Usually, he loved the formal Ministry functions. He loved the excuse to wear his formal clothes; formal robes had become a bit passé after the war was over and a new generation of Wizarding Elite set the fashion standard. Now it was Armani, Prada, Dolce and Gabbana that was worn and photographed for the Society of the Daily Prophet and the editorial pages of Witch Weekly. He also knew that no one wore an Armani tuxedo like he did. It suited his tall slender frame to perfection, the stark black setting off the silvery white blond of his hair and the fashionable pallor of his skin, his square shoulders filling the jacket just right. He’d been gratified by the strobe-like greeting of flashbulbs his arrival in front of the press corps had generated and the questions that had been thrown his way as he navigated the lines. Everyone loved the redeemed, and in that regard no one had better credentials than he did; Draco Malfoy, son of one of the darkest of the Dark Lord’s minions, spy for the light, recipient of The Order of Merlin, First Class. Add that to his movie star good looks and his fashion model’s instinct for when a camera was pointed at him and he was one of the ‘pretty people’ who mattered in a world ready to embrace the victors.

This was the biggest event in a year of glittering parties. The one-year anniversary of the defeat of the Dark Lord was cause for a grand celebration and they spared no expense. Magically generated spotlights shot beams of pure white into the magicked sky of the Atrium, a plush red carpet had been spread the length of the long hallway from the Apparition point, and everyone who was anyone would be there. It was a glittering assemblage that slowly made its way through the vast Atrium with its newly restored and only recently unveiled statue of the Magical Brethren. Draco paused for a moment to study the vast fountain that sent streams of magically lit water dozens of feet into the air and the new work of ‘art’, a term he used loosely to describe the newest monstrosity to grace the center of it. Where once there had been a witch, a wizard, a house-elf, a centaur and a goblin, there was now one central figure surrounded by a small legion of other magical creatures all looking up in reverent awe at the larger than life-sized rendering of a bespectacled boy in billowing robes, his wand pointed towards the heavens, his expression fierce, his forehead marred by a lightning bolt shaped scar. Draco smirked.

They’d captured Potter in his Hogwarts uniform, ‘the school-boy who’d prevailed’. Of course they’d been out of Hogwarts when Voldemort had finally fallen but the Ministry had never been one for details, and depicting him as a boy instead of a 23-year-old man had been deemed ‘fitting’. His tie was askew, his collar open, his sweater rumpled, his trainers untied, his longish hair blowing in the imaginary windstorm. In short, it was completely accurate to the smallest detail. Potter looked like an unmade bed and Draco snorted lightly. So what was new? The man might be the saviour of the wizarding world but he was a fashion disaster. Draco shook his fair head slightly, slipping his hands with negligent grace into the pockets of his jacket. Well, one couldn’t make a silk purse of a sow’s ear, could one?

“So, what do you think of the newest addition to the fountain?”

Draco turned and found Blaise Zabini standing at his elbow, nearly as elegant and immaculate as Draco himself. Blaise smirked a bit but it lacked the effectiveness of his old housemate, though his dark skin and sleek black hair more than made up for the weakness of expression. Draco looked him over with a practiced eye.

“Dreadful, absurd, and obnoxious in equally heroic proportions. In other words… thoroughly accurate.” Blaise grinned at Draco’s snide tone. “Hickey Freeman?” The blond asked, reaching out to stroke a languid finger down the satin lapel of Blaise’s black wool tuxedo jacket. He recognized the impeccable cut, the distinctive cuffs. Blaise nodded and one of Draco’s brows arched toward his hair line. “New beard has money, then.”

Blaise colored a bit under his natural tan but otherwise his expression did not change. “Not all of us inherited daddy’s millions, dear,” he snarled softly. “And really, is there any other kind?”

“Is she with you?” Draco looked over his shoulder at the teeming crowd, searching for the latest Mrs. Zabini.

“She’s in the loo,” Blaise answered, eyeing his friend, “and you will behave yourself.”

Draco spread his pale hand on the black wool covering his own chest. “Me?” he asked coyly. “I’ll be the soul of discretion.” Blaise snorted.

“Well, that will be a first then.”

The slightly sharp voice piped from nearby and both men turned to find Pansy Parkinson-Prescott standing just to their left, dark hair piled high upon her head in an elegant chignon, slender body sheathed in a glittering gold Versace gown. Draco made a soft sound of pleasure, reaching for her soft white hands, holding her arms out to her sides to study her.

“Delizioso, amore,” he purred. “Magnifico.”

“Grazie, Tesoro,” she said with a slightly stilted smile and then glanced over his shoulder. “Zabini,” she said smoothly the single word holding little warmth.

“Parkinson,” he responded dryly.

“Parkinson-Prescott,” she amended.

“Oh, that’s right,” Blaise replied with a slightly oily smile. “The American.” His lip curled.

“He could buy and sell you,” she sneered, her eyes beginning to shine dangerously. Draco recognized the signs and slipped his long arm around her petite waist.

“Play nicely, children,” he interrupted smoothly. “We need to use our company manners when we dress up.” Pansy subsided, as did Blaise even though his expression remained superior. Draco saw it. “And since all present married for gain,” he said pointedly to his friend, “perhaps we should at least attempt to avoid striking below the belt.”

“All but you.” Blaise said a bit bitterly.

“Trust me,” Draco replied softly, “Had I not inherited I’d have found myself a rich, preferably old sugar daddy and settled in to wait for him to cock up his toes. None of us was designed for manual labor, Zabini. We would do well to remember it. We are pretty and ornamental. We trade in what we have to barter.”

Blaise colored again, his features smoothing over like the glassy surface of the Black Lake. Draco turned back to Pansy with an expansive smile. “And just where is Mr. Prescott this evening, darling?”

“At the bar.” Pansy waved her hand negligently. “Last time I bothered to look, he was chatting up a Weasley of all people. I swear the man will talk to just anyone.” Blaise opened his mouth to make another cutting remark but refrained at Draco’s pointed look.

“He’s just friendly, Pans. And at least he knows to chat up a war hero. At a function like this, they are the only ones who count.”

“You’re a war hero,” Pansy protested and Draco’s smile deepened.

“Exactly. And aren’t you the clever one to be chatting me up?” The smile that graced Draco’s aristocratic features was both sly and knowing, his silvery gray eyes glittering with suppressed amusement.

Pansy swatted his arm affectionately. “You are insufferable.”

“Nice to know some things never change, isn’t it?” he countered, and her grin ripened. She searched the crowd with a dark brow arched speculatively, then turned back to Draco, a sly little smile on the glossed lips that had his eyes narrowing.

“Don’t you have an escort for this evening, darling?” She asked, as if butter wouldn’t melt in her pretty, devious little mouth, brown eyes all wide and vapid.

“No, completely on my own,” he answered easily, but the look he leveled on her had a warning in it. Her answering smile was just a little too perceptive for his peace of mind.

At that moment he was rescued when a deep voice floated over the heads of the gathered throng inviting all assembled to make their way into the Grand Ballroom.

“Are you at the head table?” Pansy asked as the crowd began to move. Draco laughed.

“Oh, no, darling,” he responded with a light laugh. “I’m not nearly exalted enough for that.”

“Well, if the rest of the seating is unassigned, join us.” She glanced around quickly. “Then I’ll at least have someone amusing to talk to,” she whispered.

“I live to serve,” he responded, and they exchanged a smile as she slipped her arm through his.

As they made their way slowly towards the massive gold doors that led to the elegant Ballroom beyond, they retrieved Blaise’s fourth wife (he was making a run at his mother’s record) a small, bottle blonde woman wearing a loud purple gown and heavy eye shadow. Draco shot Blaise a wry look but refrained from comment. Pansy’s husband caught up with them, a pleasant enough chap, whose expanding waistband stretched the buttons of his expensive tuxedo jacket and whose inane chatter and drink-induced unsteadiness stretched the limit of Draco’s patience. It did, however, prevent Pansy from taking unnecessary pot-shots at the new Mrs. Zabini, for which Draco was grateful.

The seating was, in fact, unassigned and they found a table for twelve not far from the front. “I want to be able to see,” Pansy had hissed when Draco raised an eyebrow but merely followed her, seating himself near the wall where he would also have an unobstructed view of the stage. After all, the reason he enjoyed these occasions so much was in part the opportunity to sit back and ridicule the celebrated. Pansy took a seat on one side of him, Mrs. Zabini on the other, and immediately Draco lifted a languid hand to get the attention of a server, efficiently ordering a bottle of champagne.

“It will no doubt be swill,” he commented when it arrived and the young man poured. “But I prefer to do these things well lubricated.”

And then they waited. They waited while Scrimgeour made his appearance and took his seat in the center of the long white draped table on the raised dais.

“Is the man ever going to retire those natty robes?” Pansy drawled, eyeing the still resplendent purple robes and hat of the Minister.

“Probably not,” Blaise sneered. “If he did, no one would know who he was.”

“Who is he?” Prescott asked, runny blue eyes wide.

“My point,” Blaise drawled and Pansy shot her former classmate a poisoned look.

They watched as Weasley and Weasley-Granger entered and found their places several seats away from the Minister.

“Well… Weasley doesn’t look horrible,” Pansy said generously, “except for the fact that, that ghastly hair even clashes with black. But what in the name of Salazar is Granger wearing?”

The woman in question’s hair was pulled neatly up into a chignon not unlike Pansy’s own, a few shy curls brushing her shoulders, and her dress was of pale blue silk with what appeared to be a midnight chiffon float over the top, spangled with crystal beads. Draco did not find the dress too objectionable and said so.

“She looks like a whale,” she hissed.

“She’s seven months pregnant,” Draco retorted, pouring himself another glass of the bubbly wine, “and that’s nasty even for you.”

“Still,” Pansy’s voice was frosty, “she probably bought that…thing off of the rack at Harrod’s.”

“Not all can afford haute couture, darling,” he responded but took the sting out of rebuke by gently lifting and kissing her hand, which thawed her eyes instantly.

The next to arrive was the Weaslette who stood for a moment behind a seat on Granger’s left, leaving one chair open between her and the Minister. Draco’s eyebrows arched nearly to his hairline.

“Well, well, well,” he mused, his long index finger coming up to smooth over his full lower lip, “and how do you suppose she managed that?”

Pansy craned her neck and her gasp was loud enough that people at the next table turned at the sound.

“That is not…” she stammered.

“I believe that it is,” Draco responded, a slight smile curling his lower lip. He and Pansy had attended the spring shows in Paris not long before and that was unquestionably the purple voile gown that had been the finale of the show at Yves Saint Laurent. It was lovely on Ginny’s willowy body, cut nearly to the waist, revealing smooth white skin and just a hint of her small breasts, tiers of understated ruffles lining the split skirt as it fell away to reveal the ruche fabric beneath.

“That gown is worth thousands of Galleons,” Pansy sounded as if she were strangling. “How in the world…”

“Probably borrowed it,” Draco mused thoughtfully, a slight frown forming between his brows. “She looks…edible.” She did, with that long red hair twisted artfully on her head, her makeup understated, her face flushed with excitement. The thought made him frown slightly.

Pansy leaned against Draco’s arm. “So where’s her date?” she asked pointedly, searching the room with every appearance of casualness. Draco didn’t rise to the bait.

“No idea,” he drawled, sounding bored. “Maybe he got lost on his way from the men’s.”

“No,” Blaise suddenly broke in. “There he is.” He made a short strangled sound. “And good heavens.”

“What?” Draco asked, turning his head to find the man in question and then he could only stare, dumbstruck.

Harry Potter was making his way slowly towards the front of the room, pausing to shake hands every few feet, having abbreviated murmured conversations with those he interacted with. He was smiling slightly, looked a bit bemused, and paused with his head inclined to listen to a woman who was gushing something, his square, long fingered hand dropping into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. His extraordinarily expensive tuxedo jacket, Draco noticed, his eyes widening.

“Is that…” Blaise began, sounding shell-shocked.

“Ralph Lauren, purple label,” Draco answered, taking in the way the black wool hugged the broad shoulders then nipped in artlessly to caress the narrow waist and hips. The slim cut pants accentuated long, muscular legs, and the Italian leather boots had a slight heel making his legs look even longer.

“Those are not Prada boots,” Pansy hissed.

Draco stared at the narrow cut black shoes, his brows lifting.

“Yes,” he said a bit breathlessly. “I believe that they are.”

“But look at his hair,” Blaise wheezed, “and where are the bloody glasses?”

Draco looked, his mouth going slightly dry. Someone, some unsung genius as yet undiscovered, had taken that completely unmanageable mop of black hair and turned it into something sleek and fabulous, short in the back, longer on the sides and in the front, elegant and adult and yet still…hip. The cut accented the beauty of his bone structure, revealing the high, sharp cheek bones, the square jaw with its slight cleft, the shape of his head and the striking length of the muscled neck that was currently hugged by a starched white collar and banded by a black tie. And the ever present glasses were gone leaving his large luminous green eyes uncovered, the view of the arched brows unimpeded, the sweep of the long black lashes clearly on display.

“Great Mordred’s tits,” Pansy wheezed. “Where in the bloody hell did he come from?”

Even though the coarseness of her comment pained him, Draco could not help but agree. He looked…he was…that was just not…He couldn’t form a coherent sentence. He merely stared, his mouth slightly open, as the man in question finally broke away and took the step to the raised dais easily, making his way down the long table, acknowledging the comments that were thrown his way and the greetings he received. When he arrived next to Ginny Weasley, he leaned in and pressed a friendly kiss to her cheek and then smiled and held her chair for her as she settled in.

“Well, don’t they look cozy,” Pansy purred, her eye on Draco’s flushed face. “I thought they were ‘just friends’.”

“They are,” Draco said distractedly, watching while Potter turned to the Minister for a quick handshake before taking his own seat, casually unbuttoning his jacket as he did so. The parting of his coat revealed the starched white pleated dress shirt beneath, the immaculately cut slacks hugging the trim, hard waist.

“How do you know?” Blaise asked, one brow arching, noticing Draco’s distraction for the first time. Draco heard the sharpness in the pointed question and tore his eyes from Potter.

“Ministry scuttlebutt. You know.”

Blaise started to say something else but the first course arrived and Draco poured himself another glass of champagne, downing it quickly.

During the interminable seven-course meal, of which he tasted little, Draco watched Potter. The man seemed completely at ease at the front table, laughing with Weasley and Granger, inclining his head and then smiling slowly at something the Weaslette whispered in his ear. He knew when she spotted him and drew Potter’s attention to Draco with a sly glance. He saw Potter look his way and their eyes met and held for a moment, but there was no acknowledgment in the piercing green eyes. Then he was looking away again when Weasley leaned around his wife and poured him another glass of champagne, laughing at something the ginger-haired man had said.

A simmering anger replaced the stunned miasma the man’s transformation had placed over Draco’s emotions throughout the course of the meal. How dare Potter ignore him, then look right through him when he finally did realize that he was there? Who did the bloody prat think he was? If they weren’t in a room full of people he’d march right up there and give the idiot a piece of his mind. He drank steadily throughout dinner, his silence and his anger growing. Pansy tried to engage him in conversation, grew tired of grunts in response to her questions, but continued to watch him, warily. She knew the signs; Draco this angry was never a good thing.

Just as the dessert course arrived Draco saw Potter say something to the Weaslette then push his chair back and stand. He smiled at Weasley and Granger, then casually made his way down the length of the table and out through a side door.

Without even thinking about it Draco rose as well. He stopped when he felt a hand on his arm and glanced down to find Pansy looking up at him.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” She asked him softly, brown eyes imploring.

“I think it’s fucking brilliant,” he said, his silvery gray eyes shards of glass. She withdrew her hand, sighing silently as he turned and stalked away.

“What in hell is eating him?” Blaise asked, his dark brow furrowed. Pansy just shrugged noncommittally and took a sip of her lukewarm champagne, watching the fair hair and square shoulders as they weaved through the crowd.

Draco moved quickly and gracefully through the room. He didn’t see Ginny Weasley nudge her sister-in-law or the two of them watch his progress with knowing expressions. They didn’t see Weasley frown and begin to rise as he watched him, only to have his wife take hold of his jacket cuff and pull him back down into his seat, then whisper something ardent in his ear. He was so focused on his destination that he didn’t notice anything but the door to the hall and then, once in the relative silence of the corridor, the door to the men’s toilet just opposite. He pushed his way in and spotted Potter standing with his back to the room at a urinal on the far wall. Unfortunately there was another man present there as well so he made his way to the one at the far end and loosened his trousers.

“Speech tonight, Harry?” the man asked casually. Potter did up his trousers and crossed to a sink to wash his hands.

“Just a brief one, thank God,” he answered with a slight smile. “I’m not much for speeches.”

The man finished his business and tidied himself, then crossed to one of the other sinks to wash his hands as well. “This should be old hat to you by now,” the man said bluffly, drying his hands on a paper towel.

Harry just shrugged, soaping his own hands carefully. “You’d think.”

“Well, see you in there,” the man said with a friendly smile, patting Harry on the shoulder and then departing. And they were alone.

Harry had not so much as looked at Draco since he’d entered the room and it rankled. He secured his trousers and smoothed his jacket then moved to stand at the sink next to the brunet, who was still meticulously washing his hands, and twisted the tap on rather more forcefully than necessary. Water shot into the sink and Draco shoved his pale hands under the stream. The silence between the two men grew, as did the tension in the room.

“Potter,” Draco finally spat.

“Malfoy,” came the disinterested response.

Potter rinsed the soap from his elegant, long fingered hands, then turned off the taps and reached for a towel. He didn’t seem inclined to look Draco’s way at all and the blond’s fury mounted.

“Nice tuxedo,” he ground out.

“Thank you,” the brunet said stoically.

“You’ve cut your hair.”

His only response was a vague nod.

Draco slapped off the water in the sink and reached for a towel as well. “Your date looks lovely.” His voice came from between tightly clenched teeth and sounded it. Green eyes flickered slightly between thick black lashes but didn’t lift.

“She does, doesn’t she?”

And that was it. Something inside of Draco, a place only Potter had ever been able to access, twisted into an ugly mass and he growled, throwing his towel aside and reaching for Potter’s lapels. Potter was faster and impressively agile, seemingly unsurprised by the assault and caught Draco’s wrist in a hard hand, twisting, pulling a cry from the blond’s lips. He yanked him forward and using the impetus of his own muscular body shoved the fair-haired man into one of the deserted stalls. Draco almost fell into the toilet and caught himself on the wall above it with both hands as he heard the door slam and lock, then felt the hard length of Potter’s body behind his own. He turned to snarl something, fists raised, and found himself shoved roughly into the wall, hands pinned on either side of his head, a hard body pressed chest to knees against his own.

“You son of a bitch…” Draco snarled.

“Shut it!” Potter spat out, then crushed his lips over Draco’s in a brutal, savage assault that in no way resembled a kiss. Draco squeaked and fought back, fought to keep his lips closed, but Potter kicked his legs apart and pressed forward with hard hips, and there was no mistaking the bulge of his erection even through the layers of expensive black wool. He ground himself against Draco and after a moment Draco instinctively lifted his hips into the motion, unable to help himself.

Potter’s lips left his with a cruel laugh. “Whore,” he muttered. Before Draco could even think of a response those ravaging lips were back, biting, sucking, thrusting a tongue into a mouth suddenly gone slack with both surprise and dark desire. The kiss went on and on, Potter demanding, Draco finally reciprocating. When Potter finally seemed to burn through his fury and gentled the kiss to a slow, thorough search of Draco’s back molars Draco saw his opportunity and made a move to twist away, lurching his body forward hard.

Draco was as tall as Potter, but in no way as muscular. The dark haired man immediately countered the move, allowing Draco to twist but then shoving him face first into the stall wall, neatly grabbing both hands and wrenching them behind him, lifting them until they were clasped in one of his hard hands just above Draco’s waist at his back. Draco turned his face to the side, his cheek crushed against the wall.

“Let me go,” he ground out. Potter’s chest pressed hard against his back, trapping his hands between them.

“I don’t think so,” Potter countered with a breathless laugh.

“Let me go,” Draco repeated tautly trying to sound both angry yet in control. He felt Potter press his hips forward, and there was that rampant erection against his cleft. He closed his eyes reflexively against the feeling and dampened his swollen lips with his tongue. Potter leaned forward then and Draco could feel his hot breath against the back of his neck just before Potter’s open mouth traced the shell of his ear, his tongue swiping the sensitive skin just beneath. Draco could not supress the shudder that went through his slender frame.

“Like that?” Potter taunted, repeating the slow, slick, wet slide of heat. Draco’s eyes closed and he bit his lower lip as he felt teeth gently score his skin. Potter rolled his hips against Draco’s arse and he couldn’t stop the moan that rose in his throat. He was so hard he ached, pressed against the cold wall and as wrong as it all was, nothing had ever felt so right. “You like this.” From the sound of Potter’s voice he was smiling, and Draco’s anger spiked again.

“I have never liked being manhandled,” he retorted with as much dignity as he could.

“Liar.” The hissed answer was right against his ear, the hard chest pressing against his back forcing his chest into the wall. Then he felt Potter’s free hand slide around his waist and then lower through the opening of his jacket to find the fly of his trousers beneath. Long fingers slid insidiously lower, finding the straining length of his cock and pressing hard with the heel of his hand.

“You don’t like it?” Potter chuckled darkly, fingers curling around the hard shape, moving with insulting slowness up and then down again. “Your prick says otherwise.”

“Let. Me. Go.” Draco thrust back with his body as hard as he could but his strength was no match for Potter’s, who held him trapped with deceptive ease and opened his fly with no difficulty at all.

“Going commando, Malfoy?” He sneered when he encountered only hot skin and soft, curling hair beneath the black wool. “Or just planning for any contingency?” When his long, warm fingers curled around the velvety length of Draco’s swollen shaft the blond pressed his forehead against the cold metal wall with a sound of despair.

“Oh, stifle it, you fucking drama queen,” Potter hissed near his ear as his hand stroked with surprising gentleness up the curved length of Draco’s cock, thumb collecting the small dribble of pre-come and slicking it down over the hard shaft. “You like it, and you know it.”

“I hate you,” he whispered in apparent misery.

“You’ve said that before.” Potter licked along the line of his stiff collar then nipped him sharply on the back of his neck, his breath hot against the exposed skin of his hairline. “Hard to believe with the evidence in hand.”

The speed of his stokes increased and unable to help himself, Draco began to thrust into the unforgiving hand, trembling. Potter moved behind him, pressing forward each time he surged back and he could feel the breath on the back of his neck speeding.

“Getting close?” The dark voice hissed against his blond hair. “Are you?”

Draco refused to answer, gritting his teeth. With an angry sound Potter removed his hand from Draco’s cock and tore open the blond’s trousers completely, shoving them down until they bunched around his pale knees. Draco could feel movement behind him, heard the sound of a zip and then felt Potter’s hard prick against his arse. He clenched his eyes shut and fought to level his breathing when Potter pressed against his lips with two fingers.

“Suck them,” he ordered starkly, but Draco shook his head, his fringe falling over his forehead. “Suck them, or take it dry,” he warned and Draco felt his heart lurch in his chest. He opened his mouth reluctantly and Potter thrust his fingers inside.

Draco covered them liberally with his saliva, his tongue whirling around the slight salty digits and Potter made a strangled sound in his throat. Abruptly, he withdrew them and then Draco felt them wetly tracing the cleft in his arse. Without further warning Potter found the puckered entrance to his body and thrust them both inside.

Draco gasped in surprise, stiffening. It burned for a moment but Potter had gone very still and wasn’t moving his hand, waiting for the body clutched around his fingers to relax. Draco fought to control his breathing, but his heart was hammering under his ribs and his breathing was rapid and shallow. That was when he felt Potter release the hands at the small of his back, the brunet’s freed hand stroking slowly, soothingly the length of his spine to curve over the top of his shoulder.

“Easy,” he whispered, his lips brushing Draco’s ear with startling gentleness. When the tight ring of muscle finally relaxed Potter moved his fingers slowly for a few moments and then withdrew them. Draco heard him spit and knew he was slicking his cock with his own saliva. A moment later Potter’s hand dropped from his shoulder and he felt hard hands spreading his cheeks, the blunt head pressing against him and he flattened his hands on the wall on either side of his head and then curled them into fists as Potter surged forward and thrust inside.

“Shit,” he hissed, tensing. Potter felt it and paused. It burned and Draco moaned softly.

“It’s okay,” Potter whispered near his ear, one hand curling around his waist and then dropping to curl around his flagging erection. He didn’t move inside the tight heat and with a few brisk strokes he had Draco’s ‘interest’ re-engaged. “Better?”

Draco’s head dropped back onto Potter’s broad shoulder as his calloused palm moved confidently up and down his rapidly re-inflating cock. He swallowed heavily and nodded as the burn inside began to fade, replaced with the familiar and far more pleasant sense of fullness. Slowly, carefully, Potter began to move, drawing his hips back, thrusting them forward. Draco gasped a bit as his body was thrust forward and he stiffened his arms and pushed back, pulling a gratified groan from the man behind him. “That’s it,” Potter whispered darkly, “just like that.”

Draco spread his long legs a bit and angled his hips back, and on the next stroke Potter’s cock dragged across the tight bundle of nerves that was his prostate and the blond jerked and hissed as light erupted behind his closed lids. “There,” he whispered, his toes curling in his expensive shoes. “Right there.”

“Yeah?” Potter pushed in again harder, and Draco gasped.

“Yeah, oh fuck, yeah.”

Potter grunted in satisfaction as one hand curled hard around Draco’s hipbone and the other sped up on his cock; hard, rough strokes of his palm that matched the tight snap of his mobile hips. Draco’s head dropped forward, his fringe bouncing on his forehead as his body was moved between Potter’s cock and his fist. Sweat beaded on his fair brow, his mouth dropped open as he fought for air. He could hear the sound of Potter’s belt jangling rhythmically as he thrust into him, could hear the discordant sound of flesh slapping flesh as his strokes sped up.

Draco’s whole body began to vibrate and his balls drew up tight to his body as his orgasm approached.

“Harry,” he gasped harshly, “Harry, please…”

“Yeah,” Potter responded. “Okay, okay…”

He added a curving twist of his wrist at the top of each upward stroke, dragging his palm over the hyper-sensitive, swollen head of Draco’s cock as he sped up the incursions into his clenching arse. “Bloody hell,” he moaned, “you’re so hot, Draco. So bloody tight…”

“Harry,” the blond keened, dropping is hand to cover the one yanking his prick, making a fist around the gripping fingers.

“Harry?”

Both men froze inside the stall, eyes wide, motion paused mid-thrust. Draco’s uttered a curse but Harry yanked him hard against his chest and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Harry?” Ron Weasley repeated tentatively from outside the stall door. “You okay in there?”

Draco felt Harry swallow and had to fight against a sudden hysterical urge to laugh. All Weasley had to do was step back and lean down to peer under the door and…

“I’m fine, Ron,” Harry said, managing not to sound too terribly suffocated. “I’ll just be a moment…”

Draco did laugh then, but the sound was successfully muffled behind Harry’s hand.

“The Minister is ready to start.” Ron sounded curious now, his voice closer.

“Tell him I’ll be right along.” Draco snorted again and Harry tightened the hand on his cock in warning. In retaliation Draco clenched his sphincter muscle, and Harry’s whole body jerked.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Ron’s voice was right outside of the door and Draco rolled his eyes, tears of mirth lining his lower lashes.

“I’m fine.” Harry said through clenched teeth. “Just a bit of stomach trouble.” Draco snorted again helplessly and he felt Harry’s chest tighten against his back in response.

“If you’re sure you’re alright…” But Weasley didn’t sound convinced.

“I could just do with a bit of privacy, if it’s all the same to you,” Harry bit out roughly and Draco’s shoulders began to quake.

“Oh, sure,” Weasley said, sounding chagrined, his voice pulling away. “I’ll just…tell them you’ll be along in a few.”

“Thanks.” Harry said shortly. They didn’t move until they heard the door to the men’s swing open then swish shut again. “Son of a bitch…” Harry bit out between clenched teeth as he removed his hand from Draco’s mouth. Immediately a gust of laughter passed his lips.

“Shut up,” Harry growled, pushing him forward again. Draco braced his hands on the cool wall as the man behind him began to move again. “Come on, Draco,” he muttered a bit desperately, Harry’s hand stroking his cock again. “Come on before someone else comes in.”

“I’m so sorry I can’t just…” but he lost what he was going to say when Harry once again found that magic angle and his whole body erupted in goose flesh. “Oh, yeah…” He moaned, pressing back to match each stroke. “Yeah, right there. Oh, Harry…”

Harry began to move faster, press harder, and Draco relaxed into him and let him take him. Each thrust and pull of that thick cock dragged across his prostate, each pull of Harry’s hand inflamed the swollen glans of his prick. He was in heaven between the two and it was only moments before he was hovering once again on the precipice of complete release.

“Harry, I’m…I’m…”

“Yeah, me too,” Harry gasped against his ear and then Draco’s body was jerking and he was painting the wall in front of him with shining stripes of thick white, erupting hard through Harry’s fist, clenching muscles tight around the invasion in his body. He heard Harry growl, felt him jolt against his back, his muscular body shuddering. It seemed to go on for a long time, that hanging, writhing bliss, and then they collapsed a bit together, Draco’s stiffened arms against the wall the only thing keeping them from folding to the floor.

“Harry,” he gasped after a moment, feeling the tortured breathing against the back of his neck, “you’re too heavy. I’m going to fall.”

“Sorry.” He saw a tan hand brace the wall next to one of his pale ones, then felt the weight lifted from his back. “I’m going to pull out now, okay?”

Draco nodded but even with the warning, he still hissed when Harry’s cock slid wetly from him. He was going to be sore, he reflected mildly. Oh well, it wasn’t the first time….

Harry slipped his arm around Draco’s chest and pressed a kiss to his neck just above his collar. “Are you okay?”

“Hmmmm…” Draco murmured, but nodded as he leaned his head back on Harry’s broad shoulder. Another kiss ghosted over his jaw, then his cheek, and then Harry was steadying him on his feet, and Draco could hear the sound of him fastening his slacks behind him. He glanced down at the trousers crumpled around his knees and was about to attempt to reach for them when he felt Harry’s hands stroke down his still trembling thighs and then pull his slacks back to his waist. Gently, he neatly tucked in Draco’s shirt tails and fastened and zipped his trousers before placing his hands on his square shoulders and turning him. Draco leaned back against the wall, checking first to avoid the mess, waiting for his legs to steady as he studied Harry’s level green eyes. They looked at each other for a long time and then slowly, Draco smiled.

“Stomach trouble?” he asked, one brow, several shades darker than his hair, arched. Harry’s lips quirked in response.

“Well, I suppose I could have said, ‘not now, Ron, I’ve my cock up Malfoy’s arse,’ but I thought that might be inappropriate.”

“But true,” Draco teased. He glanced down and made a sound of distress, wiping at a spot on the front of his trousers. “I’ve spunk on my Armani.” He sighed. Harry shook down his sleeve and his wand slid into his hand. He waved it between them with a muttered spell, and they both felt the tingling freshness of the Cleansing Spell as the stains and the stickiness on their bodies and the wall disappeared.

“Better,” Draco said softly. Harry just grinned in response.

Slowly, Draco lifted his head and studied his lover. His black hair was a bit mussed and his cheeks were pink, but other than that he was once again immaculate in Ralph Lauren. “You look…sensational,” he said softly. “Just bloody brilliant.”

To his delight the blush in Harry’s cheeks darkened to red. “Thanks,” he murmured. “So do you.”

“But I always do,” Draco countered baldly and Harry’s eyes sparkled.

“There’s the unvarnished, honest truth,” Harry said softly, and Draco accepted the compliment with a graceful tilt of his head.

“Where did the drag come from?” He asked with a quirk to his lips. Harry merely shook his head slightly at the statement.

“Madam Maulkin. It’s on loan.”

“Ah.” Malfoy nodded. “And the haircut?”

“Jean Paul,” he said a bit sheepishly, naming Draco’s own stylist.

“That bitch,” the blond said mildly. “I may have to tear out his hair for touching that head without permission.” Silver eyes settled back onto watchful green. “I’ve spent the entire evening wanting to rearrange the Weaslette’s face.” It was said mildly but Harry could see the truth in the words and his eyes darkened. “I find I’m not entirely rational when I’m jealous. I don’t like it.”

“I asked you to come with me first, Draco,” he reminded him gently. “You said…”

Draco lifted a pale hand and pressed his palm over Harry’s heart, stilling his words. “I know what I said,” he murmured. “Why would you start listening to me now?”

Harry’s expression didn’t change, but something inside of Draco ached when he saw a shadow of what might have been hurt in the expressive eyes. “I wanted you to come,” he whispered. “But I can’t force you to be seen with me in public …”

“I was wrong.”

Harry’s brows arched now, his eyes wide. “Excuse me?”

Draco drew and released a deep breath. “I was wrong,” he repeated carefully.

A slow smile started to pull at Harry’s lips. “Wait. Did I just hear Draco Malfoy admit that he was wrong about something?”

“Don’t get used to it,” the blond said with a sardonic twist to his lips. “It won’t happen again.” His aristocratic features softened. “I should have come with you. I hate that you’re sitting with her and I can’t even touch you.”

“I think you did just touch me,” Harry said wryly, reaching out to brush his fringe back from his forehead.

“No, darling, that was you touching me.” He turned his face and brushed Harry’s palm with this swollen pink lips. “You’re so cute when you’re confused.”

“Har har.” Harry’s tone was dry but his touch was gentle as he allowed his hand to smooth down the front of Draco’s stiff shirt. “I need to go,” he murmured.

“I know.” Draco caught Harry’s hand, lifting it to brush his lips across the palm. Harry’s fingers curled slightly at the feel of his tongue on his palm. Draco lifted his head and found green eyes watching him carefully. “Next time I’ll come with you,” he whispered and Harry started to take a step forward to pull the other man into his arms…

“Harry?”

They stepped apart with a soft sigh. “Yes, Ron. Tell him I’m coming right now.”

“Okay.”

The door closed again and the two men exchanged a slow smile as they exited the stall. “Well, go on, hero,” Draco urged indulgently. “The world is waiting with bated breath to hear what you have to say.”

“Come with me?”

Harry held out his hand.

Draco knew what he was asking, knew that they had reached a watershed moment and that what he did now would impact them from there on out. He paused for just a second and then reached out and pressed his palm against Harry’s. With a slow smile Harry linked their long fingers and pulled him out of the men’s room door. He strode purposefully across the hall and then paused before entering the ballroom, turning back, and one brow arched. “Let’s do this again some time, shall we?”

“Next time I get to be the dominant one,” Draco responded sagely. Harry just grinned and then glanced at the door.

“You’re sure about this?”

Draco smiled a bit indulgently. “Yes, I’m sure.”

With the air of an excited kid on Christmas morning, Harry pushed open the side door to the ballroom and stepped inside. They were greeted by the murmur of hundreds of voices, people chatting over their after-dinner drinks or lingering over their dessert plates. Harry paused then turned to Draco, pulling him close until they were standing facing one another, just inches apart. “Save me the first dance?” he asked, eyes sparkling. Draco threw back his fair head, laughing, attracting the attention of the nearest tables.

“You can’t dance,” he whispered with a slight smile. “But you’re on.”

Harry leaned in and kissed him then, not a kiss of grand passion but something sweet and gentle, just long enough to be possessive but short enough not to be offensive. He took one step back and then another, their hands still linked between them. More people had begun to notice them, there was a peak in the rushed whispers full of speculation and surprise and then a hush began to spread across the room. Harry lifted Draco’s hand to his lips and brushed them over his knuckles and Draco felt a chill run down his spine at the love reflected in those green eyes.

“I have this thing I have to do,” Harry said with a wry grin, “but then I’m all yours.”

“Oh, just go, you idiot,” Draco sneered, pulling his hand back, the warmth in his own eyes belying his tone. Harry winked, then turned and bounded up onto the dais. Draco turned and, feeling every eye in the room on him, crossed with as much dignity as he could to the table where Pansy and Blaise sat with their spouses, all of them watching his approach. He slid into his chair as gracefully as possible, but didn’t school his features fast enough to hide the slight grimace of pain as his bum made contact with the hard surface. Blaise sputtered into his champagne glass, Pansy looked away with a wobbly smile.

“Oh, very subtle,” she murmured, managing not to burst into laughter, but only just.

“Shut it, you cow,” Draco sneered, reaching for his champagne glass. The conversations in the room resumed but he could feel the eyes, and hear the speculation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pansy withdraw her wand from her clutch bag and wave it vaguely in his direction. Instantly he felt a cool tingling around the sore, abused part of him, and he jerked upright in surprise, sloshing champagne onto his hand and cuff. “What the hell…For fuck’s sake, Pansy!”

“Just a little healing spell, darling,” she whispered, replacing her wand in her bag. Her brown eyes were twinkling merrily. “It looks as if you boys may have something to celebrate later and it would be awful if you were out of commission.”

Draco turned to whisper something scathing about impertinent twats when the Minister for Magic began to speak, introducing “the man of the hour” and the “next bright hope of Wizard kind,” Harry Potter. Harry grimaced a bit in embarrassment as he rose to his feet, stepping to the podium. The ovation he received was generous and Draco clapped right along with them. As the applause began to fade Pansy leaned forward and propped her chin on Draco’s shoulder, staring past him to the handsome man on the stage.

“He really is lovely,” she said against Draco’s ear. He felt warmth suffuse his entire body.

“You’ve no idea, Pans,” he answered with a smug smile. “Absolutely no idea.”

End