Unsolicited Partners, Part 2
Title: Unsolicited Partners (part 2)
Betas: aurora_1301
Rating: Nc-17
Word count: ~11,600
Warnings: infidelity, snark, explicit sex, strong language, implied het
Disclaimer: I own nothing, this plot bunny is only on loan from JK’s pet shop. This piece of fiction is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. No money is being made, no copyright or trademark infringement, or offence is intended.
Summary: Draco’s wife is determined to bring the Malfoy name back to its full glory, but Draco is finding it a little hard to keep to his vows. (Harry/Draco, Draco/OMCs)
To catch up, read Part One...
Draco slammed open the door and found Weasley and Potter pouring over aerial maps of Brittany.
“Get out.”
Weasley looked incredulous. “Get lost, Ferret fac -”
“GET OUT!” yelled Draco. He had little patience for people who didn’t know when it was not their business Draco was about to spout his lid off about.
Potter sighed and began rolling up the maps. “Its okay, Ron. We’ll talk about it tonight. Curry at my place?”
Weasley looked at Draco and then nodded, clearly suspecting him of having a sort of blonde seizure that only a hero could contain. As the door clicked closed, Draco threw the offending letter on top of the table. It bounced against Potter’s hand.
“What is your angle, Potter, because I almost died choking on a sausage when my wife read this to me and I deserve an explanation for what the hell is going on in your pea sized brain. If you think this is funny then you -”
“Was it Benslie’s sausage?”
Draco blinked. It was a little too early in the morning for him to continue his thoughts after such an odd image. “What? No! Look, just explain why you wrote this and then I can burn the damn thing and be able to sleep tonight.”
“If you burn it, I’ll just write another one. Besides, what are you doing with it when I sent it to your wife?” Harry was relaxed, like they were talking about a case. Impersonal and relaxed in his big leather Head Auror chair. Legs slightly splayed as he leaned back; Draco concentrated on keeping his eyes level.
“I -! You…! I don’t…” Draco had no idea what to say. He’d stayed awake all night thinking about the letter and it was only now dawning on him that it wasn’t a joke or some sort of school boy revenge attempt at blackmail. “You’re serious?”
Potter’s gaze turned a little more predatory and Draco recognised the look as the one Potter wore with purple tape. “Yes, I’m serious. What did your wife say about it?”
Draco thought back to Astoria humming cheerfully throughout desert and proclaiming her own self-genius at her effective management of the family reputation. She’s even done a little jig in her seat as the elves served double white chocolate gateau. “If Potter wants you,” Astoria had begun, “then we’re doing well. We’ll surpass the reputation of your ancestors by miles!”
Draco growled at Potter, “You’re application has been denied. Go fuck your sandbag.”
**
“I got another letter.”
“I don’t care. Burn it.”
“Do you want me to accept it?”
“I’m with Andrew.”
“He’s only a Healer, I suppose. Shame Potter has a wife though, otherwise it would be perfect.”
“I like Healers, they have the best hands.”
“Well I’m sure Aurors have -”
“Astoria, for the last time. You are not my pimp. Just tell him no.”
**
Weasley wasn’t so bad. He moaned about everything and insulted Draco all through the missions but he wasn’t Potter who would stand a respectable distance away with an intense look and kept inviting him to spar.
Draco now spent the nights dreaming of purple tape and blood dripping from lightning bolts and he would wake up hard in the mornings and tell Andrew he wasn’t in the mood despite the tented sheets. He couldn’t bring himself to risk thinking about Potter as Andrew spread his legs for him.
He’d asked Astoria, a fortnight after the awful letter had arrived, if he could quit his job.
She’d told him no.
He’d begged.
She had told him the reputation of the family was too important, to think of Scorpius, and besides all of which, it was simply too entertaining for her.
He hated his wife.
**
Things at the office were tense. Draco had developed a recent condition were his palms got sweaty and he was incapable of holding a quill properly. He was also plagued with the sensation of the walls watching him, eyes of forest green crawling all over his skin while he filled out paperwork. Every day was a chore.
And then every day became more horrific when Andrew had almost killed a patient on the operating table. The newspapers had jumped right into the scandal when the family decided to sue St. Mungo’s, and Astoria had told Draco to break it off with such an unfavourable connection.
Draco had thrown a dinner plate at her. It had been that or throw a hex. He was a man of honour and would not use magic violently on his wife. But it didn’t stop him from raging against the injustice of her stupid, stupid rule. Andrew had been good enough a week before, but now that the papers were involved…
“You told me you didn’t love him, so what do you care?” Astoria’s voice was stony as she mopped delicately at a cut on her forearm. The same spot where Draco’s forearm bore the Dark Mark. It would never fade but her cut from the dinner service would heal. Andrew had once told him that tattoos were just scars when it all came down to it. He’d even touched the blackened skin during sex once.
Had he loved Andrew?
Draco looked at his wife for a long moment, then to his son who was still eating, completely unfazed by his father’s hysterics. Settling back into his chair, Draco clicked his fingers for a house elf to replace his plate.
“I’ll dump him tomorrow.”
Potter’s eyes burned even more incessantly once Brown’s column reported the split.
**
It was ridiculous. For the last four weeks Draco had dedicated himself to completing all his paperwork on time so that he could leave for home with the rest of the masses, jostle for a Floo connection and trip Weasley up to jump the queue for a fireplace. Go home, fuck his hand, play with Scorpius and stow away into his wife’s room to burn Potter’s latest letter.
At five to four, the report on the suspicious movements of Avery and his dancing washing line had been returned from the Unspeakable department because he’d filled out the forms for a high powered spy-glass wrong. The form was nine pages long and took almost an hour and a half to fill out all over again. He’d ducked under his desk when Potter had stridden through the empty rows of desks, pulling purple tape from his pocket as he went by. He had been harder to concentrate on the Form of Evil with a hard on.
He’d eventually filled it out and folded all nine sheets into a neat, though admittedly thick, aeroplane and tapped it with his wand to zoom out by itself to the Unspeakable Department. And then he began the arduous task of sneaking out of the building.
He had heard the sound of punching and exertion from inside the room, but he’d been too busy trying to tiptoe down the corridor to notice a stall in noise coming from inside the room. One minute he was being the Master of Stealth and the next a hand had grabbed his waist and he was pinned down on a mat in another room, face smooshed into the floor and a panting body pressed against his back.
“I win.”
“Fuck off!” yelled Draco, trying to kick backwards.
A mouth brushed against the shell of his left ear, a stubbled chin digging into his shoulder and hot, moist air ticking inside his ear. He froze. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Potter was heavy. He was pressing Draco so hard into the floor it was difficult to breathe and he was sure his heart was being compressed in his chest cavity, pausing in its ba-dum ba-dum. It certainly wasn’t because Potter’s muscles were not the only hard bit he could feel pressing into him.
His thigh twitched and Potter made a little sound, shifting by a fraction to line up his cock to the curve of Draco’s arse. Denim was a thick material and Draco hadn’t put up any huge objections to wearing these sorts of clothes when Astoria had suggested a more Muggle-tolerant wardrobe. Even through his Muggle loving seams, Draco could feel the slow grind of Potter’s hips.
Draco didn’t turn his head in case his mouth pressed to the other man’s. “What are you doing?” hissed Draco into the floor. Sweat from forming at the base of his spine from the effort to remain stoic. He almost jumped a mile when fingers fell on his waist and then wiggled up searchingly under his top, pads slipping on sweat.
“You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you? Well, it isn’t on, Malfoy. Tell me you don’t want me. Tell me,” a firm grip flipped him over and the fingers on his back slid round and settled in his bellybutton. Swirling into the dip as green eyes stared too closely into his face. Potter was millimetres away, so close that he blurred. Draco could see nothing but green eyes, but he knew that any attempt to talk would make his lips brush Potter’s gritted teeth. “Tell me that I disgust you, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Draco didn’t move. He couldn’t think. Astoria had sent denial letters to Potter, and Potter was married and had two boys, and didn’t like ex-Death Eaters because he was a hero and he had people like Weasley for friends, and it was all so improbable and would be a scandal that could ruin everything if it came to light in the wrong way and -
Potter pressed a finger hard into Draco’s stomach, pushing his bellybutton towards his spine. “Tell me,” he begged, trying to get Draco’s attention. “Tell me you hate me and I can stop bloody thinking about you all the damn time…just…say something.”
Draco licked his lips and thought of the day he’d met his wife. She’d been petite and he owed her for the life he led now. He’d promised her one thing. Permission to choose his lovers. Moving his lips, it took a moment for his voice to be brave the articulation of his thoughts. “You win.”
Potter’s kiss was full of teeth because the stupid loon was smiling.
**
Potter’s hair was awful. Astoria’s hair was spun like silk and he had once walked in to see Kingsley Shacklebolt brushing her hair in the reflection of her vanity, naked together. All her hair had turned static with every run of the brush in the low morning light and Draco remembered through the haze of shock that she was not as pretty as her sister. If Daphne had made the same offer of marriage, Draco might have put more effort into keeping his vow of enforced chastity. Potter’s hair was something else though. It was thick and warmer near the roots and Draco found it very difficult to stop carding his fingers through the mess or using it as a anchor while Harry struggled to pull their clothes off without breaking their lips apart.
By the time he’d gotten Draco naked and slick against the mats, he was jabbering nonsense into Draco’s neck, too focused, it seemed, on just being close, pressing Draco through the floor again to be near. “What are you into?” asked Harry. His voice was thick and moist against Draco’s collarbone; his hands were curving round the swell of Draco’s arse, coaching Draco’s thighs to press around him.
Draco was suddenly struck with a ridiculous image; a crup trying to mount the back of Hagrid’s old boarhound. Potter was a monstrosity of a man, and while Draco prided himself on being svelte, it had probably never entered Potter’s mind to let Draco top. Straight men never did and as far as Draco knew, Potter had had only one true love and it had been ginger and female. “You can fuck me,” offered Draco graciously.
Potter didn’t seem to hear.
One minute he was licking the hollow of Draco’s throat reverently, and then the next second he’d disappeared from view and placed his face straight into Draco’s naked crotch. Draco had been unprepared to say the least. He swore loudly, both of his hands flying down to grip at that mop of black hair that was bobbing up and down with all the enthusiasm of a schoolboy. God, it was a terrible blowjob. Potter seemed to be under the impression that his penis was an oversized clitoris and at the same time, it was glorious because Potter’s mouth felt like rebellion.
His extramarital dalliances had all been carefully regimented and documented releases of sexual tension before now. As he trust upwards eagerly, his body remembered what true lust was and it was in the shape of a thunderbolt.
“Fucking hell, a bit more…” begged Draco. His hips thrust up without his consent, he desperately tried to push Potter’s head down to make that glorious talented tongue and tight suction slip further down his dick. The reaction was not pleasing. Draco almost sobbed when Potter moved away. “You bastard, come bac -”
Harry, unfazed by a patented Malfoy temper tantrum, sat up and began unwinding the purple tape from around his hands. His movements were swift. Before Draco could so much as grab Potter’s head a put it back where God should have fused it, Harry grabbed each of his arms and began binding his wrists together. Smiling like a loon, Potter said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not have two bald patches.”
And then he was back. Draco’s taped wrists were pinned against his hip as Potter went back to licking and mouthing at his cock. Draco could do nothing left but whine and squirm on the mats.
Draco tensed his thighs as he gathered the courage to look down without blowing his load too soon. Potter’s lips were a smear of red in the bright lights of the training room, his dark fringe hanging down over one side of his face and tangling in Draco’s wiry curls, and his eyes, open and watchful. They measured every writhe Draco couldn’t quite contain with a mirthful twinkle. Thoughts of Dumbledore’s influence staved off his orgasm from the brink, which was helpful because Potter gave a cheeky wink before swiftly licking a stripe down his shaft, over his balls and across his hole.
“Potter?!”
Draco felt his face flush as the sound of slurping accompanied the sensation of Potter’s amazing - how had he ever thought this man was straight?! - tongue stabbing and swirling around his twitching arsehole. The slick muscle moved in and out to stretch, pulling out to whirl teasingly around the rim and then dip back inside. Draco could not contain voicing how utterly brilliant he found Potter’s depravity.
Andrew had called it unhygienic except every once in a blue moon.
“Please, please, god - get up here!” Draco could hardly talk for choking on moans. Thankfully, Potter indulged him. Harry hoisted Draco’s bound hands above his head as he raised himself back up to settle against Draco’s chest.
Potter hovered above him, close and smiling while two fingers wormed their way inside Draco. He could hardly breathe to think. Potter was so close, so real and hot. Warm fingers were stroking the purple tape about his wrists, tracing circles in time with the hand that was stretching him. Probing, searching fingers that were jabbing in different angles until Draco’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he arched a few extra millimetres into Harry’s chest. A chuckle washed warm air over Draco’s face as Potter continued to stab at his prostate, merciless in drawing the warmth into his stomach and the pressure into his balls.
Draco had thought Potter was leaning so close because he was without his glasses, which he would have taken off to train.
“God,” his green eyes were moving, cataloguing every inch of Draco’s pleasure, “I wish I could kiss you.”
Draco gave a laugh and leant up, pressing their lips and tongues together. Harry was hesitant. Only when air became a necessity did Draco proclaim Harry stupid. A gay man and a wizard beside, Draco was rigorously clean, arse-breathe was unlikely and he wouldn’t have cared a jot either. He gave a little wiggle, hitching one thigh out the way and told Potter’s blushing cheek to get a move on.
The fingers twisted a few more times and then the emptiness was replaced with a wet nudge. Harry was panting, muttering indistinct prayers but all Draco could do was tilt his hips up and pump them uselessly. The hand around his wrists gripped tightly and Draco didn’t have to beg the idiot to move because with one firm thrust, Harry pushed past through the resisting ring of his body. Draco would liked to have remembered the small ‘oh’ sound of Potter’s first gay experience, but inch by inch of hard cock pushed forward without care. Potter didn’t stop to savour anything; he seemed too desperate to pause for the miracle of the sensation.
They both began moving against one another in a furious, desperate pace. Each of their sobs and groans echoed against the sound of flesh hitting flesh, Potter’s hips were slapping against his hard enough to leave bruises that would spell ‘Harry Potter was here’ in broken capillaries. Draco’s dick was being pressed into his abdomen, rubbed by Harry’s stomach as they kissed in a mindless mixture of teeth, tongue and laughter.
Every time Potter thrust, Draco would slid across the mats, perspiration and desperation slicking his back. Every ten or so thrusts later, Draco would be an inch or two further away and Potter would scramble after him, just like in life outside the training room. Potter was the first to come, scrambling up inside Draco with a cry of utter rapture, mouth slack and eyes closed against the pleasure. Draco felt a moment of smug pride swell somewhere inside him, probably where the head of Potter’s cock was giving a last rub against his prostate. He’d put that look on Harry Potter’s face.
And then Potter grabbed his cock and looked smug back.
When Draco was sticky inside and out and Potter was refusing to pull out, the sentimental fool, Draco thought about his wife and how she would be furious when she found.
**
Potter’s two boys looked like hyperactive little brats. They jostled and kicked at each other’s shins, shoving one another as they said their goodbyes to the backdrop of The Hogwarts Express.
Draco measured Ginerva Potter’s face, trying to judge whether her face was only blotchy because she was sending her children off to school. He couldn’t tell. Potter himself was lost in a sea of Weasleys but it didn’t matter because they would see each other at work in an hour.
Dropping down, Draco pressed a kiss to Scorpius’ head, discretely from the rest of the world in the nook of Platform Nine and Three Quarters. His son smiled widely up at him, nervous and excited in a way that only children could be, and allowed Astoria her turn to press him for a hug and last minute advice on how to trick the sorting hat into putting him into any house but Slytherin.
“Any house you like is fine by me, I’ll be proud of anything,” said Draco. “Write often.” Astoria pressed her elbows into his ribs.
Scorpius didn’t seem to understand the war going on between his parents and ran off towards the train with a large amount of undignified shoving through Weasley clans.
As the train started up, Draco caught Potter’s eye. Ginerva was waving frantically to the train as if her children would never return and then fell into a limp slump as the train disappeared all together. She returned to her husband’s side and looped her arm in his.
However, Potter nodded to him.
The plan was to go forward.
Draco slid a finger under the cuff of his long sleeved robe and drew strength enough to say, “I want a divorce.”
Astoria head spun round and gave him a silent and very cold look. Ginerva Potter nee Weasley was making odd choking noises from across the platform.
“I built your family back up,” Astoria hissed, “I am the one did it all, you ungrateful whore. You only spread your legs like a cheap -”
“Astoria,” Draco cut her off. He fingered the purple careworn tape wrapped neatly around his wrist that Potter had wrapped there lovingly a few hours before. “For the last time, you are not my pimp.”
**
The End