his face.
Harry had tried to convince himself that anyone would find Malfoy appealing now that his face was angled and not pointy and now that he no longer slicked his hair severely back from his face. Harry certainly didn’t stare at Malfoy out of the corner of his eye while catching up on paperwork. And of course, Harry would never appreciate that Malfoy was no longer stringy and pallid but instead lanky and appropriately pale.
Oh, God, it’s no use, Harry told himself as he again caught sight of Malfoy out of the corner of his eye. I should apply for a desk in a center cubicle and be done with it. It’s too hard to concentrate on hiding Teddy’s documents when Malfoy keeps popping up out of nowhere.
Harry wrenched his gaze away, wishing fervently that he could talk to Hermione about it, since she had apparently become his relationship-guru after he’d split amicably from Ginny. Unfortunately, Harry couldn’t see the conversation going well. "Hi, Hermione, I know you’ve been trying to set me up with all these girls, but it’s not really working, you see, because I think I might be gay. And also, I’m pretty sure I really fancy Draco Malfoy. You don’t mind keeping this from Ron, do you?" Even in his head, it was embarrassing, and besides, he thought it would probably give Hermione a coronary, which would really get him in trouble with Ron, homosexual tendencies notwithstanding. The only thing Harry had done when he started thinking about men "that way" was to surreptitiously buy a couple of magazines, all of which were of a delicate, definitely homosexual manner. He flipped through them, testing words such as "cock", "rimming," and "lube" in a whisper, feeling decidedly perverted. If he couldn’t even read a magazine without feeling like the world’s worst sexual deviant, how could he expect to even begin to breech the subject with his friends?
So involved was he in the imaginings of just how Ron would kill him if he gave Hermione a heart attack, he didn’t notice that someone had approached his desk until he heard the shift of someone’s robes. He looked up over the rim of his glasses and immediately found himself staring at Malfoy.
"Potter," Malfoy greeted sounding cool and wholly unconcerned.
Harry groaned. "What do you want?" he griped, voicing a valid question, as Malfoy hadn’t said more than three words to him in the last two years.
"You’d be surprised, Potter," Malfoy said dryly. "You ought to be more careful—there are the most awful rumors about you and what you’re doing concerning this new law that’s been put in place. Something to do with hiding documentation for possible violators, I believe." Malfoy stated all this with a touch of unconvincing innocence, and attractive or not, Harry was ready to hex him into the wall.
His face reddening slightly with anger, Harry checked the desks around him, all of which were thankfully empty—even Ron had left to check out claims of Dark magic in Bedfordshire. Just in case, he cast a Silencing spell around his cubicle. "So you came over here to what?" Harry said acidly. "Blackmail me? Dangle it over my head? Save your threats, Malfoy; I’m not afraid of you."
"Of course you aren’t," returned Draco silkily, reminding Harry of Lucius. "I would imagine that you would’ve refrained from insinuating I was doing anything unsavory if you were frightened of me. You misunderstand me, Potter. I need your help."
Harry was already bracing himself against the inevitable attempts at insults and blackmail and when they didn’t come, he was caught slightly off-guard. "My—what, sorry?"
"Very funny, Potter. Your help." Malfoy scowled deeply.
"Of all the things I’d thought you’d ever say to me, Malfoy, I don’t think you asking for help was one of them."
"Well, I’m not exactly pleased with the situation either," Malfoy snapped, abandoning decorum. "But God forbid I ask the Weasel or Granger to help me, and they seem to be the only ones assisting you in your illegal endeavors." The way Malfoy placed an emphasis on Hermione’s name made Harry sure that Malfoy had wished to use a more vulgar word in its place.
"Well, why exactly do you need my help?" Harry asked dubiously, narrowing his eyes.
"Honestly, are all Gryffindors thicker than trolls?" Malfoy scoffed. "Obviously I have… delicate issues concerning my bloodline and would rather they not be recognized by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures."
"Not as pure as you’d lead people to believe, are you, Malfoy?" Harry sniped
Malfoy’s cheeks turned a slight shade of pink but before he could reply, he was startled by the approach of an Auror that Harry noticed as being part of Ron’s team. As much as Ron had been helping Harry and Hermione hide Fleur and Teddy from the Ministry, Harry doubted he’d be as forthcoming with Malfoy. "I’m not discussing this here," Harry said flatly. He wrote the address for Grimmauld Place down on a scrap of parchment and shoved it toward Malfoy. "Meet me here after work and I’ll see what I can do. I’m not promising anything." Malfoy shut his mouth with an audible snap, grabbed the piece of parchment, and stalked off without even so much as a goodbye glare. Regrettably, Ron saw Malfoy leave the Auror offices, and this led to Harry having to create an unpersuasive story as to why Malfoy was around in the first place.
The sky was a gloomy gray when Harry Apparated home that evening, slightly nervous that Malfoy had managed to get to Grimmauld Place before him, even though Harry knew perfectly well that Arthur usually had Malfoy working late. Harry spent fifteen minutes frantically levitating dirty dishes to the kitchen and banishing discarded clothes to his room, all the while trying to tell himself that it didn’t really matter, this trying to clean his house for Malfoy, because Malfoy wouldn’t be impressed no matter what Harry might do. Harry settled for having the pathway to the sitting room moderately clean, and he spent ten minutes trying to decide if he should change out of his work clothes. In the end, he decided to stay as he was and have Malfoy think that Harry didn’t care at all about their meeting.
Too soon for Harry’s liking, there was a hesitant knock on the front door. Arranging his face into an expression of non-concern, Harry pulled open the door and stepped aside to allow Malfoy in. Malfoy’s appraising look at the dingy walls of Grimmauld Place made Harry wonder why he hadn’t bothered to find a new place to live.
"For someone who preaches against the Dark Arts so much," Malfoy said scathingly, "you sure seem to live in a house promoting them."
"It’s no business of yours where I live," Harry said coolly. "And if you plan on insulting me the entire time you’re here, you’d best leave. I have better things to waste my time on." Malfoy scowled but shut his mouth and followed Harry to the sitting room. When Malfoy had gingerly taken his seat in an ancient purple armchair, Harry said, "Well, get on with it. What do you need from me?"
Malfoy swallowed then fixed Harry with a stare that was one notch down from haughty. Harry squirmed a little, not because Malfoy’s eyes were piercing Harry’s in the most deliciously uncomfortable way, but because Malfoy was still arrogant even in the act of asking for help. "Well, Potter," Malfoy started haltingly, almost awkwardly, "my great-grandfather on my mother’s side was originally from France and had an acquaintance with a Veela. I think she was related to the Delacours—I know you know of them since I hear that Fleur girl made the god-awful mistake of marrying a Weasley. To make a short story even shorter, he took a fancy to her and they ran away to England together. Two years later, my grandfather came along, and in case you can’t put two and two together, that makes my mother a quarter-Veela, which leads to me having Veela blood as well. Of course my mother refuses to register with the Ministry and I sure as bloody hell won’t and unfortunately for us, you seem to be the only person who’s trying to cover up documentation. Hence, here I am with the unfortunate task of asking for your assistance."
"Touching story," Harry said, scoffing slightly. "I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but there seems to be nothing in it for me. Hiding this documentation puts me at an awfully big risk. And don’t think you can convince me for a second that you’ll go straight to the Ministry and reveal what I’m doing, because you know that I could do the exact thing to you and your mother."
"Well, what do you want to even the deal, Potter? Money?"
"I have enough of that to be getting on just fine, thank you," said Harry churlishly.
"Antique artifacts, then?"
"Dark artifacts? Please, spare me."
"Well, Potter," Malfoy said calculatingly, "I obviously can’t offer you any power, political or otherwise, because you already have too much of that. You don’t want money, you don’t want anything I might have hidden in my vaults, and I’m sure you would never ask for a house-elf considering all the fuss Granger has made about them. Why are you so adamant about receiving payment when you don’t want anything?"
"Maybe I was waiting to see if you had anything to offer that was worth the risk. Obviously, you don’t."
"By the way, where is Weasley?" Malfoy asked, abruptly changing the topic, making Harry hesitate before answering.
"You mean Ron? At home, I guess—"
"No, not him. His sister—the one you were so sickeningly enamored with. I’d have thought by now you’d be busy with countless, red-haired half-breeds."
Harry frowned. "We broke up years ago," he said slowly. "Surely you read about it in the Prophet." Malfoy scowled deeply, and Harry remembered that during the time the Prophet was spitting out news about him and Ginny, Malfoy had been incarcerated and awaiting trial.
"Well, that certainly doesn’t explain why you haven’t been in the social pages lately. I’d expect that photographers would be following you endlessly and would’ve come up with a decent story by now."
"What does this have to do with anything, Malfoy?"
"Curious," Malfoy said lightly, but Harry couldn’t escape the feeling that he was somehow being manipulated.
"Go be curious somewhere else," Harry grumbled. "We’ve already decided you’ve got nothing I want."
Malfoy stared for a second, and then stood up, stretching slightly. "Been in anyone’s arse lately?" Malfoy asked, almost covertly, and Harry was almost too distracted by the pale patch of skin that was exposed when Malfoy’s shirt hitched up, to comprehend what Malfoy was insinuating. When Harry met Malfoy’s eyes again, they were strangely triumphant, and Harry’s stomach dropped like a stone.
"I thought so," Malfoy said calmly. "How’s this for a bargain? You hide my records, and my mother’s, and I’ll let you fuck me whenever you want."
"What?" Harry spluttered, blushing madly. "What the hell is wrong with you? Just because I don’t want your money or Dark relics doesn’t exactly mean I’m propositioning you! And I’m not gay!"
Malfoy laughed at that. "Come off it, Potter; everyone knows you’re poofier than Granger’s hair. We all went along with your little affair with the Weaselette, but no one was really surprised when you broke it off with her. You haven’t exactly had a relationship with anyone else yet, have you? Everyone’s just waiting for you to show up in the Prophet’s society pages wrapped around a bloke. Or haven’t you come out of the closet to yourself yet?"
"You tricked me," Harry said angrily—of course Malfoy had known about Ginny; the papers still speculated on a reunion.
"Honestly, Potter, you’re so gullible I’m surprised a Death Eater hasn’t lured you off a cliff with the promise of some child to save."
"Shut up! And I’m not gay!" Harry was half-shouting; his arms folded defensively over his chest.
"Keep telling yourself that, Potter," Malfoy said amusedly.
"Listen," Harry said, his voice tense with anger and embarrassment, "can we not talk about this? I’ll poke around tomorrow and see what I can do about hiding your documentation—not that I’ve agreed to do anything yet! Come over tomorrow and bring any medical records you have that Mungo’s might be able to trace back to your great-grandmother. I’ll think about what you might be able to do for me—I don’t want sex from you; I really, really don’t." Except for the fact that I think I really, really do, Harry thought, resisting the urge to bury his head in his arms and groan.
"I’m not coming here again," Malfoy said disdainfully. "I don’t think I’d survive a second encounter in this house—I think your curtains are alive. You can come to my flat."
"Why do we have to go to your apartment?" Harry asked indignantly. "Grimmauld Place is perfectly fine." Plus, in Grimmauld Place , Harry was in home territory; he knew he would feel much more on edge anywhere Malfoy would live.
"Oh, come now, Potter, I can’t believe that you think anyone would want to visit your house a second time. My flat, seven tomorrow evening."
"Well, where exactly do you live?" Harry grumbled.
"With your spectacular sleuthing skills, I’m sure you can figure it out. No need to show me to the front door." Malfoy swept out of the room without so much as a goodbye and as soon as Harry heard the front door shut, he allowed himself to wonder just what trouble he’d manage to get himself in this time.
When Harry arrived outside the building where Malfoy lived he was hardly surprised. Hidden in much the same way as the Leaky Cauldron, it certainly looked more posh than Grimmauld Place could ever manage, and Harry approached the ornate red door with more than a dash of trepidation. He felt even more out of place ascending the stairs after Malfoy wordlessly buzzed him in, and as he stopped outside the door to Malfoy’s flat, he was wishing that he had simply refused Malfoy from the get-go. However, Harry felt that, as an Auror, he ought to have enough courage to face his despicable (gorgeous) ex-enemy (and object of Harry’s every wanking fantasy for the past two weeks). He took one deep breath and knocked on the door. Almost immediately, it opened.
"You’re early," Malfoy said disdainfully, even though Harry knew that it was maybe, maybe 6:58.
"D’you want me to leave?" asked Harry irately. "Come back when you’ve been officially charged for flouting Ministry decree?"
"Your pathetic attempts to bait me leave me bored," Malfoy said, stepping aside to allow Harry access into the flat. "We can do this at the table," Malfoy segued, leading Harry around a corner to his lavish kitchen area. Harry could smell the remnants of Malfoy’s dinner, reminding him of walking past Indian take-out shops in the heart of London and leaving Harry to wonder if Malfoy had taken up the very Muggle habit of enjoying curry take-away. Malfoy took a seat at the table, and Harry sat as far away from him as politely possible.
"I’ve taken a look at any Ministry documentation," Harry blustered, feeling distinctly uncomfortable as Malfoy scrutinized him. "There’s not a lot mentioning your mother and even less suggesting that you might a descendant of a Veela, so there’s not much work that needs to be done at the Ministry itself—not that I expected there would be. Most of the damaging elements for Fleur came from her medical records and I suspect that most of the incriminating evidence against you will come from the same place. And we don’t really have a lot of time to cover it up—the Ministry is already moving against people who haven’t registered yet even though Hermione’s trying to slow the process down. They’ve started with rogue werewolves and vampires, but they should move onto the others soon enough. Can I see any medical records you have?"
Malfoy, looking amused at Harry’s unease, pushed a thick file across the table. "Here’s what my mother and I found," he said. Harry began leafing through it and swore quietly.
"This—this isn’t going to be easy," Harry said distractedly. "I don’t exactly have any connections with Mungo’s. I mean, with Fleur, most of her stuff was lodged in France, and the French Ministry isn’t exactly offering information, especially since a lot of powerfully magical French families have ties to Veela. And Teddy and Victoire are only a couple of years old, so there’s not much about them either. Teddy was the hardest because I had to cover up his birth certificate—"
"Can you help me or not?" Malfoy interjected.
"Well, I can try. I can’t—"
"Promise me anything. I know," Malfoy said, bored. "But you will try?"
"I—yes, I guess. Fine"
"So you’ve decided what you want from me?" Harry didn’t like the stare Malfoy had affixed him with.
"I—I don’t need anything. It’s fine." Rationally, Harry knew this was a stupid idea, because he’d be taking an awful risk for Malfoy and would get absolutely nothing in return. Harry’s libido agreed with his rationale, because Harry could’ve gotten sex with Malfoy out of this deal.
"Don’t pull that tragic hero bit on me, Potter. I don’t do debts." Malfoy caught his lower lip between his teeth and even though Harry knew it was an unconscious gesture, he couldn’t help but to stare at Malfoy’s mouth. A second too late, Harry’s eyes flicked back up to Malfoy’s and Malfoy adopted the most self-satisfied smirk Harry had ever seen. "I knew it," he declared. "I knew your poor, repressed mind couldn’t ignore the offer of sex. Sit up all night and think about it, Potter?"
"No," Harry denied lamely, all the while wanting to know how Malfoy had come to the right conclusion after Harry had stared at his lip for a millisecond too long. He tried to think of a more coherent argument but there was this part of him that wouldn’t allow it, the part that was really sick of Harry getting off with only his right hand. He attempted to deter Malfoy again by saying, "You can’t repay me with sex, Malfoy. That’s not how it works." This too sounded entirely unconvincing to Harry’s ears and apparently to Malfoy’s ears as well, because Malfoy had stood up. Harry wanted to push away from the table, he wanted to leave, he wanted to stay, he wanted to know why exactly he hadn’t had sex in over a year, and all these conflicting thoughts led to complete inaction.
"Denial doesn’t work for you, Potter," Malfoy said plaintively as he towered over Harry. "It just makes you sound needy. Get up." Harry had never wished for anything more than he wished he had decided to wear robes that day, because trousers could hide absolutely nothing as far as Harry was concerned. Malfoy smirked and Harry blushed.
"Get up, Potter," Malfoy said, again, and his voice was low and suggestive and Harry went against everything that was telling him the right course of action. He stood slowly, pushing the chair away from the table and Malfoy was so close and before he could even do anything but stand in stunned silence, Malfoy had bridged the distance and was kissing him and Harry couldn’t figure out what to do, so he did nothing at all.
Malfoy pulled back and said, "God, did you even ever kiss the Weaselette? Because if that’s the best you can do, I’m surprised she didn’t dump you sooner."
"Shut up, Malfoy," Harry snarled and before he could tell himself not to, he had grabbed Malfoy’s shirt and hauled him closer, kissing him furiously. It was more teeth than anything at first as Harry took the liberty of biting Malfoy’s lower lip so he could taste it for himself. Within moments, Malfoy was pressed fully against Harry and even as their tongues moved together, Harry could tell that Malfoy had just as much of a hard-on as Harry did himself.
Harry’s glasses were tilted awkwardly and as Malfoy used his tongue to sweep across Harry’s while cupping Harry’s erection, Harry could do no more than moan into Malfoy’s mouth. Then, suddenly, Malfoy pushed Harry back so he was braced against the wall. Malfoy gave Harry’s mouth a full-tongued goodbye and then Malfoy knelt on the floor, his face level with Harry’s crotch.
Harry knew what this meant, and when his mind had finally acknowledged that Malfoy was about to give him a blowjob, Malfoy had already undone the zip on Harry’s jeans. "Shit, Malfoy," Harry panted as Malfoy pulled Harry’s cock out of his jeans. Malfoy’s eyes locked with Harry’s, stormy and suggestive, and Harry couldn’t look away even as Malfoy used his tongue to trace the vein on the underside of Harry’s cock.
Malfoy withdrew his tongue and smirked wickedly. "Potter, I thought you weren’t gay, hmm?"
Harry wanted to point out that receiving a blowjob from Malfoy didn’t necessarily make him gay, but he couldn’t think of anything besides Malfoy being so cruel as to stop right in the middle of what he was doing. So, he settled for the next best thing and moaned, "Fuck, Malfoy, please." Malfoy took no time in interpreting Harry’s plea and instead swallowed as much of Harry’s cock as he could. Even with one hand stroking the base of Harry’s cock and the other holding Harry’s hips so Harry couldn’t thrust too hard, Malfoy still managed to look Harry calmly in the eyes, his mouth stretched around Harry’s prick.
"M’close," Harry gasped after a few minutes of the wet heat of Malfoy’s mouth, threading his fingers through Malfoy’s hair as he approached climax. If Malfoy could smirk around Harry’s cock, Harry knew he would, but he couldn’t and that was good because Harry’s balls were tightening and he was coming and fuck, it was so good. Malfoy released Harry’s cock with a slight mwop and a thread of semen trickled out of Malfoy’s mouth down his chin. It was the most erotic thing Harry thought he’d ever seen and it was a good thing he was leaning against a wall, because he might’ve fallen down, given how hard his legs were shaking. As it was, he slid down until he was face-to-face with Malfoy again.
"Going to leave me hard, Potter?" Malfoy rasped. Harry didn’t say anything but instead pulled Malfoy into an awkward kiss, his hand snaking down to try and undo Malfoy’s fly. He might’ve just experienced one of the most satisfying orgasms he could remember having but it didn’t mean he didn’t want to make Malfoy moan, to make Malfoy come. With a bit of struggling and a snapped comment by Malfoy, Harry finally managed to gain access to Malfoy’s cock. It only took six, seven, eight strokes before Malfoy was coming in Harry’s hand, gasping and swearing.
Later, as Harry was leaving, Malfoy said crassly, "You’ll have to owl first if you want to come over and fuck. And I have the right to turn you away if I’m too busy. And this only continues as long as you’re helping me."
"Fine," Harry muttered. The fall air cooled his burning face as he stepped outside, wanting to know how he always managed to get himself into such situations.
Try as he might, Harry couldn’t dredge up any regret for what had happened with Malfoy. Morally speaking, it wasn’t the greatest deal, and Malfoy felt too much like a whore for Harry to be entirely comfortable with the situation. On the other hand, Harry was putting his neck on the line for Malfoy, a man he wasn’t sure he liked very much, and this…arrangement was the only thing Harry wanted from Malfoy at the moment. Both sides of the argument seemed to cancel each other out, and Harry spent entirely too much time mulling it over as he pulled over-time working on locating (and destroying) any documentation he could find on Malfoy.
Luckily for Harry, a case had arisen about a woman in St. Mungo’s who was showing suspicious evidence of being addled by a dark curse, so Harry hadn’t had to invent a reason to be in the hospital to begin with. Much to Ron’s chagrin, Harry only had to ask Robards for the case before it was handed to him. "It’s not fair, you know," Ron had grumbled afterward. "You only have to ask him and you get whichever case you want, but no matter how I word it, he refuses to take me off stake-out duty whenever I’m in the field." Harry could hardly feel guilty about it—this was the only way he could ensure that he could get at medical records for Malfoy.
After six hours of wiping Malfoy’s records, five comments from a suspicious Ron, four times where Harry was almost caught by a Ministry investigator, and three days of arguing with himself, Harry finally decided to pay Malfoy another visit. On Sunday morning, he owled Malfoy asking if it was convenient for Harry to come over around eight. He kept the letter under the pretense that he wanted to check in with Malfoy, but he was sure that Malfoy would be able to read between the lines. Three hours later, his owl returned with an affirmative answer, which was good for Harry, as he didn’t think he’d wanked as much as he had in the past three days since he was fifteen.
Just as evening was falling, Harry was standing outside Malfoy’s door, feeling both determined and monumentally awkward. He knocked and Malfoy answered just as quickly as before. "I assume," Malfoy said, leaning against his doorframe, "that everything is going fine and this is just your glaringly obvious plea for sex."
Harry felt his cheeks heat up, but he determinedly met Malfoy’s eyes and said, "Perhaps."
"Come in, then," Malfoy said as he eased away from the door to allow Harry access. He led Harry to a bedroom and closed the door behind them. When he turned, his eyebrow slightly raised, Harry took this as a sign that no words were needed, which was good in Harry’s eyes, because Harry never did have a way with words. Two steps later, he was possessing Malfoy’s mouth, one hand buried in the hair at the back of Malfoy’s skull, the other pulling Malfoy’s hip closer. And Malfoy didn’t even battle to get the edge of dominance back; no, he let Harry’s tongue take control of the kiss. Harry liked this, liked how he wasn’t relying on Malfoy to get off, and if the moan Harry pulled from Malfoy’s throat was any indication, Malfoy wasn’t displeased with the situation either.
He pulled Malfoy back until he could feel the edge of the bed pressing against the back of his thigh, and he allowed himself to fall, pulling Malfoy on top of him. This was even better, because even though Malfoy was on top of him, Harry was still commanding the situation. Both of his hands were now on Malfoy’s hips, pushing their groins together, and as Malfoy pulled back to gasp at the feeling, Harry started nipping at Malfoy’s chin, slowly moving on to the soft skin of Malfoy’s throat. Malfoy threw his head back to offer Harry more skin, moaning gently. Harry smiled mischievously as he sucked at a point just above Malfoy’s collar-bone before biting down. The pain just made Malfoy’s moans more vocal, and Harry let Malfoy whimper once more before he moved back up to Malfoy’s mouth, working his hands between them so he could divest Malfoy of his robes.
It didn’t take long for Harry to get Malfoy completely naked, and vice versa. In the process, Harry had managed to pull himself fully on the bed, Malfoy straddling his hips. Malfoy’s lips left Harry’s and Malfoy’s eyes were glittering silver in the low light as he ground their erections together. "I’m going to fuck you, Malfoy," Harry growled, lest Malfoy get the wrong idea.
Malfoy smiled slightly. "Of course. The Gryffindor does have to assert his dominance, doesn’t he?" He propped himself up on his knees, reaching beyond Harry’s head for something, and Harry groaned as their erections lost contact. And then Malfoy was leaning back, twisting his body, and Harry could see glisten on Malfoy’s fingers as they disappeared up inside Malfoy, and Harry whimpered from the sheer eroticism of it as he watched Malfoy prepare himself. If he wasn’t careful, Harry knew he could come from the sight alone. "How do you want this, Potter?" Malfoy hissed as soon as he’d slicked more lube along Harry’s erection.
"On—on your back," Harry gasped, desperate to finally be inside Malfoy. They switched positions, and Harry grabbed a pillow and shoved it under Malfoy’s hips. With as little fumbling as possible, Harry lined up his cock with Malfoy’s slicked hole. One long thrust and Harry was inside Malfoy, encased in searing, tight heat.
"Fuck," Malfoy said, and Harry couldn’t tell if it was pain or something else, but he stilled his hips just the same. "Don’t stop, Potter," Malfoy groaned. "God." Harry began to thrust, slowly at first, but gaining speed as Malfoy began making those pleasured noises again. It didn’t take long before Malfoy was pushing back into Harry’s thrusts, angling his hips, and as much as Harry wanted this to last, he knew it wasn’t feasible.
Malfoy began stroking his own erection, but Harry batted his hand away, fisting Malfoy’s cock with rough, jerky strokes. Malfoy was moaning a litany of curses and Harry thought he was repeating something along the lines of "ohgodohgod" and then Malfoy’s arse was clenching around Harry’s cock as he came into Harry’s hand. Harry sped up frantically, but the sight of Malfoy’s face mid-orgasm was enough to have Harry coming as well.
As soon as Harry felt he could move again, he pulled out of Malfoy and rolled over to his back. Malfoy moved onto his stomach, and muttered, "You needn’t stay," into his pillow. Harry allowed himself two minute’s recovery, and then got off the bed so he wouldn’t fall asleep. He pulled his clothes on and left, feeling both better and worse than he had when he’d arrived.
As Harry steadily worked on the Malfoys’ paperwork, his torrid deal with Malfoy continued. Harry didn’t feel quite as awkward as he had at the beginning of the month, because honestly, it was sex, willing sex, and that was something he’d been missing for a long time. But whenever he sat to think about it, really think about Malfoy and what was going on, it was puzzling. Harry hoped Malfoy’s mother was happy, because her son seemed to do anything for her. First, devotion to Voldemort and then sex with Harry (although Harry quite hoped that Malfoy enjoyed sex more than the servitude to England’s late megalomaniac).
The worst part of it was that Harry was having trouble separating everything in his mind. It was only natural, he reasoned, that he was beginning to feel a sort of connection to Malfoy because they happened to share bodily fluids a couple of times a week. Harry just thought about Malfoy all the time because it was the first sex he’d had in ages. And it wasn’t even proper, relationship sex, because whenever Harry would come over, Malfoy would deliberately egg Harry on before someone would snap and press the other person against the wall.
Harry savagely signed a piece of paperwork, angry because no matter how good he became at the art of denial, it didn’t stop him from wanting more than what he had. And it was painfully obvious that Malfoy could care less about Harry beyond their deal; Harry had only asked Malfoy five personal questions during their month as business-partners-with-benefits, and Malfoy had managed to smoothly deflect three of them with well placed retorts.
Harry’s musings were interrupted, quite expectedly, by the Man-Who-Could-Never-Take-a-Hint-and-Just-L
"What is it, Ron?" Harry asked distractedly as something from Malfoy’s purloined paperwork caught his eye. Too busy reading further, he missed Ron’s next words. "Sorry, what did you say?" he said, looking up.
"I said, Malfoy’s been arrested," Ron said, looking immensely happy.
"What?" Harry yelped.
"I mean it! He’s been locked up in Azkaban with his bitch of a mother! Dad’s just told me. Apparently people investigating for the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures suspected her for something, and they discovered that she’s part-Veela. Isn’t that great news?"
"Er—yeah, Ron," Harry said, his heart hammering. Well, if Malfoy was arrested, that was it. Robards would be coming out any minute to take Harry to Azkaban himself.
"Harry," Ron said disbelievingly, "this is Malfoy we’re talking about. The biggest son of a bitch we know? He’s finally getting his comeuppance for the war!"
"Ron, I have to finish this before I can leave work," Harry said bluntly. "Can we talk later?"
"Yeah, I have to go tell Hermione, anyway. Malfoy in prison! Can you believe it?" Ron stalked off, laughing and Harry began racing through his papers to verify what he’d just read before getting hauled off to Azkaban himself.
Harry hated Azkaban. He’d only been there for two assignments, and although the Dementors had long been banished from the prison, Harry would always think of Sirius as soon as he entered under the gate. "Mr. Potter?" asked a warden. "Can I help you?"
"I need to visit a prisoner," Harry said briskly. "Draco Malfoy."
"Right away, Mr. Potter," the warden said breathlessly, and Harry almost groaned aloud, because he was getting awfully sick of the hero-worship, no matter how much Ron envied him for it. The warden led him through the complicated Azkaban halls and stopped deep within the middle of the fortress. The Dementors had long vanished from Azkaban, but the chilling cold temperature of the North Sea permeated the walls, and the small windows afforded little light.
"You can have as much time as you need, Mr. Potter. He’s not a high-security case—I think he’s just waiting for his trial, yeah? You can enter his cell; you don’t need to worry about him hurting you, I think. Just get a guard to bring you back to the front when you’re done." Harry nodded and the warden opened the door to Malfoy’s cell before leaving Harry alone.
"Potter," Malfoy drawled, "come to spring me out? Another rescued victim to add to your collection?"
"No," Harry said shortly. "I want to know why you haven’t told anyone I was falsifying your records."
"Well, it wasn’t your fault, was it? The Ministry was just doing some ‘randomized’ investigating. Funny, isn’t it? That my mother was randomly selected, along with the Goyles and the Notts? Random ex-Death Eater selection more like."
"That doesn’t mean that you couldn’t have told them what I was doing. I’m sure they offered you some sort of plea-bargain for the information."
"I’m not a snitch, Potter. You kept up your end of the deal. I see no need to betray you."
"I don’t buy that, Malfoy," Harry scoffed. "You can’t blame me after all those times at school when you’d deliberately go out of your way to get me in trouble."
"In case you haven’t noticed, Potter, I’m no longer fifteen," snapped Malfoy, sitting up so he could fix Harry with a venomous glare. "Fuck you—that’s why you’re here isn’t it? Covering your tracks. Making sure that the Slytherin doesn’t fuck you over for a little less jail time. Well, you can just get the fuck out and go laugh with Weasley about the whole damn situation."
"Malfoy—" Harry started, feeling like a heel.
"Don’t. Just get out."
Harry turned back towards the door and walked out into the corridor. He stopped short of getting the guard and looked over his shoulder. "You’re not going to be here for very long, I suspect," he said quietly. "It looks like Hughes and a couple of members of the Wizengamot have been hiding their documentation, too."
Three and a half weeks after he’d spoken with Draco in Azkaban, Harry was standing outside Draco’s apartment complex, feeling both awkward and stupid. Draco had been released within a week of being arrested, mainly due to Hermione and the documents Harry had found hidden within St. Mungo’s. Hughes had resigned, with about twenty other corrupt Ministry officials, the Anti-Magical Creatures law had been scrapped, and Hermione had received a nice promotion. In a perfect world, Harry would’ve accepted the closure of his deal with Draco with no feelings of guilt.
Harry wished he lived in that perfect world, because then he certainly wouldn’t have spent entirely too much time thinking about Draco and how he smirked when he tricked Harry into doing things and how he moved when Harry was inside of him.
Harry summoned his courage and entered the building, pressing the button for Draco’s flat. He had tried to get over Draco—really, he had. He’d gone to a club, for Merlin’s sake, and felt like the biggest cad as everyone crawled over him, trying to get him drunk. He was startled by the loud noise the door made as Draco buzzed him in, and he trudged up the stairs to Draco’s flat, trying to figure out what he was going to say.
"I knew it," Draco said as soon as he’d opened the door. "I knew you couldn’t just leave at that. Your stupid Gryffindor morals just had to get in the way, didn’t they?"
"Malfoy—" Harry began, but he was cut off before he could continue.
"What? You’re going to try and convince me to, I don’t know, enter a relationship? You? You can’t even string two sentences together without sounding like the world’s biggest idiot. Why would you even want anything more from me, Potter?"
"I can’t help it," Harry snapped angrily, hoping none of Draco’s neighbors would come out and investigate. "It was you who suggested this stupid thing in the first place."
"As a bloody business deal, Potter! Not as an excuse to get a boyfriend! You can just leave—nothing you could say could change my mind."
Harry had just one moment of indecision before he kissed Draco hard on the mouth. Just as he coaxed Draco’s tongue into moving with his, Harry pulled away. "You’re the worst liar I know," he said and then he turned to walk down the hallway. That was stupid, he told himself. That was stupid, that was stupidthatwasstupidthatwassoincrediblyst
"I’m not going to be your dirty secret, Potter," Draco said, and Harry turned to gape at him. "I’m not going to hide behind closed doors. If you want me, you have to make sure everyone knows you're mine."
"You’re serious?" Harry said faintly as he came back to Draco’s door.
"Are you coming inside or what?" Draco said.
Later, as Draco was settling into his pillow and Harry was flopped beside him, sweaty and sated, Harry said, "You used your Veela power on me, didn’t you? That’s the only explanation."
"Potter," Draco mumbled, "the only thing Veela about me is my hair."