Should
The air was laden with the lingering smells of sex, guilt, and perfume. The heavy, olive drapes had been drawn, and thick rain clouds loomed outside the large windows, discolouring the bedroom with gloomy grey. Malfoy was artfully sprawled on the ludicrously expensive, black sheets, naked as the day he was born and completely unabashed. The purplish-red bruises mouthed onto the white of his neck dared Harry to deny their gravity, and Harry felt guiltier still, because not only did he find himself unable to look away from them, but he couldn’t stifle the twisted pride in knowing that those were the masterpieces of his teeth. He didn’t understand how Malfoy was so lethargically calm about it all, burying his face in the plush pillow with a hedonistic sigh whilst reeking of adultery in the midst of Astoria’s vast perfume collection and scattered photographs of Scorpius. Harry’s Albus was Scorpius’ age; a quiet child with a strong affinity toward his father. He could picture Albus clearly, hiding in the study as he was wont to do, away from James’ endless pranks and Lily’s piercing shrieks as Ginny attempted to restore some semblance of order; a near impossibility with three small children.
He hadn’t seen his family in a week and a half, and by all rights, he could’ve and should’ve been at home with them. But instead, he was doing his trousers up in a countryside manor house after spending the morning tangled in exquisite sheets and long legs. Debriefing from the mission in which he’d chased an escaped prisoner through the streets of Moscow had been completed just before sunrise, and he’d stepped out of the Ministry phone booth and into the crisp, foggy dark feeling much too old for a man of thirty; as if an emotional sort of arthritis had seeped through his skin. He wasn’t ready to go home and rehash the argument he and Ginny had had before he left, nor had he the energy to deal with a house full of tiny, clomping feet and digging, little fingers, and high-pitched vies for missed attention. This had been the first mission he’d had in six years where he was required to be gone for such a long period, and he’d felt positively alive away from the ennui he’d come to call home. His stomach lurched at that implication.
“Are you staying for brunch?” Malfoy lazily pulled himself into a sitting position, a repressed yawn distorting his diction. He stretched his long, thin arms over his head, the contours of his ribcage clearly defined by the outward thrust of his chest and the arcing of his spine. Harry’s eyes were drawn to his nipples, obscenely tight and puckered and pink; just as they had been when they were trapped between his teeth mere hours ago.
He guiltily averted his gaze. “That’s hardly appropriate.”
“You are full of shite. You do know this, don’t you?” Malfoy was on his feet, spindly fingers knotting a silky, black housecoat about his waist. “You owl some sentimental letter from Russia about that drunken encounter we had in the loo a fucking decade ago at your stag party, which, mind you, I wasn’t even invited to, and then days later you barge over here at a ludicrous hour and shove your prick up my arse. You’ve some nerve, acting so dramatic after you initiated this entire thing! You’re a bloody piece of work, Potter. A real bloody piece of work."
Defensive, Harry bared his teeth. “Forgive me for not handling this as well as you are; cheating isn’t nearly something I’m used to doing!”
“I have absolutely nothing to feel sorry about. Astoria and I have a marriage of convenience. She has her lover, and I have lovers of my own. She and Theodore Nott are gallivanting across the Mediterranean as we speak.”
Harry clenched his jaw but said nothing; what was there really to say? He plucked his discarded T-shirt off the floor.
“You make your bed, you lie in it.” Malfoy opened the bedroom door and leaned against the jamb. “So, will you be having coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. Black.”
Brunch was served on the terrace, overlooking the expansive, manicured gardens and the mossy stream which winded through the estate. Malfoy hadn’t bothered to get dressed, his housecoat occasionally slipping off his shoulders and revealing his kiss-bruised collarbone and a pale path down his torso. Platinum hair ghosted above the sharp angle of his jaw, occasionally blown into his face by the icy wind. Harry resisted the peculiar urge to lean over his plate of buttered toast and bacon in order to sweep Malfoy’s hair out of his eyes, a stunning blue-grey in this light, and tuck it behind his ear. He should’ve never been here in the first place, but he should’ve left when he’d had the chance. This was too…intimate. He didn’t want to know that Malfoy bit his bottom lip as he slathered raspberry jam onto his scone with precise motions. He didn’t want to know that Malfoy stirred milk into his Earl Grey with a poncy, little, silver spoon. And he certainly didn’t want to know how decadently Malfoy’s tongue swiped over a smidgeon of cream which had settled on the corner of his mouth.
Fucking hell.
“Daddy!” A blond, pyjama-clad blur darted onto the terrace, a house-elf trailing behind him with an exasperated air. Scorpius clambered into his father’s lap, reaching for a scone off the table.
Malfoy chuckled, and it was the first time Harry had seen a smile so free of malice on his wide, thin lips. He gently pried the scone from his son’s eager hands and smeared a dollop of clotted cream onto it before handing it back. “We’ve a guest, Scorpius. Surely you’re not forgetting your manners?”
Scorpius slowly chewed on his mouthful of bread, observing Harry with such disinterest that it made him wonder just how many men Malfoy happened to have ‘brunch’ with. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Please, call me ‘Harry’.”
Scorpius’ eyes widened and Harry noted they were a pale blue and not the grey he’d expected. Nevertheless, he was well acquainted with the look of star-struck, bright-eyed curiosity. Smiling a barely-there smile, he brushed his unruly hair aside, and Scorpius gasped at the infamous, faded scar on his forehead. Malfoy made quite the show of rolling his eyes.
“Lippy,” he turned to the house-elf, “I believe it’s time for Scorpius’ bath.”
“Lippy was trying, Master Draco, but Master Scorpius ran away!” the house-elf replied, nervously wringing her ears.
“But I’ve not finished my scone yet!” Scorpius whined.
“It will still be here after you’ve had your bath.” Malfoy’s tone left no room for argument. Harry wryly noted that he’d had to use the same tone plenty of times on his own children.
Scorpius obediently wriggled off Malfoy’s lap and allowed Lippy to lead him out of the room, but not without giving Harry an enthusiastic wave goodbye and his father a sour look.
“Blimey, you’ve actually sired a cute kid instead of a monster!” Harry smirked, taking a bite out of his toast. “I think he likes me, too. How unusual: a Malfoy liking Harry Potter.”
“Fuck you, Potter. I’m not raising Scorpius the way I was raised,” Malfoy spat, words virtually dripping with venom. The life was suddenly sucked from the room, and Harry was forced to notice the dark, dreary clouds in the bleak sky and the claw-like reflections of twisted branches on the stream’s murky surface. Malfoy himself looked like a living, monochromatic creation of mercury and marble, lips pulled tight and features sharper than ever in the harsh brightness. Cold and untouchable, so unlike the warm, pliant body that had writhed beneath him, skin flushed pink with lust and exertion.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Harry slumped in his seat. He felt tired and old again, as if the cheap strings holding him up had broken with his weight. The gravity of his actions was suddenly so palpable…
Malfoy clicked his tongue and sipped his tea without sparing Harry a second glance.
They finished eating in tense silence, the only conversation provided by the clacks of china and silver. Malfoy levitated the soiled wares into the kitchen sink, taking care to leave Scorpius’ half-eaten scone delicately wrapped in a napkin. He then escorted Harry to the Apparation point in the foyer where he found himself thrown against the gilded wallpaper, impossibly green eyes distracting him from the clatter of the brass coat rack toppling over.
“You’re still so bloody antagonistic,” Harry whispered, dull fingernails digging into Malfoy’s skin as if he wanted nothing more than to shake him violently.
“Antagonistic? I had no idea you were capable of so many sylla-Oh!” The admittedly childish taunt ended in breathy exclamation; Harry had nestled a thigh between his legs, denim grazing his balls. Harry tugged the housecoat open with rough, frantic hands, pressing his body flush against Malfoy’s nakedness, allowing that exhilarating warmth to bleed through his own skin.
“You make me feel like I’m twelve again,” Harry laughed wryly. “As pathetic as it sounds, I like it.” He raked his fingers through fine, blond strands and down high cheekbones, following the hollow of almost-gaunt cheeks until he cupped Malfoy’s face in his palms. “This was such a mistake.”
Malfoy simply stared impassively at him. “Go home to your wife, Potter.”
“I’m going.” Harry nipped at Malfoy’s fleshy bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. Malfoy moaned deep in the back of his throat, mouth opening just enough to allow Harry’s tongue inside for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. His cock was hard and resting against the bulge in Harry’s jeans. Impulsively, their pelvises rocked together, the coarse material of Harry’s trousers creating delicious friction against Malfoy’s exposed cock and placing the right amount of pressure on his own clothed erection. The dull moan of rainfall consumed their desperate, gasping breaths as they came rutting against each other like teenagers fumbling in the back of a library.
“I can’t come back here,” Harry panted against Malfoy’s wet mouth. And yet he made no effort to release Malfoy’s hair from his clawed fingers, idly toying with the delicate strands.
Malfoy’s heartbeat was fast, and he could feel it thumping against his own chest. “Potter, you’re stalling. If you’re going to leave, then leave.”
“Don’t want to,” Harry mumbled rather childishly, burying his nose in the crook of Malfoy’s neck. He was so bloody warm for someone who carried himself like an elaborate ice sculpture.
“That’s all well and good, but I’m not prepared to stand in the foyer all day.” He gently extracted himself from Harry’s embrace. “While you figure out what to do with yourself, I’ll be in the bedroom.”
He turned on his heel and left Harry standing awkwardly in his sticky jeans. He knew what he had to, no: what he should do. He should head home lest Ginny catch wind of the fact that he was back. He should forget about this, just like he should’ve forgotten about the sloppy, drunken, restroom blowjob all those years ago. But he hadn’t. Time made the guilt bearable, but it was forever nestled in his psyche, just as this latest encounter would be, and just as Draco Malfoy himself was.
He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. He hated himself. He really did. And then he started toward the staircase which led to the master bedroom, where Malfoy would be waiting with legs wide open and a smug, knowing smirk that Harry couldn’t wait to kiss off his lips.
He hadn’t seen his family in a week and a half, and by all rights, he could’ve and should’ve been at home with them. But instead, he was doing his trousers up in a countryside manor house after spending the morning tangled in exquisite sheets and long legs. Debriefing from the mission in which he’d chased an escaped prisoner through the streets of Moscow had been completed just before sunrise, and he’d stepped out of the Ministry phone booth and into the crisp, foggy dark feeling much too old for a man of thirty; as if an emotional sort of arthritis had seeped through his skin. He wasn’t ready to go home and rehash the argument he and Ginny had had before he left, nor had he the energy to deal with a house full of tiny, clomping feet and digging, little fingers, and high-pitched vies for missed attention. This had been the first mission he’d had in six years where he was required to be gone for such a long period, and he’d felt positively alive away from the ennui he’d come to call home. His stomach lurched at that implication.
“Are you staying for brunch?” Malfoy lazily pulled himself into a sitting position, a repressed yawn distorting his diction. He stretched his long, thin arms over his head, the contours of his ribcage clearly defined by the outward thrust of his chest and the arcing of his spine. Harry’s eyes were drawn to his nipples, obscenely tight and puckered and pink; just as they had been when they were trapped between his teeth mere hours ago.
He guiltily averted his gaze. “That’s hardly appropriate.”
“You are full of shite. You do know this, don’t you?” Malfoy was on his feet, spindly fingers knotting a silky, black housecoat about his waist. “You owl some sentimental letter from Russia about that drunken encounter we had in the loo a fucking decade ago at your stag party, which, mind you, I wasn’t even invited to, and then days later you barge over here at a ludicrous hour and shove your prick up my arse. You’ve some nerve, acting so dramatic after you initiated this entire thing! You’re a bloody piece of work, Potter. A real bloody piece of work."
Defensive, Harry bared his teeth. “Forgive me for not handling this as well as you are; cheating isn’t nearly something I’m used to doing!”
“I have absolutely nothing to feel sorry about. Astoria and I have a marriage of convenience. She has her lover, and I have lovers of my own. She and Theodore Nott are gallivanting across the Mediterranean as we speak.”
Harry clenched his jaw but said nothing; what was there really to say? He plucked his discarded T-shirt off the floor.
“You make your bed, you lie in it.” Malfoy opened the bedroom door and leaned against the jamb. “So, will you be having coffee or tea?”
“Coffee. Black.”
Brunch was served on the terrace, overlooking the expansive, manicured gardens and the mossy stream which winded through the estate. Malfoy hadn’t bothered to get dressed, his housecoat occasionally slipping off his shoulders and revealing his kiss-bruised collarbone and a pale path down his torso. Platinum hair ghosted above the sharp angle of his jaw, occasionally blown into his face by the icy wind. Harry resisted the peculiar urge to lean over his plate of buttered toast and bacon in order to sweep Malfoy’s hair out of his eyes, a stunning blue-grey in this light, and tuck it behind his ear. He should’ve never been here in the first place, but he should’ve left when he’d had the chance. This was too…intimate. He didn’t want to know that Malfoy bit his bottom lip as he slathered raspberry jam onto his scone with precise motions. He didn’t want to know that Malfoy stirred milk into his Earl Grey with a poncy, little, silver spoon. And he certainly didn’t want to know how decadently Malfoy’s tongue swiped over a smidgeon of cream which had settled on the corner of his mouth.
Fucking hell.
“Daddy!” A blond, pyjama-clad blur darted onto the terrace, a house-elf trailing behind him with an exasperated air. Scorpius clambered into his father’s lap, reaching for a scone off the table.
Malfoy chuckled, and it was the first time Harry had seen a smile so free of malice on his wide, thin lips. He gently pried the scone from his son’s eager hands and smeared a dollop of clotted cream onto it before handing it back. “We’ve a guest, Scorpius. Surely you’re not forgetting your manners?”
Scorpius slowly chewed on his mouthful of bread, observing Harry with such disinterest that it made him wonder just how many men Malfoy happened to have ‘brunch’ with. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Please, call me ‘Harry’.”
Scorpius’ eyes widened and Harry noted they were a pale blue and not the grey he’d expected. Nevertheless, he was well acquainted with the look of star-struck, bright-eyed curiosity. Smiling a barely-there smile, he brushed his unruly hair aside, and Scorpius gasped at the infamous, faded scar on his forehead. Malfoy made quite the show of rolling his eyes.
“Lippy,” he turned to the house-elf, “I believe it’s time for Scorpius’ bath.”
“Lippy was trying, Master Draco, but Master Scorpius ran away!” the house-elf replied, nervously wringing her ears.
“But I’ve not finished my scone yet!” Scorpius whined.
“It will still be here after you’ve had your bath.” Malfoy’s tone left no room for argument. Harry wryly noted that he’d had to use the same tone plenty of times on his own children.
Scorpius obediently wriggled off Malfoy’s lap and allowed Lippy to lead him out of the room, but not without giving Harry an enthusiastic wave goodbye and his father a sour look.
“Blimey, you’ve actually sired a cute kid instead of a monster!” Harry smirked, taking a bite out of his toast. “I think he likes me, too. How unusual: a Malfoy liking Harry Potter.”
“Fuck you, Potter. I’m not raising Scorpius the way I was raised,” Malfoy spat, words virtually dripping with venom. The life was suddenly sucked from the room, and Harry was forced to notice the dark, dreary clouds in the bleak sky and the claw-like reflections of twisted branches on the stream’s murky surface. Malfoy himself looked like a living, monochromatic creation of mercury and marble, lips pulled tight and features sharper than ever in the harsh brightness. Cold and untouchable, so unlike the warm, pliant body that had writhed beneath him, skin flushed pink with lust and exertion.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Harry slumped in his seat. He felt tired and old again, as if the cheap strings holding him up had broken with his weight. The gravity of his actions was suddenly so palpable…
Malfoy clicked his tongue and sipped his tea without sparing Harry a second glance.
They finished eating in tense silence, the only conversation provided by the clacks of china and silver. Malfoy levitated the soiled wares into the kitchen sink, taking care to leave Scorpius’ half-eaten scone delicately wrapped in a napkin. He then escorted Harry to the Apparation point in the foyer where he found himself thrown against the gilded wallpaper, impossibly green eyes distracting him from the clatter of the brass coat rack toppling over.
“You’re still so bloody antagonistic,” Harry whispered, dull fingernails digging into Malfoy’s skin as if he wanted nothing more than to shake him violently.
“Antagonistic? I had no idea you were capable of so many sylla-Oh!” The admittedly childish taunt ended in breathy exclamation; Harry had nestled a thigh between his legs, denim grazing his balls. Harry tugged the housecoat open with rough, frantic hands, pressing his body flush against Malfoy’s nakedness, allowing that exhilarating warmth to bleed through his own skin.
“You make me feel like I’m twelve again,” Harry laughed wryly. “As pathetic as it sounds, I like it.” He raked his fingers through fine, blond strands and down high cheekbones, following the hollow of almost-gaunt cheeks until he cupped Malfoy’s face in his palms. “This was such a mistake.”
Malfoy simply stared impassively at him. “Go home to your wife, Potter.”
“I’m going.” Harry nipped at Malfoy’s fleshy bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. Malfoy moaned deep in the back of his throat, mouth opening just enough to allow Harry’s tongue inside for a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. His cock was hard and resting against the bulge in Harry’s jeans. Impulsively, their pelvises rocked together, the coarse material of Harry’s trousers creating delicious friction against Malfoy’s exposed cock and placing the right amount of pressure on his own clothed erection. The dull moan of rainfall consumed their desperate, gasping breaths as they came rutting against each other like teenagers fumbling in the back of a library.
“I can’t come back here,” Harry panted against Malfoy’s wet mouth. And yet he made no effort to release Malfoy’s hair from his clawed fingers, idly toying with the delicate strands.
Malfoy’s heartbeat was fast, and he could feel it thumping against his own chest. “Potter, you’re stalling. If you’re going to leave, then leave.”
“Don’t want to,” Harry mumbled rather childishly, burying his nose in the crook of Malfoy’s neck. He was so bloody warm for someone who carried himself like an elaborate ice sculpture.
“That’s all well and good, but I’m not prepared to stand in the foyer all day.” He gently extracted himself from Harry’s embrace. “While you figure out what to do with yourself, I’ll be in the bedroom.”
He turned on his heel and left Harry standing awkwardly in his sticky jeans. He knew what he had to, no: what he should do. He should head home lest Ginny catch wind of the fact that he was back. He should forget about this, just like he should’ve forgotten about the sloppy, drunken, restroom blowjob all those years ago. But he hadn’t. Time made the guilt bearable, but it was forever nestled in his psyche, just as this latest encounter would be, and just as Draco Malfoy himself was.
He took a deep breath and ran his hands through his hair. He hated himself. He really did. And then he started toward the staircase which led to the master bedroom, where Malfoy would be waiting with legs wide open and a smug, knowing smirk that Harry couldn’t wait to kiss off his lips.