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Draco groaned as he roused himself from a restless slumber, his stomach growling louder than his irritation. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he tugged on his winter robes and tied them snugly over his emerald-green silk pajamas, muttering curses at the late hour and his own hunger.
Even at the ungodly time, he took a moment to smooth his hair with a practiced hand, banishing any evidence of bedhead. A Malfoy, after all, did not wander the castle corridors looking anything less than impeccable, even for a 2 a.m. snack.
The Eighth Year common room was dim and still as Draco stepped out, shutting his door with care. He paused at the entrance, steeling himself for the ordeal of slipping past the meddlesome portrait of Miss Welberg. The woman, painted into eternal youth and entirely too nosy, seemed to delight in prying into his non-existent love life.
“Ah, young Mr. Malfoy,” she cooed the moment her eyes fluttered open. “On your way to claim the Golden Boy at last, I assume?”
Draco froze, confusion momentarily preceding the usual annoyance. What in Merlin’s name was she on about this time? He barely suppressed a growl as she tittered at his expense. His fingers itched to draw his wand and slit the portrait down the middle, silencing her for good. But he clenched his jaw, mustering the restraint to mutter a clipped, “Goodnight.” instead.
Her laughter echoed behind him as he slipped into the castle’s shadowed corridors. The chill of the stone walls seeped through his slippers as he walked, the quiet punctuated only by the soft whisper of his robes brushing the floor.
The winding path took him through several turns, each corner darker than the last, before he reached the spiral staircase. Floating down the cold stone steps, his irritation began to ebb as the tantalizing aroma of something rich and hearty drifted toward him. The scent wrapped around him and he quickened his pace, nearly jogging by the time he reached the kitchens. Salazar bless the elf conjuring whatever culinary masterpiece awaited, it would surely be worth the trouble of sneaking out. With his mouth already watering, Draco rounded the final corner, eager to see what awaited him in the kitchens.
Draco froze in the doorway, his breath catching as his gaze fell on the figure in the kitchen. Harry Potter stood by a steaming pot, a brass ladle in hand, stirring with a rhythmic motion that suggested he’d been at it for some time. His messy black hair was a riot of curls, more disheveled than usual, and he wore an apron of all things, a rosy pink one dotted with tiny blue teacups and shiny silver spoons. The bow at his back was perfectly tied, as if mocking Draco with its domestic charm. Beneath the apron, Potter’s attire was almost laughable: worn-out shorts that left his knees bare and a faded t-shirt that clung to him.
Draco’s stomach growled again, louder this time, but he hardly noticed. Instead, he took a step back, slipping into the shadows just outside the door. Leaning against the cool stone wall, he let out a slow, measured breath. From his vantage point, he could see everything—the open flames of the stove, the glint of the ladle, and at the center of it all was Potter, moving fluidly, with a grace so utterly unfamiliar, as if he were born to it.
And so, he watched.
Like he always did.
He had watched Potter in so many moments over the years, moments seared into his memory with painful clarity.
He's seen Potter frustrated.
Crouched on the deep blue common room carpet near the fireplace, his hideously red knit sweater, emblazoned with an embroidered Harry in an over-the-top swirly font- as though the whole Wizarding world wasn't informed that on the daily as they read the morning paper. The fire's luminescence setting the red ablaze as he gripped his impossible curls with one hand, the other clutching his quill in that clumsy, almost endearing way Draco had only ever seen his toddler cousin Teddy manage, muttering ingredients under his breath, desperately trying to recall the right order as though sheer stubbornness would compensate for his lack of preparation.
He’d seen Potter exhilarated.
He'd zap past him on the Quidditch pitch, that maddening grin splitting his face, eyes alight with the anticipation of his victory as he dashed at the fluttering snitch. Draco, sharp-eyed as ever, often spotted the Snitch first. And sometimes, well many...times he let Potter have his moment, only to watch that wild, unfiltered joy take over his face. No, scratch that- just so he could later taunt Potter about how he’d let him have the snitch, maintaining the carefully curated role of antagonist that the ever oblivious Potter still seemed to believe in.
He’d seen Potter distraught.
Cradling Draco’s broken body, paralyzed in pain, the air thick with the metallic tang of fresh blood seeping from the countless gashes carved by his Sectumsempra. Green eyes, wide with panic, had glistened with unshed tears, and trembling hands pressed against Draco’s wounds as though sheer willpower might undo the damage.
He’d seen Potter dazed.
From the corner of his eye he'd caught those unnervingly green irises locked on Draco with an unmistakable sense of admiration. It wasn’t the simple awe of a child, it was tinged with frustration, an indignation at his own lack of comparable skill. Not that Draco cared. No, Potter could never outshine him where it truly mattered. Potions. Astronomy. Wit. Style.
Still, that look, Potter’s gaze trailing over Draco’s smooth, toned arms and deft hands as they sliced ingredients with precision or ground them methodically into paste, sent Draco’s pulse thrumming in his ears. There was something unbearably intimate about it, the way Potter seemed captivated by Draco in his element. Every movement spontaneous yet assured, a seamless fluidity to it as he followed the instructions to perfection, each step savoured, recalled from impeccable memory. And Potter watched it all, as if Draco were performing some kind of forbidden magic, his intensity leaving Draco more unsettled than he’d ever admit.
They had brewed the Draught of Peace together their last Potions class, well, Draco had brewed it. He’d held his breath as the timer ticked toward the 46th second, waiting for that soft sigh from Potter. It was a sound he’d come to anticipate, that gentle exhale of contentment and awe as Potter leaned on his toes peering into the cauldron as if it held the secrets of the universe, his plush bottom lip caught between his teeth and Draco’s grip on his stirring rod faltered for just a fraction of a second. And there it was, the single perfect bubble rising to the surface and popping with a delicate sound, exactly as the instructions dictated, assuring them of it's perfection. The potion’s shimmering lavender hue deepened, a flawless execution of the Draught of Peace. Draco allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk, but Potter’s reaction was more telling.
“Brilliant,” Potter had murmured, almost to himself, his voice soft, unguarded, reverent.
Draco had tried, truly, not to glow with the embarrassing, boyish pride bubbling inside him at impressing his crush. He’d tamped it down with a practiced smirk, subtle but effective, when Potter turned to him with a restrained smile. That half-smile, hesitant, almost shy, paired with Potter’s long lashes and oh that devastatingly pretty face, sent a wave of dizziness through Draco that rivaled the effects of the Draught of Peace itself, like he'd consumed the Draught he'd just made all in one reckless gulp. For a fleeting moment, it felt like they were a team, sharing a quiet victory.
That smile alone Draco had decided was enough contribution from him. Not that Potter had done much, fetching ingredients had been the extent of his involvement. Twice Draco had sent him back to the storage cupboard, first for bringing the eyeballs of the wrong specimen of toad. “The label you’re looking for is Anaxyrus Terrestris, not Anaxyrus Nelsoni, Potter,” Draco had drawled annunciating the scientific names of the two different toad species, savoring the way Potter owlishly blinked up at him with those wide, green eyes. The second trip was for bringing crushed Bladderwrack instead of the rooted variety.
After that of course, Potter had simply stood beside Draco, looking absurdly pretty and completely oblivious to how his mere presence made Draco’s heart beat just a little too fast.
He'd seen Potter yearning.
It was usually in the common room, Potter sitting quietly, his eyes lingering on his friends as if he were on the outside looking in, casting fond, wistful glances at the head-over-heels duo of the trio: Weasley and Granger. They’d be tucked together on the sofa across from him, Granger half-heartedly nudging Weasley toward his homework as her cheeks flushed at whatever secret Weasley was murmuring in her ear. Weasley’s gaze would remain locked on her, tender and unyielding, a look so openly affectionate it was almost embarrassing to witness.
He'd never seen Potter in his element before, but now, Draco knew exactly what it was. Harry Potter wasn’t simply cooking; he was weaving some quiet, hypnotic magic, as if the kitchen itself bent to his will. Every movement fluid, almost mesmerizing, as if he’d spent years honing this skill. Which, given the chaos of his past, seemed completely foreign to Draco. Gone was the bumbling, untidy boy he had known, replaced by someone entirely different. Harry now moved with an effortless elegance that made Draco feel, for a brief moment, like he was watching someone entirely new.
Potter stood at the stove, his eyes focused and calm as he took a knife in hand. His fingers wrapped around the handle with practiced ease, the knife blade slicing through the onions with such precision that Draco found himself momentarily lulled by the rhythmic sound of it: swoosh, swoosh, swoosh. Each slice clean and uniform, the onion falling into neat pieces that would quickly dissolve into the broth. It was the kind of skill that Draco could never imagine Potter possessing, and yet, here he was, working with a quiet mastery.
He moved back to the cutting board, the scent of the onions starting to fill the air, sharp and tangy, as Potter’s deft hands chopped through garlic cloves next. The knife came down again and again, the tiny cloves breaking into crushed pieces with ease.
He then reached for a chicken breast, still glistening with a thin layer of fat, and with a quick flick of his wrist, cut it into bite-sized chunks. He set the knife down and guided the pieces into the pot, the sound of it hitting the hot liquid, a satisfying splash, and immediately the kitchen was filled with the rich scent of cooking meat, its aroma mingling with the fresh garlic and onions.
Next came the herbs, fresh thyme, rosemary, and bay leaves, which Potter reached for with the same unhurried care. He crumbled the dried leaves between his fingers, letting the oils release into the air before tossing them into the pot. A few sprigs of thyme followed, their tiny leaves adding a touch of greenery to the bubbling concoction. Harry’s hands moved like he’d done this a thousand times before, each action precise and confident.
As the soup began to simmer, Potter floated from the stove to the cupboard, his steps light and purposeful. He opened the cupboard with a flick of his wrist, his fingers trailing over the neatly aligned assortment of transparent glass jars filled to the brim with various powered spices like a pianist gliding across the keys. A hazy smile tugged at his lips as he paused to select one, the jar labeled Asafoetida.
Returning to the stove, Potter moved with a leisurely rhythm, humming a melody Draco didn’t recognize but felt like it belonged to some warm, faraway place. The foreign tune wove its way into the air, carrying with it a serenity that was at odds with everything Draco thought he knew about Potter. This was the same boy who had always seemed so inelegant, so scruffy and frazzled, stumbling through life with untied shoelaces and windswept hair. But here, now, Potter was anything but.
With a careful touch, he added just a pinch, then moved to a jar of turmeric, its vibrant yellow powder dusting the air as he tipped it over the bubbling broth. A few twists of black pepper and a dash of salt, and the soup was set. Potter gave the pot a final stir, the ladle moving slowly in large, controlled arcs, mixing the ingredients together. The steam rose from the bubbling liquid in soft waves, fogging his glasses in delicate bursts that faded almost as quickly as they appeared, dispelled by what Draco could only assume was a handy chef's charm.
Every now and then, Potter would taste the soup, lifting the ladle to his lips with a delicate breath, the spoon hovering just beneath his nose before he blew on it gently, letting it cool before sipping. Each time, a small, satisfied smile would tug at the corner of his lips, his eyes closing for a split second as he savored the taste.
Potter set the ladle down with a grace that bordered on theatrical and waved his hand, extinguishing the flame with a smooth flick of magic. Then, in one fluid motion, he lifted the hem of his rose-patterned apron to dab at his hands.
With a wave of his wand, Potter levitated a bowl to a small elf-sized table. He settled into the tiny wooden chair, his posture relaxed but dignified, as if the smallness of the space didn’t matter in the slightest. The golden soup sat before him. Potter’s calm, contented expression as he dipped the spoon into the broth was almost enough to make him stroll in and pour himself a share.
But, Draco just watched on.
His mouth watered as Potter dipped the spoon into the steaming liquid and lifted it to his lips. Potter's tongue flicked out, wetting his bottom lip before parting just enough to blow a soft breath over the spoon, causing the golden liquid to tremble slightly. Then, with a deliberate slurp, he drew the spoon’s contents into his mouth. "Hmmmmm." Draco froze, his entire body immobilized except for his tongue darting out to lick his own lips, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Potter’s mouth as a low moan echoed from the kitchen into the eerily still silence of the room, now void of the bubbling and hiss of the stove.
"Uhhhhmmm." Draco's breath hitched, his chest tightening as a slow, familiar heat coiled in his lower stomach, snaking up his spine in a tingling wave. His eyes, dry and unblinking, refused to waver from the sight before him. Potter's throat worked gracefully, the slender muscles shifting as he swallowed another spoonful of soup.
Potter then turned his attention to the remnants clinging to the back of the spoon, his tongue, a dark pink flicker, darting out to catch the thick, drying soup. Starting from the neck of the spoon, he licked upward in deliberate, unhurried strokes. It took two swipes, each one achingly precise, before the metal gleamed clean under the light.
A drop of soup slipped down Potter’s hand, trailing toward his wrist. And without hesitation, he brought it to his lips, parting them slightly to catch the droplet. His mouth pressed against the inside of his wrist, lingering as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking out to chase the last traces of flavor. Draco's painfully hard cock throbbed in delight at a sight too good to be true.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, forbidding himself from the sight so sinful. His jaw tightened, and goosebumps prickled his skin as the echo of another drawn out moan reverberated through him.
His gaze drifted downward to Potter's legs, stretched out beneath the table—hairless, smooth, and crossed casually at the ankles. The hem of his shorts had ridden up as he sat, creating the impression that the pink apron he wore was all he had on.
"Truly, you have surpassed any ancestor or descendant, not merely of this age but for the next millennium, in the art of depravity." Draco rolled his eyes as his mind echoed with the reprimand in Father’s voice dripping with disdain as his cock eagerly twitched once more. He turned on his heel, moving quietly as he slipped past the kitchen, fully aware of what would happen if he lingered even for a moment longer. As he made his way back to his room, his footsteps echoing softly through the corridors, Potter’s sounds reverberated in his mind and he adjusted his pants.
Draco slipped into bed, his hunger momentarily subdued by a more pressing matter at hand, a matter he attended to with an unsteady, eager hand.
His groans intensified, echoing through the room as his hands worked fervently over his pulsing cock. The climax overtook him in a shuddering wave, and he rode it out to the vision of Potter kneeling before him on the kitchen floor, in nothing but his ridiculous rose-patterned apron, the delicate bow at it's back grazing enticingly against the cleft of his plump arse as he licked his cock clean, moaning and savouring Draco's cum like it was fucking chicken soup.
When sleep finally came to claim him, his mind drifted back to how beautiful and blissful Potter had looked.
Alone in the strangely cozy kitchen of their school at 2 a.m., as he savoured an ordinary pleasure with such torturous sensuality. In that moment, it was unthinkable that the boy sitting there, so at peace, had borne the weight of such profound loss and suffering, a cursed journey that began with the death of his mother. His expression softened and serene, reminiscent of a child returning home at dusk, hand in hand with their mother, after a carefree evening spent running wild in the the grass with their favourite playmate.
A peculiar yearning stirred in Draco’s chest, quiet and insistent. He wished that the universe itself might will it. Might align itself in some miraculous twist of luck and fate so he could somehow be both the creator and keeper of such bliss on Potter’s face. To be the reason...Harry looked that way.
-----
Draco’s fingers fidgeted nervously in the folds of his robes, a subtle motion he made when no one was looking. Now, among the quiet murmur and soft tinkling of glass vails in the classroom, it felt more pronounced. The lilies pressed against his side in his robe pocket, their cool, smooth stems a delicate contrast to the rapid beat of his heart. He had charmed them to a smaller size so they wouldn’t seem too grand or overbearing. Not that lillies were grand, they were anything but; Mother had always told him that flowers, especially lilies, should never be overdone; Lillies represent purity, innocence; It's charm lay in it's simplicity. Mother's words echoed in his head. But despite the lesson, Draco felt the weight of the gesture settle on him in a way that made him anxious. Was this a mistake? What if they were too much? Too… unlike anything he had ever done before?
He had already decided, though. He had to do it. He had to offer something, something small, simple, meaningful to Harry.
Potter’s footsteps drew closer, snapping Draco out of his inner turmoil. His heart raced as Potter’s gaze flicked toward him briefly as he neared their desk at the back of the classroom, casting a quick glance in Draco’s direction. Draco’s gaze immediately shot downward, not trusting himself to look too long.
Potter settled into his seat, his posture familiar, as though they had been partners for years. He huffed in mild annoyance upon reading the potion instructions on the board, his eyebrows drawing together in that familiar, scrunched-up way, no doubt at the complexity of it.
His eyes then landed on Draco, his face resting in the palm of his hand, taking in the sight of him sitting motionless beside him, poised with the sharp focus he had mastered in their years at Hogwarts. By now, Draco would have typically already arranged everything they needed for class: the right glass vials, the measuring spoons, the scales—his meticulousness at work. But today, there was an unusual stillness to him.
Draco’s eyes darted down to his desk at the sight of Potter looking at him, suddenly unsure of himself. The lilies were there, soft and fragile, tucked into the pocket of his robes, waiting. He had known what he needed to do, but now that he was here, his body had frozen. He could feel the gentle pressure of the flowers against his chest, as though they were urging him to act.
He reached into his pockets, pulling out the lilies and almost hesitantly extended them toward Potter, bridging the space between them, a quiet offering of beauty and intention.
Potter’s gaze followed the motion, his green eyes widening as they landed on the lilies. Draco could see the surprise flit across his face, followed by an almost reverent stillness. It was as if he was momentarily lost in the beauty of the flowers, his breath catching in his chest. There was a slight hitch, a shaky intake of breath, as if the simple sight of them had unsettled him. Potter’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. His expression softened, a softness of someone remembering something precious. As if he were lost in the memory of a time he couldn’t fully grasp, the face of a woman he had known only through fleeting glimpses and the stories told by others.
Draco's chest tightened. Potter knew his own mother as much as Draco, as much as anyone else in the wizarding world—through whispered stories and cold facts of her tragic end. He knew her as the woman who had died alongside his father, who had sacrificed herself that fateful night. It was a sacrifice that had been immortalized in every corner of the magical world, a tale woven into the fabric of their history, yet one that had left so little for Harry to hold onto beyond the echo of a name and a shadow of her memory.
That was why Draco had chosen the lilies. He knew, deep down, how much the gesture would mean to him, how much it would mean to anyone who had lost someone, to be offered a piece of beauty, however small, that might spark a memory of what they could never fully reclaim. For a moment it didn’t matter that Potter might never understand the depth of Draco’s feelings. It was suddenly enough to know that he, Draco Malfoy, had at last created it: a fleeting moment where the barriers between them softened, where something as simple as a flower had bridged the gap between their worlds.
Even if what they have now, this fragile tolerance, never amounted to anything more than that, even if Potter might never return Draco's feelings, even if he would have forever remember him as the arrogant, insufferable git he once was, Draco would carry this quiet victory with him. A moment of purity amidst all the years of rivalry, a moment where he had given Harry something to remember him by, something that wasn’t tied to pain or bitterness, but something beautiful and fleeting. The lilies, fragile and soft, would stand in his memory as a symbol of everything Draco had wished for with him, and everything that would remain out of reach.
He must have felt the intense gaze on him as he blinked his eyes open a few seconds later, seconds that had seemed to stretch into forever, returning to the present, his eyes lingered on Draco for a heartbeat too long, as if he were trying to piece together what this all meant, why Draco was offering him something so simple, so pure. Potter stared blankly at Draco for a moment, as though waiting for him to explain himself, but no words came.
His gaze darted between Draco and the lilies, still extended toward him as Draco held on to the delicate stems for dear life.
He waited more as if reluctant to disrupt the rare and fragile perfection of the scene, before he finally tore his eyes away from Draco’s unflinching gaze. His voice was hesitant, his words fumbling a little. “Are these for the, um- so, um—are these an ingredient we had to bring today?” He glanced at the lilies again, his confusion still evident.
Draco’s relief was almost palpable, a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding finally escaping him. He almost smiled at Potter’s obliviousness. Potter still didn’t know that these lilies were picked for him early that morning at dawn, just as the first light of day began to break through the trees, casting a soft, golden hue through the misty woods in the stillness of the quiet hours, as he carefully selected them from a patch of Lillies he's discovered during one of his solitary strolls through the Forbidden Forest. Draco shook his head, a soft exhale escaping his lips before he finally spoke.
"No," Draco said quietly, the word feeling more significant than he’d intended. "These are...they’re for you." Draco dropped his gaze, bracing himself for whatever might come next.
He wet his lips, captivated by the way Potter’s green eyes, so vivid and mesmerizing, flickered with surprise. The pupils expanded, and a delicate flush crept up Potter’s neck, blooming on his cheeks with a soft, radiant warmth. Rose lips parted, the surprise lingering on them as he searched Draco's expression for any trace of mockery. And finding none, he swallowed, his breath hitching. As the sincerity of Draco’s gesture settled in, Potter's gaze slowly descended, tracing the line of Draco’s lips, before his tongue flicked across his own plump lips in a brief, unconscious motion. His gaze continued downward, lingering on Draco’s neck and chest, until it finally settled on the lilies in Draco’s grasp.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of those lips as he tilted his head, his gaze softening with a quiet understanding. He reached toward the lilies, his hands tentative, yet unmistakably drawn by the unspoken invitation. His fingers hovered just above the delicate stems, pausing for a moment as if to savor the stillness before they brushed gently against Draco’s. With a tenderness that surprised Draco, Potter cradled the flowers close to his chest. “Thank you,” he whispered, the words barely a breath, the sincerity behind them clear. Potter murmured a soft charm, carefully tucking the bouquet into the folds of his saddle, as though protecting something precious.
Potter turned back to his seat, his hand awkwardly brushing over his face in a futile attempt to hide the blush that had blossomed across his cheeks. Draco couldn’t help but watch with bated breath as the colour deepened, making Potter’s features all the more gorgeous in that moment. Reluctantly, Draco tore his gaze away, trying to steady his breathing. Potter had accepted his flowers, blushing so prettily, and their fingers had brushed. "When, pray tell, did you become so absurdly sentimental, Draco?" Father’s voice echoed in his mind, sharp and displeased, but even that couldn’t dull the warmth spreading through him now.
"I- I'll go get the ingredients." Potter's voice was shaky as he grabbed the potions manual, almost running to the storage cupboard at the far end of the class. Draco continued the rest of the hour in a haze, for the first time his attention detached from the precision and focus he usually poured into his work. Despite the distraction, he still managed to nail the Polyjuice Potion, his hands working instinctively. But Potter didn't watch at him the way he usually did, those subtle glances of appreciation as Draco expertly prepared the ingredients. No, now Potter seemed distant, his mind somewhere far away.
Had he been creeped out by the gesture? Had his gesture unsettled Potter in some way? The thought gnawed at Draco, the uncertainty of it all sitting heavy in his chest.
------
Draco spent dinner trying to catch Potter's eyes in his gaze, he did not savour his dinner the way he did his soup last night.
Draco tossed in his sheets, tortured at not knowing if Potter would cook tonight, was that a routine or had it been a random hungry fix up. He was hoping having gone to bed empty stomached would wake him up to find Harry in the kitchen, watch him and hear him.
Draco twisted and turned, his thoughts consumed by the memory of Harry from the previous evening. He couldn’t shake the image of Harry in that ridiculous apron, his every movement as he prepared the meal like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. The way Harry had looked, everything about him maddeningly delectable, how deliciously he'd moaned as he savoured that soup, how delicious he would sound when Draco fucked him against the herb and spice cabinet.
With a low growl of frustration, Draco shot up from his bed, hastily donning his night robes and knotting them with a rough pull. His mind raced as he trudged through the corridors, the cold air biting at his skin, but his thoughts were on fire. As he walked, echoes of satisfied moans seemed to follow him, driving his pulse to quicken with every rushed step. The familiar aroma of Harry’s cooking wafted through the air, and Draco’s heart soared. He had feared that Harry wouldn’t be in the kitchens tonight, that the cooking wasn't a regular thing he did. But here he was, and he sounded like pure sin.
Draco paused for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, his fists clenched at his side before he strode toward the cupboard above the stove, his robes rustling behind him. The room seemed to hold its breath, falling into an eerie silence, the only sound the quiet rustle of him retrieving a loaf of bread. He could feel Harry’s gaze pressing into his back. Draco braced himself for the inevitable question that hung in the air: What the hell are you doing here?
Instead, hours seemed to stretch on in silence until Harry spoke, his voice soft, unexpected, carrying a warmth that caught Draco off guard.
"I loved them....the lilies."
Draco's hands stilled, frozen over the loaf of bread he had been charming warm. A flush spread across his face as he felt the heat rise in his cheeks, his breath catching in a sigh of relief. It was a release from the tension that had coiled within him ever since Harry had strangely seemed distant after Draco had offered him the flowers in potions class.
Draco turned to find Harry watching him, an easy, almost knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. There was something disarming about the look, something that made Draco acutely aware of a contrasting tension tightening in his chest. He stared back at him, unable to mask the sudden heat that crept up his neck.
"I made soup." Harry said, casually shrugging as though they were old friends sharing a cozy afternoon, his tone effortlessly at ease. He gestured toward the seat opposite him with a nonchalant wave.
Draco blinked, his mind briefly short-circuiting. "Oh." He managed to supply wisely.
He moved slowly, almost robotically, to the small elven table, his taller frame looming over Harry, who sat comfortably in the tiny chair. Harry looked unexpectedly small, almost endearing, as he leisurely slurped another spoonful of soup. The moans of pleasure that had accompanied Harry’s eating earlier were gone, replaced now by a serene focus.
Realizing he had been staring, Draco slid out the small chair intended for the kitchen-elves, pulling it with his thumb and forefinger, before settling into it with a slight discomfort. He noticed Harry’s lips twitching, clearly fighting a grin as Draco desperately searched for some semblance of ease in the mismatched furniture, feeling like a clumsy giant next to Harry’s smaller, more comfortable form, so casually at ease, that it only made Draco more aware of how out of place he felt: an icy presence, slipping unbidden into the tender warmth of Harry's cocoon.
When their eyes met, Harry quickly looked away, trying to bite down the grin tugging at his lips as he levitated a steaming bowl of soup in front of Draco.
As the aroma rose to meet him, now drifting from right under his nose, Draco eagerly dug in, lost in the rich, comforting taste of the soup. Each spoonful savored as though it might be his last. Salazar, bless Harry’s hands, he thought, his mind momentarily overwhelmed by the absurdly earnest thought of slipping a ring on his finger. He could easily eat this soup every day for the rest of his life, day in and day out.
He finally looked up to find Harry watching him with a suprised, soft smile, his eyebrows raised in genuine amusement at how much Draco was clearly enjoying the soup he had made.
A blush crept up Draco’s neck as he paused, his spoon hovering above the bowl before falling in with a soft clink. He reached for Harry, and even now, he couldn’t quite understand what possessed him to do it. Perhaps it was the haze clouding his thoughts, thickened by the way Potter was looking at him so unexpectedly.....tender,and it just made thinking a distant, impossible task. His body seemed to act on its own, his arm extending before he could second-guess himself. They were seated close enough that it required no effort, no strain—just a simple movement that felt both reckless and unavoidably right.
He watched, almost detached, as his hand moved of its own volition, his thumb brushing over the smear of soup lingering at the corner of Harry’s mouth. The contact sent a warm fuzz through him, startlingly intimate for something so simple . Harry’s eyes blinked in surprise, his spoon halting mid-air on its way to his lips. Potter’s breath hitched audibly in the space between them. Draco’s wide, shocked eyes met Harry’s, now darkened with something unreadable.
For a moment, time seemed suspended, as if halting itself, waiting for them as they basked in the moment. Then, Harry’s lips quirked, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment, a glint of something knowing flashing in his eyes. Before Draco could retreat, Harry’s free hand rose, warm fingers curled around Draco’s wrist, holding it gently in place.
Slowly, deliberately, Harry guided Draco’s hand, his movements unhurried and intentional. Draco couldn’t look away, his breathing stuttering as his thumb came to rest, almost cradled, against the center of Harry’s lips. The sensation of those dreamy lips was maddeningly soft, a tender warmth that sent a shiver down Draco’s spine. His heart pounded erratically in his chest, the world narrowing to the point of contact and the faint press of Harry’s lips against his skin.
Draco stopped breathing altogether, frozen in place, as Harry’s eyes bore into his, a silent challenge flickering in their depths.
Before Draco could even begin to process what was happening, Harry’s lips parted, and in one fluid, unhurried motion, he drew Draco’s thumb into his mouth. The warm, wet heat of Harry’s mouth wrapped around him, soft and deliberate, sending a shudder racing through Draco’s entire body. A gasp caught in his throat, stuck halfway between shock and something far more dangerous.
The room seemed to shift, the air thickening as the world tilted around him. Draco’s senses honed in on the sensation, the light drag of Harry’s tongue against the pad of his thumb, the slow, languid glide of lips that made his pulse thunder in his ears. It was intoxicating, a maddening and deliberate tease that short-circuited any coherent thought.
But before he could determine if this was some fevered dream or his reality spiraling out of control, Harry released his thumb with a soft, wet sound, only to move onto Draco’s long middle finger. Draco’s breath hitched as Harry’s lips enveloped the tip of his finger, slow and purposeful, before taking in more; inch by agonizing inch.
Draco couldn’t stop himself from feeling it, all the blood rushing to his cock, filling it up faster than his heart racing, the moment his finger brushed against the back of Harry’s throat. Harry didn’t falter, his gaze locked with Draco’s the entire time, his lips curving slightly in defiance of the torment he was inflicting.
A sharp gasp escaped his lips despite his best efforts to stifle it, his teeth clenched tight as he fought against the urge to let out a moan that threatened to betray him.
Draco’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps as he felt Harry’s tongue swirl around his finger, slick and deliberate, adding to the intoxicating heat that seemed to pull him deeper into a haze of want. Each flick of Harry’s tongue sent jolts of electricity skittering down his spine, his senses overwhelmed by the wet warmth enveloping him.
Then, he heard it- a low, contented moan vibrating around his middle finger. The sound undid him completely. Draco’s restraint, already worn threadbare, finally snapped. Without thinking, driven by the inferno of his burning desire, he coaxed his finger free from Harry’s sinful mouth. The motion was slow, almost reverent, but his next action was anything but.
With slippery fingers, still glistening with the remnants of Harry’s warmth, Draco gripped his chin firmly, tilting his face upward. His heart thundered in his chest, his breath ragged as he leaned forward, his thoughts wiped clean by the overwhelming need coursing through him.
Then, he did it—he closed the distance in one swift, reckless motion, smashing his bitten lips against Harry’s in a searing kiss. It was raw, desperate, and utterly consuming, his fingers tightening slightly against Harry’s jaw to keep him close as if he feared even a fraction of space would pull them apart. The taste of him, warmth and faint traces of salt from the soup, was enough to make Draco’s mind spin, and he let himself drown in it, in Harry, in this.
Harry let out a startled sound, meek and fleeting, quickly followed by a moan that seemed to carry an unspoken Finally,. It melted into something deeper, an unhesitant, throaty note of need. His lips parted eagerly, his tongue meeting Draco’s with fervent hunger, tasting him with a passion so intense it made Draco’s knees weaken, even though he was already seated. Harry’s hand moved instinctively, burying itself in Draco’s hair, his fingers tangling in the silken strands as he gripped tightly, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss with a desperation that mirrored Draco’s own.
The world around them dissolved into a haze. Their half-finished bowls of soup sat forgotten on the table, cooling with each passing second. Barely able to think through the dizzying heat that consumed him, Draco broke away just enough for their breaths to mingle, his voice rough and low as he rasped, “Up. Come here.”
Harry didn’t hesitate. With a fluidity that was almost predatory, he moved onto the table, crawling on all fours with surprising grace. His gaze locked unwaveringly on Draco’s, a challenge and an invitation all at once. The faint creak of wood beneath him barely registered over the thunderous pounding of Draco’s heart. With a measured push, Draco slid his chair back just enough, opening a space that Harry claimed without pause.
In one seamless motion, Harry slid into Draco’s lap, his knees bracketing Draco’s thighs as though the position had always belonged to them. The contact sent a jolt through Draco, his hands instinctively finding Harry’s waist, fingers curling possessively around the firm planes of his body. Their mouths met again, the kiss frantic and untamed, as though the world might end if they stopped. Lips and tongues clashed, a chaotic symphony of heat and need, and Draco felt himself surrendering completely to it, lost to the fire threatening to burn them both alive.
Harry’s hands flew to the collar of Draco’s impeccable silk nightshirt, pulling on them as if he wanted draco closer to him than he already was, plastered to Harry. His fingers clumsy yet determined as he fumbled with the buttons. Each one came undone in a rushed, chaotic flurry, the smooth fabric parting to reveal taut hard muscle under pale skin with white scars rivering them. His breath came in quick, shallow pants, matching the fevered pace of his movements, his hands tugging the silk apart without care for its pristine state.
Draco, no less desperate, slid his hands to Harry’s hips, his fingers curling around the waistband of Harry’s shorts. His breath hitched as he tugged, the fabric slipping under his grip as he worked them down with a single-minded urgency.
The sound of their heavy breathing filled the space, punctuated by the rustle of fabric as their movements grew more frantic, more insistent. Draco’s hands gripped Harry tighter, pulling him impossibly closer as his lips brushed against Harry’s again, as Harry murmured needly against them, “I need you.”
Draco groaned, the sound deep and primal, like a victorious roar tearing from his throat. His hands moved instinctively, sliding down to cup Harry’s arse with a firm, greedy grip. The soft, yielding flesh molded under his touch, and his fingers pressed into the curve with a possessiveness that almost had Harry rutting himself on Draco.
The weight of Harry in his lap, the way his body fit so perfectly against Draco’s, was nothing short of intoxicating. His thumbs traced slow, deliberate circles over the fabric, savoring every moment, every shiver he could draw from Harry. With a smooth tug on one dangling end of the bow, Draco untied Harry's apron, slipping it off effortlessly, pulling it over his head and discarding it before ridding him of his shirt in one fluid motion.
Draco’s breath hitched as his gaze swept over Harry’s flushed skin, every inch of him kissed by the warmth of their shared heat. Harry shifted in his lap, his movements hurried, pleading, seeking friction and attention that Draco was all too willing to give. For a moment, Draco tipped his head back, his breath ragged, allowing the intoxicating sensation to ripple through him. Then, the corners of his lips curled into a sly, triumphant smirk, his eyes dark with intent, ready to claim every inch of what was now his.
"Perfect," Draco murmured, his voice a low, rough whisper as his hands roamed over the contours of Harry's smooth, heated skin. His grip tightened, firm and possessive, pulling Harry’s bare form closer until not even the air dared to slip between them.
Harry let out a sinful moan against the soft, pale flesh of Draco’s neck, his lips and tongue working over the sensitive skin with deliberate intensity. His mouth latched onto a spot just below Draco’s jaw, sucking and biting softly, ensuring a bruise would blossom there, a mark that would linger. The sting that followed was sharp and delicious, sending a shiver coursing through Draco’s body.
Draco’s hands moved lower, his fingers dragging down Harry’s back with an unrelenting purpose. He reached the curve of Harry’s arse, his touch firm yet teasing as he traced the cleft with deliberate slowness. His fingertips hovered over the sensitive entrance, brushing against it lightly, barely there, enough to make Harry’s breath hitch sharply against his neck.
Draco’s lips curled into a smug smile as he tilted his head to murmur into Harry’s ear, low and husky. “You’re so eager,” he teased, the tip of his middle finger pressing just slightly against the tight ring of muscle, not enough to enter, just enough to make Harry squirm.
When Draco did nothing but tease his entrance with a saliva-slicked finger, Harry let out a needy, impatient whine. Unable to wait any longer, he pressed down, sinking himself onto Draco's still, waiting finger with a slow, probing motion.
"Go on, fuck yourself Harry, open up for me now." Draco hissed, the sensation almost too much as he eased his finger deeper into Harry's heat, testing the way Harry’s body welcomed him. Harry’s grip on Draco’s shoulders tightened, his fingers digging in as he panted breathlessly. "More," Harry pleaded, his voice hitching, "please.....i’m... I’m prepared."
Draco’s lips curled into a smug, wicked smirk, his voice a low, teasing purr. "Oh? Did you prepare, yourself, thinking of me doing exactly this?" with that he began to recklessly piston his finger into Harry, before building to a fast steady rhythm, each thrust coaxing a loud gasp from Harry. Harry’s body moved in tandem, lifting and sinking against Draco’s long middle finger, plunging in to the hilt, fucking himself onto two fingers as Draco graciously added one more.
When the needy whining didn’t cease, Draco chuckled breathlessly, the chuckle blending into a shiver as Harry rolled his hips deliberately around the fingers and pressed his waist against Draco's straining hard on resting on his waist. “Alright, only if you ask nicely, Potter,"
"Please....Draco, please...I want your cock" Draco wordlessly vanished his pants, the sound of Harry's desperate plea, his name spilling from Harry's swollen lips, spurring him into action before the words could even finish.
"Hmmmm" Draco hummed absentmindedly as he removed his slick fingers from Harry's tight grip and guided his cock into Harry's hole. And Harry trembled against him in anticipation. Draco inched himself him as moans and groans mingled in the quiet still night, throwing his head back when he was finally sheathed inside Harry. Harry moved around him, probing the sensation of Draco's large cock in him with a careful, almost inquisitive roll of his hips.
"Give me a fucking moment, Harry," Draco hissed, his voice strained with effort. He tightened his grip on Harry's waist, adjusting him carefully on his lap before nudging him to rest his back against the table. Harry, complied without hesitation, his whispered incantation a hurried cushioning charm as he steadied himself.
Draco took one last lingering look at Harry, his gaze appreciating the sight of him, utterly delectable. Harry’s chest rose and fell with each breath, a flush of red painting his skin, sweat glistening across it from the long wait and the intensity of the sensation of a large and fully erect cock resting inside him. "Oh, you better savor these last few moments of peace before I begin," Draco murmured, voice low and dangerous. "I am going to take my time, Potter. You have no idea how long I've wanted for this." He flashed a quick, devilish smile, watching as Harry's breath hitched and grew more unsteady.
Unable to wait any longer, which he knew he couldn’t, even if he tried, Draco thrust upward in one swift, powerful motion. Harry's nails dug into Draco’s shoulders, hard enough to draw blood, as he let out a sharp moan. His body jerked up violently, pressing against the table with the force, responding instinctively to the intensity of the thrust.
Draco opened his eyes, another groan escaping him as the sensation pulsed through his body. He glanced at Harry, who, on the edge of frustration, was about to curse him for pausing now, his impatience palpable. It was all the reassurance he needed. Without hesitation, he thrust into him again, and again, each motion driving Harry’s body to bounce with force on his lap. The two of them fell into a rhythm that left Harry trembling and Draco utterly consumed by the sight and sound of him, the kitchen thick with the intoxicating blend of wet sounds, moans, and satisfied groans as Draco set a relentless pace. His thighs strained, meeting Harry’s eager and welcoming hole with each forceful thrust. Draco's eyes fluttered shut, his lips parted in ragged breaths, lost in the impossible tightness of Harry. Harry, caught in the rhythm, sang incoherently with each motion, his voice rising and falling in perfect harmony to Draco's thrusts.
Draco slid a hand beneath Harry’s legs, lifting them until one thigh rested over his arm, positioning Harry for a deeper angle. With a slight shift, he began to aim his thrusts with precision, searching for that perfect spot. Harry’s response was a loud, desperate whine, his head falling back in abandon as the sensations overwhelmed him. The intoxicating sound of Harry's need told Draco that he was nearing the edge, and he quickened his pace, driven by the desire to reach his own climax. Each time he slid in, he focused solely on the way Harry’s body welcomed him, the heat and tightness that he knew would never be able to get over now that he finally knew what it felt like.
"Yesss, yes, oh yeah fuck me like that Draco, fuck me, Uhnnnng, fuck I'm gonna come." Harry bit down on his bottom lip, his face a radiant flush of red, tears shimmering in his eyes as the pressure built unbearably within him. With a guttural cry, he shattered, his body convulsing in the raw intensity of his release. The sound of his climax drove Draco to the brink, his own body surging with a fierce, uncontrollable need. He came with a strangled groan, spilling inside, every muscle in his body seizing as white-hot pleasure exploded through him. The force of it stole his breath, the world around him vanishing into a haze of ecstasy as his lungs struggled to recover.
He finally caught his breath, still heaving when he opened his eyes to find green bright eyes staring at him breathing roughly in an attempt to catch his breath balanced precariously on Draco's lap, one hand gripping the table ,"Oh shit." Harry breathed out as if a he had just realised some unavoidable truth.
Draco's smirk curled at the corners of his lips, a dark satisfaction in his gaze as he took in the sight of Harry, utterly undone, his breath uneven and body still shuddering, his fingers still clutching the table for support, knuckles white with the effort, his lips parted as he fought to steady his breath, but the tremors in his body refused to subside. Oh, Draco knew that look all too well. It was the look of a hunger that wouldn’t be satisfied so easily, a hunger he had set in motion, a hunger only he could satisfy. He could already feel it in his bones, it wouldn’t be long before he would take Harry again, oh and he would fuck him then with just his apron on.
The smirk faded into a satisfied, almost contented smile as the realization settled in. Draco leaned in, and slowly, with deliberate care, snaked his arms around Harry’s waist, pulling him closer. He kissed him then, deep and senseless, and it was like claiming him all over again as Harry eagerly let himself be consumed.
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The professor’s hurried scrawl on the board read Amortentia, but Draco barely noticed it, his attention wholly absorbed by the figure standing close, pressed to his side. A soft, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his gaze lingered on Harry. The air between them felt heavier, thick with the scent of chicken soup, comforting and familiar, the sharp tang of Quidditch broom wood, and the sweet, heady fragrance of lilies, each note of the scent uniquely and unmistakably Harry.
The intoxicating blend clouded Draco’s head, swirling in his mind dulling it's function with a love-struck haze. He could only wonder what Harry smelled in return as his gaze turned upward to meet Draco's, the delicate vapours of the potion curling around them, and the corners of Harry's sweet mouth pulled into that smile, the kind that wasn’t just for now, like it was something that could linger, like the smell of a promise.