Archive of Our Own ^beta

James Sirius Potter was the beating heart of Gryffindor’s Quidditch team, his exceptional seeker skills often the deciding factor in their victories. His confidence was as loud as his laughter, and he was rarely seen without the tight-knit gang of friends who seemed permanently attached to his orbit. Even from a hundred meters down the corridor, Draco Malfoy could sense James's presence, long before seeing him—an undeniable cacophony of energy, punctuated by jesting remarks aimed at a professor or fellow student, followed by a roar of laughter from his group of friends that echoed through the corridors.

At seventeen, he was unusually tall for his age—a characteristic he clearly hadn't inherited from his father. His face bore sharp, rugged features, with deep-set eyes and a strong jawline, framed by broad shoulders that hinted at a masculine physique still shaping itself. Obviously, again, none of these traits originated with his father, yet there was no denying he was destined to grow into a strikingly handsome and imposing man.

In many ways, James reminded Draco of his own youthful swagger during his own Hogwarts days, but in the most ironic way now as a professor, he found himself disliking students like James the most: brash, entitled, and unapologetically domineering. Yet James wisely seemed to understand the boundaries, his usual bravado notably absent in Draco’s classroom, where a more cautious side of him quietly emerged.

James Potter, unsurprisingly, was no prodigy at Potions, though he consistently performed above average—much like his siblings. Draco wasn’t particularly shocked when other professors grumbled about James’s unruly antics in their classes. He had merely smirked into his cup of the finest French tea, recalling how James had been the picture of attentiveness just an hour earlier in Potions, not a toe out of line. That was the effect Draco had on his students.

In all his seven years of teaching, no student had ever dared to push their luck with him. As a fully qualified Potions Master, Draco had earned Outstanding marks in his N.E.W.T.s, followed by five years of advanced study to complete his mastery. His final step had been Headmistress McGonagall’s approval and recommendation to teach at Hogwarts—a milestone that still carried a note of pride.

Draco approached his lessons with a palpable sense of purpose, bringing the craft of potion-making to life for his students. His passion was evident, and even though he rarely sought validation, he knew from both his colleagues and the students themselves that his teaching was respected and admired.

Albus Severus Potter, Harry Potter's second, shared an unlikely but ironically steadfast friendship with Scorpius, Draco's only son, that stood in almost embarrassing and stark contrast to the petty, bitter enmity between their fathers. Even now at fifteen, Scorpius, openly adored Albus, his closest friend. Their bond defied the weight and burdens of their fathers' past and unpleasant history, flourishing in a way neither Draco nor Potter could have anticipated.

Albus, was exceptional in his own right, outshining his siblings in academics with a remarkable gift for potion-making. His skill bordered on prodigious. This talent was no coincidence. The Potters, long before Harry's time, after all, held a legacy in alchemical mastery.

Draco, serving as his proud mentor, had no doubt that Albus, under his expert tutoring and guidance, if he desired, could one day rise to become one of the greatest potion-makers of his generation. It seemed a fitting continuation of the Potter lineage, whose ancestors, long before Harry, had amassed their wealth, fame and high standing in the Wizarding World through the brilliant creation and trade of renowned potions, including the celebrated Pepperup Potion.

Albus’s respect for Draco was equally evident in his subtle yet meaningful gestures. Whether at Hogwarts or during holidays spent at Malfoy Manor with Scorpius, Albus always greeted Draco with a subtle bow.

Albus Potter had little interest in sports or other physically demanding pursuits that captivated his siblings and his world-famous Quidditch player mother. Instead, he found joy in sketching. When Scorpius had proudly presented Draco with one of Albus’s breathtaking drawings of Hogwarts, Draco was genuinely taken aback. The intricate, graceful lines of the sketch, a far cry from the chaotic scrawl of Harry Potter’s famously unruly handwriting, a detail that lingered in Draco’s mind, a memory that seemed worlds apart from the refined work before him.

Albus was introspective and almost introverted, shying away from the crowds and the overwhelming attention that came with being the son of Europe’s most legendary wizard. But, beneath his quiet demeanor lay a bold streak, one Draco only began to see through Scorpius.
Scorpius, ever the chatterbox around Draco, would excitedly share snippets of their adventures—misadventures, more often than not. While carefully omitting the more blatant acts of rebellion and reckless escapades, and obvious instances of danger and rule-breaking, Scorpius’s stories revealed a daring side to Albus that his rather reserved nature concealed.

Draco was the only professor made aware of their misadventures, as, unlike Potter and his reckless friends, his son and Albus had managed to avoid causing enough chaos to be caught by the rest of the staff. As of now. He had given Scorpius a warning, using his "serious" fatherly tone, to which his son had sheepishly grinned back at him.

Albus Potter was shorter than most boys his age, barely reaching the expected height for a fifteen-year-old, following the same growth pattern as his father had each year at Hogwarts. He appeared even shorter next to Scorpius, who was easily two inches taller.

Albus’s features were impossibly soft, as if sculpted from porcelain. His doe-like eyes, the color of fresh spring leaves, sparkled with a quiet intensity, framed by long, dark lashes that added an almost ethereal beauty to his gaze. His unruly hair, tousled but with a soft, glossy sheen, seemed effortlessly perfect, curling gently around his face in a way that softened his cheekbones. His lips, full and plush, held a natural pinkness that contrasted against his pale skin. His neck was graceful, with the delicate arch of his collarbones barely visible under his robes. His smile was warm, unassuming, and just the right amount of gentle, a perfect match for his overall appearance.

As Draco observed him, it was as though he were subconsciously recalling every intricate detail of Albus’s delicate features from his memory of a particular somebody. Each soft curve, every subtle gleam in his green eyes, reminded him painfully of someone else—someone whose beauty had once consumed him in a way he couldn't forget. It was the same beauty he had seen in another face, one that haunted him still. Albus’s father. Bloody Potter. The resemblance was undeniable, and with each passing moment, it felt like Draco was staring not at the son, but at a haunting reflection of the man he had desired.

And there lay the problem—the true crux of Draco's predicament. This wasn't even about Albus. This attraction had nothing to do with the boy before him; it was all about Potter. Bloody Potter. All fucking over again. If Draco had never known Harry, Albus would have simply been another student, beautiful or not. But now, it was impossible to look away. Draco was back in the same room with that same overwhelming pull of his youthful, reckless longing for Harry—only now, it was Albus who stood before him, forcing him to relive it all.

It hadn’t been so before, when Albus was younger. But now, at fifteen, the resemblance was uncanny. The way he carried himself, how beautiful he looked, the little quirks—Albus seemed to have become the mirror image of his father, and that was something Draco hadn't anticipated and was now cruelly forced to confront.

~~~ . ~~~

Harry Potter had returned to Hogwarts. As he leisurely strolled across the grounds, he couldn't help but smile up at the clear, blue skies above him—bright and endless. His hands were casually tied behind his back, and with each step, there was a subtle spring in his stride, as though he couldn’t contain the lightness in his heart. He was acutely aware of how he must look—like a pleased, satisfied child, walking with a sense of carefree joy, as he made his way towards Hagrid’s hut for tea. The familiar sight of the towering figure and the comforting warmth of the place only added to the feeling of returning home. The familiar warmth and comfort of those old days wrapping around him once more.

It was home—the soft scrape of pebbles beneath his boots on the familiar path to Hagrid’s hut, the quiet, insistent chatter of students as they made their way to dinner, McGonagall’s throat clearing just before her speech, the swift rustle of a student’s robe as they dashed past him in the corridor. Every detail, every sound, every subtle shift in the air, a comforting reminder of where he belonged. Hogwarts, home. And for the first time in a long while, Harry could feel it in his bones. He was home.

Certain things had changed at Hogwarts, but nothing compared to the transformation Harry’s own life had undergone. He had married Ginny, the woman he once thought was the love of his life, but now, years later, she had become his closest friend. Together, they had raised three beautiful children.

James, their eldest, would have been Snape's worst nightmare if the Potions Master had ever had him as a student—so much like his grandfather. Snape had once believed Harry to be a reflection of his own father, James Potter, but now, with James's reckless antics and stubbornness, it was clear that the true mirror of James Potter was Harry's son, more so than himself. The complaints and remarks McGonagall made about James, she said, echoed the very same ones she had once directed at Harry's father. Apparently, James had inherited his grandfather’s fiery spirit and quick wit in full measure.

Then there was Albus, their second—his bright, beautiful, and talented son, yet often unsure of himself. He stood a little taller when someone he loved was by his side, as if their presence gave him the courage to embrace the world more fully, just as Harry had once faced everything with Ron and Hermione by his side. Albus looked so much like Harry that it was sometimes disorienting, as though Harry were gazing into a mirror. Albus also shared so many of Harry’s traits—his sensitivity, kindness, his quiet strength—that when Harry held him or offered comfort, it often felt like he was talking to and holding the younger version of himself. A reminder of how far he had come and a connection to his past he hadn't quite let go of.

And lastly, their youngest, Lily, was a ball of fire—spirited, fierce, and stunning, just like her mother. Even at such a young age, it was in the way she carried herself, unafraid to speak her mind and always ready to stand her ground. She was a force to be reckoned with, much like Ginny had been at her age, and Harry couldn't help but admire the strength in his daughter that reminded him so much of her mother.

They had divorced when Lily had turned five, and Ginny, after years of training to become a Quidditch star, had gone on to create her own professional team. Meanwhile, Harry had left the Auror office, finding a deep sense of fulfillment in becoming a stay-at-home dad. He poured all his energy into caring for Lily and his sons, relishing in the chaotic moments when they would return home from Hogwarts for the holidays.

But when Lily finally joined Hogwarts herself, leaving Harry alone in their empty house, he found himself stepping into the start of an entirely new journey. He couldn’t remain idle for long. With his years of field experience and reputation as an outstanding ex-Auror, Harry was welcomed back to Hogwarts—not as a student, but as a professor.

He had completed preliminary courses in tutoring and theoretical mastery of Defense Against the Dark Arts, and returned to the place that had shaped so much of his life.

Becoming a professor at Hogwarts was not a hasty decision born out of a longing for his children or a lack of purpose—no, Harry had always dreamed of sitting at the staff table in the Great Hall, feeling the weight of responsibility as he watched the frowns that followed each time he deducted points, or being looked at with admiration for more than just his status as the Boy Who Lived. He had long imagined explaining the intricate nuances of defensive spells, sharing the knowledge he had acquired over the years. The seed of this aspiration had been planted the moment he had taught his friends, Dumbledore’s Army, how to cast defensive spells, how to perform a Patronus. That had been the moment when Harry had known, without a doubt, what he was meant to do once he left Hogwarts: return to teach.

But somewhere along the way, he had strayed. Swept up by the expectations of others, caught in the thrill of chasing after dark wizards and righting wrongs once again. For a time, he had pursued that calling, forgetting the deeper pull, the one that had always whispered to him that his place was in the classroom, helping others unlock their potential. Now, after years of fulfilling that need to please others, he had returned to the place he had always known he belonged.

Two things, however, remained strikingly unchanged in Hogwarts for him, Harry realized by his fourth day back there. The first was the irresistible burst of flavor of the treacle tart that melted on his tongue. The second was the way Malfoy undressed him with those eyes, those unyielding and familiar silver grey eyes.

 ~~~~~

The difference now was subtle—Potter had grown into a man, with a hint of stubble along his jawline, an inch taller than Albus, some muscle filling out his frame, though not as prominent as Draco's own muscular form. Yet, the core of that familiar face remained unchanged. He still looked beautiful—but pretty was perhaps the more fitting word. Draco could see how Albus had inherited that same soft, captivating allure. The delicate angles of Potter's face, the gentle curve of his lips, and the bright, sparkling green of his eyes—they all spoke of a beauty that was less about sharpness or strength, and more about an effortless, almost ethereal charm. It was the kind of beauty that made you pause, made you notice, and made it impossible to ignore.

As Draco strode into the Great Hall, the usual chorus of admiring murmurs from his overly enthusiastic female students faded into the background. His steps faltered—when his gaze caught Potter’s, seated at the staff table regarding Draco with an easy smirk, as though he’d been waiting for Draco’s arrival, eager to gauge and savor Draco's reaction to seeing him again after all these years. The sight hit him like a hex he hadn’t anticipated. Seventeen years had passed since he had last seen him, and yet here he was, effortlessly composed, radiating that infuriating confidence. Draco, however, managed to steady himself, masking his unease and the thrumming in his ears with practiced grace.

He was certainly not prepared to hear that hearty laughter ringing out from Potter, a response to something Hagrid had said, his eyes crinkling at the edges as his head tilted back, exposing the pale, soft curve of his neck. Draco was even less prepared for the surge of seething annoyance that coiled tightly in his chest—a resentment at how carefree Potter looked, so at ease in the world, while Draco spent sleepless nights in his private quarters, cursing himself as he relieved his overwhelming sexual frustrations to thoughts of that tender skin beneath his lips.

It had been two months since Potter’s return, and not once had they exchanged a single word. It was both strange and not strange at all—fitting, considering their history. Yet, despite the silence, they were always acutely aware of each other’s presence, no matter the room or the circumstance. Draco didn’t miss the way Potter’s gaze seemed to follow him wherever he went, lingering just a second too long. Nor did he miss the eye roll Potter had poorly concealed the other day at yet another swoon from one of Draco’s admirers as he strode past.

Draco wasn’t surprised to catch the unmistakable glint of attraction in Potter’s eyes. It was a look Draco was all too familiar with—one that suggested Potter certainly wouldn’t mind getting a taste of Draco. He had encountered that look countless times before, particularly from men like Potter—gorgeous, with an undeniable allure, drawn to him like moths to a flame. Draco, a virile single man in his prime had his weekly quests at a secluded, private gay bar, an established part of his routine; A place where men like Potter, lean and toned but still so very pretty, with an almost delicate beauty, would gravitate toward him.

Draco stood tall, his broad, muscular frame exuding an undeniable aura of authority. Impossible to ignore in his sharp perfectly tailored formal silk shirts showing off his godly physique. They accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the defined muscles of his torso, and the silent yet undeniable strength that lay beneath, a testament to his power and control, promising pretty lust addled men—those who craved the attention of someone like Draco: men like Potter, often so eager to play, who knew exactly what they wanted. —that they would get just what they desired. It was the kind of promise that left no room for doubt: a promise of being handled with complete authority, tossed around and ravished in a way that would leave them breathless and aching for days.

Draco wasn’t entirely certain whether Potter was more inclined to submit or that he preferred dominant men—after all, one couldn't always tell these things by mere looks, such things weren’t always evident in a person’s outward appearance. But one couldn’t deny the way Potter certainly looked the part, sometimes resembling a white kitten, soft and delicate but with a glimmer of playful defiance in it's eyes, one that would purr under your fingers, eager to be touched, to be tamed, once it warmed up to you. And there was that unmistakable glint in his eyes, the way his eyes briefly dropped from Draco’s gaze to his torso and arms, a silent, telling hunger only Draco could decipher—one that suggested he longed to be played with, taken , in ways Draco was only too eager to provide.

He looked far too irresistible, and Draco could already imagine how men like him—strong, hard, and commanding—would pounce on a pretty, wild thing like Potter, claiming him with ruthless greed. The very idea of another pair of strong hands on Potter, hands that weren’t his own triggered a sharp, uncomfortable sensation deep in his chest, a flash of raw anger mixed with an unsettling jealousy. He didn’t bother to explore the feeling, too certain it was something he didn’t want to understand.

Many a times Draco was overcome by the unnerving feeling that often crept up on him, something about Potter that went beyond the usual pull of dominance and attraction. It wasn’t just that Draco, as a natural dominant, saw in Potter a potential submissive or a very attractive sexual partner—no, it was something more. Unfortunately. With a painful certainty, Draco realized that he was far too taken. He didn’t just want one unforgettable fuck with Potter; he was far too beautiful to Draco in so many ways, too precious for something so fleeting.

Potter looked every bit as beautiful as ever after all these years, even as he knelt down to console a first-year girl, wiping away the tears of the Slytherin child who had just lost her first Quidditch match. It didn't stop there, it wasn’t just in tender gestures like these that he caught Draco’s eye and did things to his heart—Potter was equally striking when he chose to take his classes outside, onto Hogwarts' grounds, beneath the shade of its ancient trees, where he taught complex defensive spells with a mix of eagerness and grace, breaking them down into something both approachable and mesmerizing.

He moved with a natural elegance, seamlessly blending into the vibrant chaos of his classroom, surrounded by his students. It was a stark contrast to Draco’s own approach—where he could silence the room with a mere shift in tone, commanding instant attention. Potter, on the other hand, didn’t just tame the chaos; he seemed to embrace it, weaving his own energy into the mix with a playfulness, his youthful spirit contagious. Yet, for all the energy he allowed, the students never lost their respect for him. It was evident in the way they listened, the boundaries they instinctively respected, even as they thrived in the dynamic atmosphere Potter fostered.

He was gorgeous even as he cheered loudly, his voice carrying across the pitch with unrestrained enthusiasm. His eyes sparkling as they grinned back at his son on his broom. For a brief moment, he would seem to forget his role as a professor, the years between him and the tiny set of first-year Gryffindors jumping triumphantly beside him vanishing when he shot his hands up into the air, clapping and urging his team on, as James Potter scored yet another goal, bringing Gryffindor closer to victory.

As Potter turned to meet Draco’s gaze, always aware of where Draco stood, his grin morphed into a playful smirk—a somewhat nostalgic reminder of their childish revelry, still alive even as Gryffindor edged closer to it's victory against Slytherin. Draco felt his own lips curve into a dazed smile, as he held Potter's gaze, his heart roaring in unison with the crowd around them, well, one thing remained certain—only Salazar could save him now.

----

Many mornings in the Defence Against the Dark Arts Master's private quarters began the same way. Harry woke up, hot and restless, before the sound of the shower could be heard. The master stood under the spilling cold water, trying and failing to erase the haunting memories of his recurring dreams. Dreams where large, pale hands with long fingers gripped his waist, silver-grey eyes as they raked over his naked body, and thin, pale lips pressed against his own. Dreams Harry secretly wished he would never wake up from.

Silver-grey eyes had become so familiar to Harry that, were he as gifted in the art as his son Albus, he could likely draw them to perfection. He had grown so accustomed to feeling those eyes on him that it almost felt odd when he found Malfoy focused on something else, especially when Harry was in the same room.

Harry would be lying if he didn’t admit that, were he so gifted, he could also draw from memory the lines of Malfoy’s muscled form and the way they flexed when he removed his robes, casually draping them over his forearm to reveal the tight white formal shirt beneath. Harry would openly gape as Malfoy walked past him, so nonchalant, entirely oblivious to the fact that Harry had silently prayed the day would grow warm enough, just for Malfoy to shed his cloak.

And when Malfoy met Harry's obvious leer with a raised eyebrow, followed by a deliberately professional nod, Harry knew that Draco understood exactly what he wanted. Harry wanted that man all over him. Harry knew men like Malfoy, Men like Malfoy were the very reason Harry was convinced he could never be with a woman again. They took so completely, so effortlessly, that all Harry could do was plead for them to take more.

But Harry was sure he had as much power over them as they had over him. He would savour the chance to drive Malfoy to madness, teasing him with the ease of someone who knew just how to wield his charm. Something that came naturally to Harry. There was a thrill in watching men like Malfoy—dominant, commanding—stumble over their own restraint, their composure cracking before they inevitably pounced on him. Harry was sure he would leave him as hopelessly addicted as Harry knew he himself would be to Malfoy, should their game truly begin.

Nevertheless, Harry sensed that if he ever allowed Malfoy to devour him in the way he instinctively knew Malfoy would, he was sure to grow addicted. But that didn't stop him.

Harry was late for his first class again, having once more forgotten that, begrudgingly, Monday's very first hour was Defence for the seventh years—his hour. He sat alone in the staffroom, sipping from his cup of tea, the only staff member present as the second hour on Mondays was a free period for him. He heard footsteps approach, the sound cutting through the silence.

Harry felt a jolt of thrill shoot through his spine as Malfoy walked in, the unmistakable scent of his expensive cologne spilling over him, making Harry’s eyes widen in mild shock. Malfoy seemed momentarily taken aback to find him in the staffroom, a place Harry usually avoided during his free hours, preferring to be in his room, or out in the garden with Neville, in Hagrid's hut, or up in the Astronomy Tower with Luna. But today, for reasons unknown, Harry had chosen to grade the sixth-year papers in the staffroom, and naturally, Malfoy had appeared, his glance fleeting as he walked over to his place.

Harry lifted his face from the cup, his breath catching for a moment as he watched Malfoy shrug off his cloak, once again answering his unspoken prayers for a warm day. Beneath it, the tight black button-down shirt clung to his form. Harry felt a flush of desire, a strange, almost embarrassing urge to to crawl up his tall frame and cling to him, pressed against that perfect body. Malfoy turned his back, preparing his tea in that posh teacup of his—an item so ordinary yet somehow the one owned by Malfoy could only be described as such; posh.

As Harry watched him, his mouth watering at the flex of Malfoy's arms and the sight of his broad shoulders—his closest view of them yet—he couldn’t help the snort that escaped him. Malfoy paused, the porcelain spoon in his teacup halting mid-stir.

Harry took another leisurely sip of his tea, a faint smile playing on his lips. "It’s all so ironic, really," he said casually. "Your son knows Albus better than I do."

Malfoy turned to face Harry, seemingly ready to respond—oh look, they were finally talking for the first time—but froze the moment his eyes landed on him. Oblivious, Harry continued his loud musings. "And, oh, Albus can’t stop proclaiming his admiration for his brilliant Potions master. Who would have thought?"

He looked up to find Malfoy staring at him like he had two heads. Yes, Malfoy and Harry ogled and undressed each other with their eyes plenty, but this look Malfoy was fixing him with was different—stranger, almost unsettling.

Not to mention, his eyes remained fixed unblinkingly on Harry’s lips, as if Harry had somehow sprouted something out of them. For several moments, Malfoy looked like a deer caught in headlights, utterly unable to tear his gaze away from Harry’s face.

Then in one swift motion, Malfoy grabbed the cloak he had draped over the table, slung it over his forearm so that it fell neatly over the middle of his thighs—almost as if to conceal something —and, in his haste to leave, walked out of the staffroom with his teacup still in hand.

Agitated and confused, Harry shot up from his chair and strode toward the mirror above Luna’s usual spot in the staffroom. The moment he caught sight of his reflection, he nearly spat his tea out. Staring back at him was his own face—green eyes wide with shock—and his lips coated in dark red lipstick. The striking colour only seemed to enhance the vividness of his already startling eyes, making them appear even brighter against the bold red of his mouth.

Harry swiftly rinsed away the last traces of pigment from his lips, having vanished the color in a rush to avoid any raised eyebrows and rumours. The last thing he needed was for Headmistress McGonagall—or worse, some nosy student—to assume he’d spent his weekend competing in a drag queen contest.

Harry's gaze dropped to the culprit sitting brazenly on Luna's table, right next to his. A tube of lipstick, its sleek casing gleaming under the light, seemed to mock him. Harry—ever the idiot, as Hermione frequently reminded him—had never gotten into the habit of carrying a water bottle or at least casting frequent aquamentis, despite her endless scoldings. His habitual neglect of hydration left him perpetually battling dry, chapped lips.

It was such a common occurrence that he’d figured out ages ago that no spell could compete with the wonders of a simple Muggle colourless, odourless lip balm. It soothed his lips quickly and masked the dryness. And lately, he’d become even more conscious of it. Ever since coming to Hogwarts, Harry had made a quiet effort to ensure his lips didn’t look like a parched disaster—especially when Malfoy’s gaze happened to fall on him.

Harry had bought a few pigment free lip balms of his own, but he always ended up losing them—misplacing each one wherever he went, as was typical of him. So, out of habit, he would often borrow Luna’s. On this occasion, his mind was so consumed with an interesting take on a question one of his students had written that he didn’t even think twice. Without looking, he grabbed the first tube he saw on Luna’s table. Absently, he spread the soothing, cherry-scented lipstick across his lips, convinced it was the colourless lip balm Luna often kept on hand and lent him. Harry didn’t give it much thought when the sweet scent of cherries lingered more intensely than usual. He simply assumed it was a different brand of the lip balm Luna often lent him, and dismissed it as nothing more than that. But it had already been too late.

A devilish smirk played on Harry’s lips. After all, he had just watched the man of his desires hurry out, clearly flustered and sporting a telltale hard-on. Harry couldn’t deny it either; the blood red colour had looked strikingly good on him, his plush, full lips holding it perfectly. He’d looked undeniably alluring, and after the initial shock had worn off, he’d even enjoyed how enticing he’d felt, given proof of the effect it had had on Malfoy.

Malfoy hadn’t looked at him for the next two days, clearly too embarrassed to meet his gaze. But Harry couldn’t shake the growing impatience gnawing at him, a silly, needy longing for the familiar, flirtatious and knowing glances they often exchanged. It was a strange emptiness, one he hadn’t expected to feel. As he had mentioned before, he wasn’t used to Malfoy’s attention being directed elsewhere, especially not when they were in the same room. The absence of that focused gaze left a strange tension hanging in the air around them.

And oh, following the frequent complaints about James and his antics in class and around Hogwarts—something Harry hadn’t really bothered with until now, of course, only because it was high time he dealt with James—he knew he had to ask Malfoy about James’ behavior in his own class. Surprisingly, Malfoy was the only one who hadn’t raised any issues. They probably needed to have a talk—he was a concerned parent, after all—and he didn’t want Malfoy to hold back any concerns just because of their strange history.

So, of course, when Harry wrote a swift scribbled letter to Malfoy, asking him to meet him at his headquarters to discuss James's behavior in class, it was all done out of the utmost concern for both his fellow colleague and his son. There was no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda—just a father wanting to ensure that everything was on track. After all, they both shared the same goal: helping the next generation succeed, even if it required a little honest conversation along the way. Honest conversations, oh yes—naturally, that was obviously the only thing Harry wanted with Malfoy over tea in his private room.

The tea with Malfoy required a few arrangements in Harry’s room first. One of the key additions was a small, elegant dressing table with an attached mirror, its understated charm complementing the room. Concealed within one of its graceful drawers was his weapon: a red, smudge-free lipstick. Once you knew your prey’s weakness, it was only wise to use it to your own advantage.

~~~

When he heard the single, sharp knock on his door, Harry was surprised, but also not. After all the playful exchanges and the undeniable flirting through their eyes, he had expected Malfoy to finally—knowingly—take the bait.

Harry ran a hand nervously through his curls one last time before opening the door, trying to look effortlessly at ease as he faced Malfoy. He gave the impression that Malfoy standing outside his room at 6 in the evening, after never even having exchanged a simple friendly word before, was the most normal thing in the world.

"Professor Potter," Malfoy said, his voice smooth, the glint in his eyes didn't go unnoticed by Harry.

"Evening, Professor Malfoy. Please, come in," Harry said, his tone equally casual.

Malfoy stepped inside, his usual commanding presence filling the space. He was dressed in his formal professor silk shirt, the fabric shimmering slightly under the light, with his cloak draped over his forearm as usual. Harry, on the other hand, was in his typical informal attire—just a simple shirt and pants, the kind he usually wore when he was alone in his room

Harry watched as Draco took in the room, his gaze sweeping over the cozy, neatly arranged space. Everything was in order, except for the small desk cluttered with lecture notes and open textbooks. A few copies of the Daily Prophet lay haphazardly among them—week-old editions that covered the latest dark wizard activity and crime stories, along with a headline about Ron's Auror team’s most recent capture.

Draco’s eyes landed on the rather large, comfortable couch in the center of the room, surrounded by indoor Muggle potted plants that usually bathed in the morning sun. He seemed to consider the couch for a moment, his gaze lingering on it as if weighing something. Then, with a cool, unaffected tone, he fixed his eyes on Harry.

"Nice couch, Professor."

Harry simply nodded numbly, unwilling to entertain the bold and obvious implications of Draco's comment. Not yet Malfoy, he thought.

"Tea?" he asked, shifting the conversation away from anything that might make him think too much.

Draco, unfazed, took the seat opposite Harry's desk, casually draping his cloak over the side of the chair beside his as he nodded in agreement.

Harry walked into his makeshift tiny kitchen, the familiar rhythm of brewing tea offering a moment of peace. Cooking had always been a comforting escape for him, something he had come to cherish during his Auror years after long, exhausting days in the field.

Once the tea was ready, he returned to the room, carrying matching tea cups. He placed one before Draco, then took his own seat at his desk, the quiet clink of the cups the only sound filling the space.

After a few moments of quiet tea sipping, Harry cleared his throat, aware of the expectant gaze that Draco held on him. Draco regarded him with a mix of curiosity, as though he were waiting for Harry to steer the evening into more interesting territory. There was a glint of something in his eyes—almost hopeful, yet cautious, like he wasn’t entirely sure where this conversation would go.

"Malfoy," Harry began, setting his cup down and meeting his eyes. "I must begin by stating that I am very appreciative of the guidance you provide for my son, Albus, and honoured that he has you for a skilled master in Potions."

"I'm merely doing my job. Your son is exceptionally talented," Draco replied, his tone calm.

Harry paused, studying him for a moment before continuing. "As you might know, my eldest can be quite a handful—or so I've heard every year. I wouldn't want our..." He trailed off, rising from his seat.

Malfoy’s eyes followed his every movement, a subtle, knowing look crossing his face. It was as if he had expected this—expected Harry to shift away from the conversation, sensing that the words they had exchanged had little to do with the deeper, more unspoken matters lingering between them. It was clear now that what was about to unfold had nothing to do with pleasantries or small talk or even petty grievances about classroom conduct.

Harry moved over to the dressing table, each step charged with purpose. "I really haven't bothered about it before..." he murmured, his fingers slipping open the drawer in a casual, almost slow motion. As the drawer opened, he drew out his weapon—the sleek, shiny gleam of the lipstick case catching the warm light of the room. With a calm, measured motion, he capped the case, then glanced up at Malfoy through the reflection in the mirror before him.

"You know," he said, his voice laced with a quiet intensity.

Slowly bringing the lipstick to his lips, Harry bent, his back lowering slightly as he adjusted to the height of the mirror. The dressing table was meant to be used seated, with a stool, but Harry had no intention of sitting. Instead, he positioned himself to catch his reflection in the mirror, a slight bend in his posture allowing him to do so.

"...How boys can be at this age," he murmured, the words drifting into the room, his gaze still fixed on his own reflection.

Malfoy remained frozen in his seat, his composure intact, though his gaze flicked briefly to Harry’s exposed hip. The faint outline of the thong Harry wore beneath his silk pyjama pants became visible as he bent slightly to adjust to the height of the mirror.

Harry watched as Malfoy took a slow steadying breath before meeting his eyes again, his composure slipping just slightly. Harry then brought the lipstick to his lips, moving the tube leisurely and expertly over his mouth as though he had all the time in the world.

With a soft popping sound, Harry released his lips after finally rubbing them together, ensuring the lipstick was evenly spread, capped the tube, leaving it innocently resting on the table. He then walked back to his seat at the desk, positioning himself opposite Malfoy. Harry glanced at him, noting the slight gulp that escaped Draco, and a small smirk tugged at his lips.

From under his thick lashes, Harry spoke softly, "You must know, Draco, that I wouldn't want anything between us..." He moved his hand carefully, placing it over Draco's, which was still holding his cup, with a certain emphasis. He ignored the transfixed look on Draco's face, the way Draco couldn't tear his gaze away from him.

"To come in the way of our duties to the students," Harry continued, his voice sultry, like silk. Draco briefly glanced at his cloak draped over the other seat. Harry, fighting his restraint, resisted the urge to look at the hard on Draco was clearly thinking about concealing. But then, as if on impulse, Draco slowly spread his legs wide apart, an open invitation for Harry’s gaze, as if daring him to notice.

"Why, you need not worry about such a thing, Potter," Draco replied, his voice lowering slightly, slower than before. He rubbed a hand up and down the length of his thigh as he spoke, the action enticing and slow, intentional. Still seated, he moved his chair back from the desk, creating a noticeable, suggestive space between his spread thighs and the edge of the desk.

Harry glanced down at the hard on, that large bulge in between his thighs. He unconsciously licked his red lips, the temptation building as his focus wavered. The thought of just walking over to cradle Malfoy's lap was....

"Kneel, Professor."

The command hit Harry like a physical jolt, almost startling him, as a rush of heat surged through him and head straight down to his cock. He had heard those words before, from other Doms, but never with this intensity. Draco’s voice wasn’t loud, it carried a certain weight—one that implied it was an unquestionable command, a conclusion. As Draco’s gaze pinned him, unyielding and sure, Harry sensed that this wasn’t going to unfold as he had planned. No, it would be on Draco's terms, at Draco's pace, and the certainty in his darkened eyes left no room for doubt.

Who was Harry to protest as his legs carried him to the promising space between Draco’s spread thighs? He knelt down gracefully, settling back on his heels, his eyes fixed upward appraising Draco in innocent reverence.

Draco leaned forward, descending on him, his hand wrapping firmly around Harry’s neck. He pressed their lips together, the kiss ignited with a raw urgency. Harry responded eagerly, parting his lips without hesitation, surrendering to the dominance of Draco’s tongue as it swept into his mouth, tasting him, claiming him, leaving no corner untouched. The kiss was a fiery clash of need and possession, leaving Harry breathless and wordlessly gasping for more.

Harry couldn’t suppress the whine that slipped from him when Draco finally broke the kiss, pulling his tongue from Harry’s mouth with a delicate string of saliva connecting their lips. Draco looked just as breathless as Harry, his gaze lingering on Harry’s swollen, red lips with a hunger that made Harry’s pulse quicken.

Impatient, Harry reached for Draco’s zipper, eager to take the next step. But before his fingers could make contact, Draco’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist tightly, stopping him in his tracks. He smirked, a hint of amusement in his eyes, and with a slight snort, he teased, “Uh-uhh, let’s not get carried away here, Potter.”

Harry was painfully hard, every inch of him craving contact, desperate for the sensation of Draco’s body against his. The need pulsed through him, an overwhelming ache. If he couldn’t have Draco’s tongue in his mouth or feel the firm muscles beneath his shirt, he needed something, anything, to ease the tension building inside him.

"Cock teasing brats like you don't make demands in my presence, Potter," he sneered, a low chuckle escaping his lips, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And how utterly charming, adorable that you think you could fit me in that pretty little mouth of yours."

He leaned in once more, seizing hold of Harry, gripping his cheek firmly and coaxing his lips apart. He pressed his lips to Harry's, the contact slow and calculated, the tenderness of the kiss bordering on teasing. A dense string of his saliva slid from his mouth, falling onto Harry's eager, waiting tongue.

"Turn over."

A shiver ran down Harry's spine as he complied, positioning himself carefully. He balanced his weight on his arms, his body on all fours, lowered to the soft carpet, allowing his head to rest against it. His back arched slightly, hips and arse raised toward Draco in silent submission.

Harry shivered harder once more as he felt a single finger, hook itself on to the band of his pyjama bottoms before nudging it down to reveal clean, smooth shaven arse, clad in his lace black thong, it's thin fabric doing little to hide his now exposed crack in the lewd position.

"It wasn't enough that you look fucking gorgeous, you had to go and be the kinkiest little bitch." Harry purred In response feeling himself twitch as the finger rubbed slow traces over his crack, a moan slipped from him when he heard Draco spit onto his hole before nudging a wet finger inside him as Harry clenched tightly around the finger.

Draco let out an exasperated breath behind him, the sound of a zipper slowly undoing itself cutting through the air. Harry's breathing grew heavier and more unsteady, a soft whine threatening to escape as he lay abandoned on the floor, his ears catching the soft murmur of a lubrication charm, followed by the familiar wet sounds of stroking up and down a lubricated cock.

He remained still in submission, patiently frozen in place as he heard heavy breaths shift into groans as Draco stroked himself into full erection. Finally, a second lubrication charm was murmured, this time cooling and coating Harry’s insides. He squirmed, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as two fingers slid inside, the sensation both startling and electrifying. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt someone’s fingers explore him, but it had been quite a while since Harry had sought out a partner.

If Harry were being honest, it had been nearly six months since he’d last been touched. When he first uncovered his craving for submission and the bliss it brought, he’d thrown himself into the world of exploration—sleeping around with abandon, testing boundaries with various dominants, and even going on a few dates with the ones who proved halfway decent.

Harry was yanked back to reality as three fingers now drove into him with reckless abandon, the obscene, wet sounds of the intrusion mingling with the intoxicating sensation of being filled. A raw whimper escaped his lips, unbidden and needy.

When Draco paused his ministrations, giving Harry a moment to catch his breath, Harry was already adrift in bliss, reveling in the familiar, intoxicating stretch. And yet, the best part was still to come.

"Crawl to the couch."

Harry obeyed, moving on all fours across the floor before climbing onto the couch and settling on his knees, perched nervously on his heels. His gaze locked on Draco, who was leisurely unbuttoning his shirt, revealing a sculpted form that could rival a Greek god. The satisfaction Harry had felt moments ago from Draco’s fingers was already fading, replaced by a growing realization—Draco was far too large.

As Draco approached him his eyes glinting with amusement, he took in Harry’s wide-eyed shock and the flicker of panic playing across his face. "Problem, Potter?" he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery as he lazily tugged at his large, large cock.

Draco reached down, tugging Harry’s shirt up and off in one swift motion, leaving him clad in nothing but a flimsy thong. Draco's eyes darkened, glazing over as he took in Harry’s smooth, freshly shaved skin—milky and flawless, just the way he preferred. The thought of how easily marks would bloom on that pristine surface sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.

Without waiting for permission, Harry let his own hands roam, fingers splaying across Draco’s sculpted torso and trailing over the hard muscles of his arms—everything he could reach from his kneeling position on the couch. His touch was greedy, desperate, as if trying to memorize every inch of Draco’s form while Draco loomed over him.

Draco’s breathing grew heavier as he climbed onto the couch, the cushions dipping under his weight. Harry briefly wondered if he should cast a reinforcement charm on his favourite piece of furniture, but any further thought vanished the moment Draco pushed him onto his back, parting his legs with an impatience that sent a thrill down Harry's spine.

For a moment, it looked as though Draco might dive right in, but instead, his gaze fell to Harry’s exposed crack, and with that he descended, his lips and tongue claiming Harry’s most intimate spot, savouring the taste with a deliberate hunger that left Harry breathless and trembling.

A moan escaped Harry's lips before he could stop it, raw and pleading. "Draco," he breathed, his voice trembling with a mixture of need and surrender.

Harry's voice barely rose above a whisper, his plea desperate, "Please, please..." But Draco remained indifferent, focused on devouring his hole, his fingers squeezing at the soft curves of his arse. Draco finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, his nose and mouth glistening wet, his command echoed softly in the stillness, "Use your words, kitten."

"Fuck please, Draco, fuck me please."

Draco exhaled sharply, his movements controlled as he nudged against Harry’s entrance. Harry instinctively grasped the edge of the couch, his fingers tightening in anticipation, determined not to let his smaller frame be jolted off the cushions should Draco lose control of his thrusts.

Harry bit his lip as Draco finally pressed in fully, the sensation overwhelming him. He had been with men before, but none had filled him like Draco. The fullness, the weight of him inside, was a heady, intoxicating feeling, and it was utter bliss to be so full of Draco. He set a slow, burning pace, his breath shallow and ragged as he hissed and cursed at the tight heat of Harry, unable to contain his reaction to the exquisite pressure.

The wet sounds of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the Defense Master’s room, a symphony of desire that was drowned out by Harry’s unrestrained, filthy moans and Draco’s deep, satisfied groans. With each powerful thrust, Draco poured all his pent-up longing for Harry—years of unspoken desires—into him, his movements simultaneously steady and frantic.

"Come,"

Harry almost didn’t register his last command, lost in the overpowering sensation. He jolted, his back arching off the couch as his orgasm crashed over him, his body trembling beneath Draco's with the intensity of it. The heat of Draco’s cum filling him pushed him over the edge, leaving him utterly consumed.

~~~~~

Draco ascended the stairs to the Astronomy Tower with urgency, certain that the place was deserted for them—the rest of the school at the Quidditch match. Draco’s heart quickened as he entered the tower, the dim light of the setting sun spilling through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

There, standing in front of the glass, was his Harry. The soft glow of the fading daylight illuminated him, his dark hair, tousled by the breeze, framed his face perfectly, and the gentle wind caught strands, making them dance around his face as if they had a life of their own. His eyes fixed on the horizon gazing softly at the view before him, breathtaking—vast, endless skies meeting the rolling hills below, but Draco’s gaze couldn’t leave Harry, the person who, in that moment, as always, looked more beautiful than any scene.

Draco’s breath caught as he neared Harry and without warning closed the distance, capturing Harry’s lips in a fierce, hungry kiss. The frustration of the day—spent in the whirlwind of packed schedules, lectures, and endless hours that left no room for stolen moments—boiled over.

It was Tuesday, and both their timetables had been crammed with classes, leaving no space for leisurely exchanges like this, for slow, lingering kisses or the occasional mind blowing blow jobs from Harry. So, Draco took what he could, swallowing Harry's unrestrained moans, pressing against him with a desperation he couldn’t suppress, his lips roaming over Harry's delicate skin demanding what the hours had denied them.

"You look lovely, kitten," Draco murmured, his thumb gently stroking Harry's already flushed cheek. Harry's lips parted slightly, and he purred in response, the sound soft and content, as Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s, drawing him again into a slow, deep kiss.

Harry was the first to break it, pausing to catch his breath. His eyes gleamed with playful mischief as he spoke, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of his perfect lips. "Tea, Professor Malfoy? At mine?"

Draco raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady but amused, as his hand remained firmly placed on Harry's arse in a possessive yet playful grip. "Is this about Lily, now, Professor Potter? I must admit, she’s begun to fall behind in submitting her potion assignments."

Harry's smile deepened, his pupils widening with a quiet, simmering lust as he looked up at Draco. "Well, it seems we have quite a bit to discuss then, Professor."