THE HP MEETS MR. AND MRS. SMITH FIC (isn't that presumptuous of me? *laughs hysterically*)
Title: Moonlight and Shadow
Pairing: H/D
Rating: NC-17
Warning: CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK
Summary: Wicked Assassin!Draco & sort of Victim!Harry. Draco gets a contract and shows up to find--who? (right, like you can't guess)
<>Moonlight and Shadow<>
Never again, they had said. In fact, the words had come straight from Scrimgeour himself just before he snapped Draco’s wand and ordered the pieces to be burned.
Arrogant prick. As if Draco had ever had any intention at all of obeying the Ministry. Black-market wands weren’t exactly hard to come by, especially with the kind of dark connections the Malfoy family had. The first one he bought had been a dud; one of those stupid Weasley toy wands that turned into a pair of purple spotted bloomers when he waved it. He hunted down the unfortunate bastard who sold it to him and made him exchange it. Then Draco killed him.
The second wand was real; hickory and unicorn hair, whippy. He was very fond of it. It spouted all manner of dark curses with so much ease that he was relatively certain it had been created with that specifically in mind.
It was a lovely weapon. Much better than a gun. Draco had been forced to use a gun on his first contract and that had been one hell of a mess. Blood and brain matter all over the floor, the wall, and worst of all, his clothes. It was just one more reason out of many that he was glad he wasn’t a muggle.
The Ministry could curse him until the sky turned red, but they couldn’t take that away from him, and as they couldn’t prove conclusively whether or not he had been a Death Eater or just reluctantly following in the footsteps of his dear old daddy, they couldn’t imprison him.
Bastards. If they knew what he did to pay the bills though… for that he could have been executed. Good thing he had no intention of ever letting them find out. As far as the Ministry knew, Draco Malfoy owned a relatively successful little art gallery in Bristol. They knew that he took in art on consignment from all around the world and that he lived well, but not extravagantly.
What they did not know was that the occasional canvas that showed up anonymously with a shipment from Paris or Florence or a hundred other places across the globe, was marked with a red eight-pointed star for a reason. His assistant knew that those crates were not to be touched or opened, and that was all that she knew. As far as Draco was concerned, it was all that she needed to know.
The art gallery itself had actually become much more successful than he could have ever predicted. It paid the bills and then some, but it had struggled for a while, and by the time Draco could have dropped it as a front and relied on its business alone to keep himself and Narcissa comfortable, he had already developed a taste for death. Well, maybe not death necessarily, but certainly for the power that he felt and the rush that he got whenever someone begged him for mercy and he said no.
He really loved that.
When the war had ended six years ago; Harry Potter triumphing as they all knew that he would, the Dark Lord melting like the silly green witch in the Wizard of Oz, and the wizarding world was finally ‘safe’, Draco had been left with very few choices. He was a Malfoy, and as such, superior in every way, but he knew nothing about work. Of course not, work was for house elves and mudbloods and people who didn’t know any better. Then the Ministry confiscated his home and his inheritance and Draco and his mother were suddenly homeless. He’d changed his mind about work pretty damn quick and tried to get a job. The only problem was, he wasn’t actually qualified for anything.
Well, not ‘anything’, but what skills he did have left him with only two options: become a whore, or kill people. They were the only two things he was any good at. The first one was definitely out. Draco liked sex, but the idea of falling on his back and spreading his legs for any Joe with enough gold to pay him rankled. It was true that he could have made more money as a prostitute than he made as a paid killer (he had a look about him that was greatly desired in that profession), but his pride and his vanity would not allow it.
So Draco did not even bat an eye when Delaney, his pretty young assistant (muggles had such bizarre names), came into his office and told him there was another crate for him.
“Just the one?” he asked, not looking up from the catalogue he was studying. That crazy glass-blowing ponce from Ireland was giving him hell again. He wouldn’t even be bothering with it at all, except the man was a bloody genius with borosilicate and a blowhose. He huffed out an amused breath. That didn’t even sound right in his head.
“Yes, sir,” Delaney said. “It’s one of your special boxes.”
He caught the curious tone in her voice and glanced up, narrowing his eyes. She was pretty, a bit too freckly and her hair was a messy, mousy color between dirt-water blonde and brown, but pretty enough that she knew it. Too bad she thought being pretty was enough to get her anywhere with him. She could flaunt her braless little tits in his face all day and shake her ass when she thought he was looking, but the only thing that would get her was sucking him off under his desk during her lunch break, then right back to work with no more than a ‘thank you, Delaney’ for her trouble. She was just too stupid to have figured that out yet, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell her. That would likely put an end to his lunch hour blow jobs, and he rather enjoyed them.
“Thank you, Delaney,” he said flatly. “That will be all.”
She smirked and left his office, swaying her hips a little too obviously as she went.
Draco shook his head sardonically, slapped the file he had been sorting through closed, and returned it to the cabinet. Women. They were all sluts. Every last simpering, giggling, blushing, whining, bitching one of them. It wasn’t his place to reach down and rescue Delaney from impending whoredom and he knew that most other employers felt the same way. If the girl hadn’t figured this out for herself by now, it was very likely that she would spend the rest of her life on her knees trying to get promoted.
The crate was flat and marked with a red star the size of an open hand. Ah, he had another contract. About fucking time too. Draco had been getting restless.
Draco broke open the crate with a crowbar and removed the painting. Oil on canvas; a fairly intricate rendering of a young Cleopatra with a small serpent twined around her fingers. It was really quite lovely, and something he would have been proud to hang in his gallery, but that was not the purpose of this piece. The purpose of this piece was entirely cloak-and-dagger.
He took the painting into one of the empty studios in the back where they had a large, industrial sized sink and a big jug of turpentine. He put gloves on, filled the bottom of the sink with turpentine, then submerged the painting in it and waited. It did not take long. In about five minutes, the paint had bubbled and he could scrape some of it away with his hands. In fifteen minutes, there was nothing left of the beautiful painting but some floating goo and a blank canvas.
And an address.
****************
London in the summertime was damn depressing. It not only ‘rained cats and dogs’ but it smelled like some vengeful deity had flushed their toilet on it.
Said deity was no doubt laughing at him right now, Draco mused as he swiped his sodden hair out of his eyes and tried to see the address on the giant Tudor mansion through beads of water that insisted on clinging to his lashes.
Gods, what an ugly house. Whoever lived there deserved to die for their abysmal taste in architecture alone. Not like he needed a reason, but if he had, that would have more than sufficed.
Well, like it or not, it looked like this was the place. Draco pointed his wand at the lock, quietly murmured, “Alohomora,” and when the lock clicked, he slipped inside.
He stood just inside the entryway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the pitch black darkness. When no wards repelled him and no vicious dogs attacked him, he silently made his way up the twisting staircase to the second floor, where the master bedroom was, and where his quarry slept.
He did not know his intended victim’s name, or even gender. All he knew was the address and that he was supposed to kill whoever was sleeping in the master bedroom. Draco had arranged for it to happen that way. He didn’t need to know a name. All he needed was a location and, if there was more than one person, a description. In this case, he had not even required that, as the inhabitant of this disgrace for a dwelling lived alone.
The bedroom was the first door on the right at the top of the stairs and the door was not locked. Draco held his breath as he turned the knob, waiting for the metal to grate or screech (the house looked to be that fucking old), but it didn’t. The room itself was huge, easily equal the size of the living room in his own house. There was a large, ornately carved armoire against the nearest wall, beside it, two comfortable looking chairs with a Chippendale table between them. In the center of the room was a four-poster bed with the drapes tied back and on the other side of the bed there was a massive circular picture window with a cushioned window seat.
Draco cautiously walked around the foot of the bed and glanced out the window. It was still raining. Of course it was.
He glanced down and saw a book laying open on the window seat, marked as though someone had been sitting in the window reading it, then been called away and forgotten to come back. He picked up the book and read the first line his eyes fell on by the moonlight coming through the window: ‘What a frightening thing is the human, a mass of gauges and dials and registers, and we can read only a few of those perhaps not accurately.’1
He snorted and put the book back down. Muggles.
In the bed, his victim stirred, at last drawing his full attention. Draco held his wand lightly in his hand and approached the bed to stare down at the sleeping figure.
Draco caught his breath. The man, for it was a man, was very beautiful. He had pale skin, which looked much paler by moonlight, and hair the deep, dark black of jeweler’s velvet. He wore nothing but loose-fitting cloth trousers and a linen sheet tangled around his feet. His legs were tucked up, his head rested on one arm, his mouth was slightly parted, and his long black eyelashes trembled as he dreamed. The whole scene was peaceful and innocent, and the man was so damn pretty Draco wanted to touch him.
So he did. He touched the feather soft bits of hair that had fallen over his face, lightly brushing them back, careful not to wake him. The man sighed in his sleep and moved his face into the touch. Draco’s fingers skimmed lightly over his jaw and he hastily pulled his hand back.
Draco had killed beautiful people before-men and women; wizards, witches, and muggles-but there was something different about this. He watched the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest as he breathed in and out, watched the rapid flutter of his eyelashes, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that those eyes were green.
The man made a soft murmuring noise of discontent at the withdrawal of the touch and move his head on the pillow. The moonlight fell across his forehead, revealing a jagged scar-the scar-and Draco silently cursed and stepped back.
Fuck, it couldn’t be.
But it was. It was Harry fucking Potter.
Draco clenched his hands into fists. He felt like killing somebody. Somebody, but not Harry Potter.
He wanted to fuck Harry Potter. But he wasn’t going to. No, he was going to leave the same way he had come in, then he was going to hunt down whoever had sent him on this farce job and eviscerate them. Slowly.
Shit, this was going to cost him. He would lose other jobs for recanting on this one. He sighed and crossed the room. He didn’t care. He could lose a few jobs. So what? But he was not killing Harry Potter.
****************
The plump little man trembled at Draco’s feet and held up his hands as thought that would do him any good.
Draco held the man’s wand and his wife’s wand in one hand, examined them critically, then returned his cool grey eyes to the top of the man’s balding head.
“Why?” Draco asked simply.
“Please,” the little man whimpered pitifully. “Please…I paid you. Keep the money, isn’t that enough?”
Draco knelt on his heels, grabbed one of the man’s fingers and bent it back, straining the tendons to the breaking point. The man howled in agony, but he couldn’t move to get away without putting more pressure on his finger.
“I asked you a question,” Draco said softly. “Do not make me repeat it.”
“Please, sir, what do you want?” asked the woman, the pathetic man’s wife, who was backed up into a corner of the kitchen with her blue eyes wide and frightened.
Draco gave a sharp jerk on the man’s finger and the bone cracked right at the knuckle. He shrieked. Draco could hardly blame him.
“Answer my fucking question right now and maybe I won’t kill you,” Draco snarled.
“Please don’t!” the man’s wife screamed.
Draco leveled a cold look at her and watched her pale. He pointed a finger at her and watched in satisfaction as she seemed to shrink in on herself. “You shut the hell up right now,” he snapped. “I don’t need you. You best remember that.”
Draco turned his gaze back to the man at his feet, who was holding his injured hand and rocking back and forth making a high pitched keening sound.
“My patience is wearing thin,” Draco said. “I am going to ask you one more time and if you don’t answer me, I’m going to shoot your wife.”
“No,” the man moaned. “No, please…I’ll-what are you doing?!”
Draco lifted the gun, pointed it at the weeping woman, and took aim. He hated guns, really, but they were so much more effective at intimidation with the muggleborns than wands. He thought it was probably all the episodes of A-Team and MacGyver2 they had watched as kids.
He pulled the slide back with a dramatic snick of metal gliding over metal and the man cried out.
“No, please,” he babbled. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just please don’t hurt her.”
“I was sent a contract from you,” Draco said, his aim not wavering in the slightest. “A contract for one Mr. Harry James Potter. I want to know why.”
The man’s eyes shifted anxiously between the muzzle of Draco’s Glock and his wife’s tear streaked face. “I…I work with him.”
“Excuse me?” Draco said.
“I…At the Ministry,” the man said. “We’re both Aurors and-”
“And why do I give a shit?” Draco said. “I want to know why you hired me, and paid me what probably amounts to a quarter of your yearly salary, to kill Harry Potter. You better answer me and be damn quick about it.”
“Edmund, you didn’t!” his wife wailed.
“I thought I told you to shut up,” Draco hissed.
She whimpered and looked down at the floor between her feet.
“Edmund,” Draco said, trying out the man’s name to see if it would get a better response. “Why do you want Harry Potter dead?”
“Because…” he hesitated. “Because he’s been…sleeping with my daughter.”
That got his attention and Draco suddenly dropped the gun back to his side. “And how old is your daughter?”
“She’s sixteen,” he said.
Draco threw his head back and laughed.
“She’s not of age yet,” Edmund said defensively. “I’m her father. I have to protect her.”
Draco snorted. He wasn’t even going to tell the man how very unlikely it was that Potter was fucking around with his daughter. Now, if the man had had a son, that would be a different story.
Alright, so now he knew why, which left him in a bit of a dilemma. To kill or not to kill was the question now, and considering his profession, it was not one he had needed to ask himself in quite a while.
“Bugger,” he grumbled.
He quickly decided that it would be much easier to adjust their memories-not to mention cleaner-but it would be considerably more convenient to just kill them. And he would have loved to have read about it in the Prophet. So very few of his victims got into the papers these days, but this man was an Auror. That positively demanded the front page.
Oh well, there was really nothing for it. Front page news or not, he did not want blood and bits of skull on his jacket. It was leather.
He wiped their memories of his presence and added a few of Harry snogging some random bloke to Edmunds mind so that he would forget about killing him. He wondered why the man had thought Potter was shagging his daughter anyway.
He shrugged. It really didn’t matter.
Edmund and his wife looked at him blankly. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Er…I’m the wand maker’s assistant,” Draco improvised. He hadn’t the faintest idea in hell if the wand maker even had an assistant. “I came to check your wands for…tampering.” He held the wands out to them and they both took them, still looking confused. “They appear to be perfectly functional. No evidence of tampering.”
“Thank you,” Edmund said, straightening and trying to look like he knew exactly what was going on. “I assume the Ministry will be taking care of the bill?”
Draco grinned. Cheap bastard. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s all been taken care of.”
Edmund nodded crisply. “Alright then. Give your master my compliments.”
Draco bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh. His voice trembled with amusement when he said, “Yes, sir, I will.”
He got out of there before the man or his wife regained their senses enough to recognize him. The last thing he needed was a bunch of uptight Aurors raiding his gallery.
****************
Draco told himself that it wasn’t out of his way. He told himself that it was only natural to go back and check on Potter. It made sense in a way, but…
But he didn’t really believe it. Potter’s ugly house was miles out of his way, and the memory charm he’d cast on the Auror and his wife should guarantee his safety. And why the fuck did he care so much about Potter’s safety anyway? He didn’t, he told himself. He didn’t give half a shit if Potter was run down by a trolly, but he wasn’t going to kill him. That would have brought the Ministry down on his head in a hot second. They’d tear every piece of art from the walls of his gallery and destroy whatever they had to to find evidence linking him to Potter’s untimely demise. After all, who in the world had more reason to want the little prat dead than Draco Malfoy?
So he reminded himself of all of this, but he still went back. Midnight found him once again standing in Potter’s enormous bedroom, looking down at Potter’s pretty dreaming face, and thinking the most carnal, unholy thoughts about Harry Potter’s mouth.
Harry mumbled something in his sleep and sighed; his eyelashes fluttered, then went still again. He ran one of his hands down his own waist and rested it on his hip. Draco had the unexplainable urge to reach out and grab that hand, lace those slim fingers with his own and hold Potter’s arms down while he licked and sucked the salt from his skin, grazed his teeth over the swell of that hip, touched him and tormented him until Potter screamed.
Draco was probably the last person on the planet with any right to be thinking anything about Potter’s anatomy, but there it was.
Potter made a soft sound in the back of his throat and shifted restlessly. Draco let his gaze linger on the curves and hollows of Harry’s body, the planes of lean muscle, the lines of tendon, the smoothness of his skin, milk pale by moonlight. His fingers tingled with the desire to touch, but he didn’t.
Then Harry opened his eyes, looked at him, and smiled softly. “Hello,” he said. His voice was husky with sleep and it shot right to Draco’s groin.
Draco had tensed the instant those eyes focused on him, waiting for fear, for anger, hate, recognition, anything at all to show on Harry’s face. When he received nothing but that coy, sleepy smile, he cocked his head to the side and regarded Harry speculatively.
“Hello,” Draco said back. What else did one say in that kind of situation?
Harry moved and propped his head up on one hand. “This is a strange dream,” he said.
He thought he was having a dream? Well, that explained why he wasn’t reaching for his wand. “Yes, I suppose it is,” Draco said.
Harry sat up then, with his legs folded beneath him and swiped a hand through his tousled hair. He looked at Draco thoughtfully. “Do I know you? You seem…familiar.”
Draco laughed. “I should hope so, Potter,” he said, his silver eyes glinting with amusement. “I would hate to think I failed to make any kind of impression on you at all.”
Harry went very still and stared at him. Draco saw the moment that he recognized him and the instant he realized that he wasn’t dreaming and he took another step back from the bed.
“Malfoy?” Harry whispered. “Draco Malfoy?”
“Hello, Potter,” Draco said calmly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Five years-”
“Six,” Draco corrected him automatically.
“Five or six,” Harry conceded. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”
Draco grinned. “No, Potter, you’re not dreaming.”
Harry met his eyes and held them. “What are you doing here?”
Draco couldn’t resist. He told him. “I was supposed to kill you.”
Harry didn’t look all that surprised by this and it made Draco wonder what kind of friends he’d been making recently if the knowledge that someone wanted him dead didn’t even evoke a nervous twitch.
He saw Harry tense an instant before he rolled off the other side of the bed to crouch on the floor.
Draco laughed again. “Look, Potter, I’m not going to kill you, alright? I just-shit!” He fell to his knees on the floor as a spell flew by his left ear. “How the fuck did you-?”
Harry peered over the mattress, saw him, and shot a binding spell at him. Draco hit the floor as his heart leaped into his throat and threatened to choke him.
“You dumb son of a bitch!” Draco hissed. “I told you I’m not going to kill you.”
“Uh huh,” Harry said sarcastically from somewhere on the other side of the bed. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Well, yeah,” Draco said. “I mean, if I was going to fucking kill you, I would have just done it, not stood around talking to you about it-goddamn it, Potter! I swear if you throw one more bloody hex at me, I’m going to-”
“Kill me?” Harry said mockingly. “I knew you were lying.”
“I am not lying,” Draco said through gritted teeth. He crawled across the floor and crouched close to the side of the bed.
“Yeah?” Harry said. “Then what are you doing in my house? What were you doing standing over my bed?”
Draco sprang cat-quick over the bed and caught Harry’s hair in one fist as he started to scramble back. He pressed the tip of his deadly wand to Harry’s throat, put his face close to his, and whispered, “Put it down, Potter. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Bastard,” Harry hissed.
He threw himself at Draco, surprising him and tumbling him to the floor on his back. Harry turned his head to one side and sank his teeth into Draco’s wrist, forcing him to open his hand and release Harry’s hair. Draco cursed and tried to scoot back and get to his feet, but Harry grabbed him, dug his fingers into Draco’s waist and climbed on top of him, pinning his arms to the floor under his knees.
He pointed his wand in Draco’s face and plucked Draco’s wand from his restrained hand. “You’re not supposed to have one of these, Malfoy,” he chided.
Draco growled and wriggled beneath him. His blood was rushing fast and hot in his veins and he was quivering with adrenaline and anger. “Get the fuck off of me, Potter.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry teased. He rolled his hips lightly over Draco’s groin and grinned wickedly when Draco gasped. “I rather like it up here.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?” he said menacingly. “Well, don’t get too used to it.” He brought one of his legs up, hooked the heel under Harry’s chin, and shoved him off.
Harry made a startled squawking sound and hit the wood floor with a thud. His sweat dampened skin squeaked on the polyurethane and Draco laughed breathlessly as he got to his knees. He seized Harry’s trouser legs as he was trying to get to his feet and used them to jerk him back down on the floor. Harry grunted and strained to get away, which only made the trousers slip down his hips.
“Where do you think you’re going Potter?” Draco murmured. He climbed up Harry’s body and straddled him.
Harry lay flat on his stomach, his face turned to one side, resting on the cool wood floor. He was panting, they both were, and they had both lost their wands sometime during the brief tussle. Harry’s trousers now rested so low on his hips that Draco could see the little dimples in the flesh just above the curve of his ass. He put his thumbs into the slight indentations and lightly caressed the spots as his fingers dug into Harry’s hips.
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?” Draco pressed his fingers into Harry’s flesh and dragged his hands up his sides, tripping his fingers over each individual rib until Harry twitched.
“What are you really doing here?”
Draco smiled. “Well, Potter, if you want to know, I was supposed to kill you. I tossed that idea though, as it would likely cause me unending frustration in the long run.”
“So you…kill people now?” Harry asked, his voice shaking a bit.
“Been doing it for going on five years now, Potter,” Draco said matter-of-factly. He bent forward and pressed his mouth to the nape of Harry’s neck, swiped his tongue out and tasted his sweat, and hummed in pleasure. “I’m really very good at it.”
“What?” Harry asked, his voice rough like he wanted to moan.
“At killing people, Potter,” Draco clarified. He nipped the back of one of Harry’s shoulders and made him catch his breath.
“You didn’t answer…my question,” Harry said.
“Which one?”
“What are you actually doing here…if you’re not going to kill me?”
“Fantasizing,” Draco said simply.
Harry made a strangled sound of surprise beneath him and tried to shove him off his ass and get to his feet. Draco put his palms flat on Harry’s shoulders and held him down. Gradually, Harry relaxed again, though his blood was still roaring in his ears.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said softly, “but what were you fantasizing about in my bedroom?”
“Don’t be dense, Potter,” Draco drawled. “What do you think I was fantasizing about?”
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?”
“Let me up.”
“No Potter, I don’t think I will,” Draco said. “I think I like having you at my mercy.” He slipped his hands under the waistband of Harry’s pants and over the curve of Harry’s ass. Harry moaned and shivered. “And from that sound you just made for me, I think you like it too.”
Harry groaned and tried to push up against him, not to throw him off this time, but to feel the heat of Draco’s body firm against him.
“Don’t you, Potter?” Draco whispered.
“No,” Harry said, but his body said differently. He was so damn hard that it hurt to be pressed flush against the floor, and every time Draco shifted on top of him, his cock pushed against the floor and he winced a little. “No. You’re a murderer,” Harry said. “Get off of me.”
Draco made a little tsking sound and sat back to take his jacket off. He threw it aside and peeled off his rain soaked t-shirt. It hit the wood floor with a wet plop and made Harry jerk.
“I’m not a murderer, Potter,” Draco said softly, lowering himself until his chest was flat against Harry’s back. “Murderers do it for free.”
Draco began trailing little biting kisses down Harry’s spine, flicking his tongue over each vertebrae that strained against the skin, every tiny little scar from his childhood, and every curve and indentation. He had the salt taste of Harry’s skin and his sweat on his tongue when he heard Harry whimper his name, and that was it. He forgot about childhood rivalries, about his father dead on the battlefield, about Harry fucking Potter snatching the Golden Snitch out from under his nose every blasted time-all of it. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, the blood rushing in his veins so hot and fast that he was shaking, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling more turned on or alive than he did right at that moment.
He scooted back so that he was straddling Harry’s thighs instead of his hips and began tugging Harry’s pants down. Harry said something that he didn’t hear and pushed up on one elbow to reach down and untie the draw-cord.
Draco chuckled softly. “I thought you wanted me to get off you, Potter, not in you.”
Harry turned slightly so that he could meet Draco’s eyes. “I changed my mind,” he said hoarsely. “Hurry up.”
Draco tilted his head to one side, saw that he was serious, and got off of him. Draco started unfastening his jeans and Harry turned over to watch him. When he had his pants open, he reached out and jerked Harry’s trousers the rest of the way off with one sharp movement and sent them flying into a corner, then grabbed Harry’s hips and turned him back around.
“Sure, Potter,” he said into Harry’s ear, his hot breath on Harry’s neck making him shiver. “You want me to fuck you, I will. Get on your knees.”
“Malfoy, I-”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Malfoy-”
“Because if you want me to stop, you better tell me right now.” Draco moved between Harry’s legs and grabbed his hips, pulling him up and spreading him wide.
“Draco, wait!” Harry said, sitting back, incidentally, right on Draco’s erection.
Draco yelped, snarled out a curse, and shoved Harry off him. “Be careful, Potter, you idiot!”
“I’m the idiot?” Harry said indignantly. “You’re the one who was about to shove your dick inside me without any kind of lubrication whatsoever.”
Draco ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Potter was right. He knew Potter was right. Damn. “Give me your wand.”
“My what?”
“Your wand, Potter! Your fucking wand, where is it?”
“Er-here’s your wand.” Harry held up the lethal hickory thing and Draco took it, but he set it aside.
“No, not my wand, you sod,” Draco said, exasperated. “My wand isn’t any good at trivial shit like this. I don’t want to blow your ass up. Where’s your wand?”
They searched around on the floor for it until Draco finally discovered it under his jacket. He picked it up and with a mischievous grin, shoved Harry back down on his knees and elbows. “Open wide, Potter,” he whispered.
At Draco’s urging, Harry spread his legs. Draco muttered a quick spell and Harry gasped as slick fluid coated his entrance. Draco shoved his pants down on his hips and pressed against Harry’s ass, then changed his mind, pulled back and pushed a finger inside him.
Harry moaned, then the finger curled and deftly flicked over his prostate and he whimpered and pushed back against Draco’s hand. Draco laughed and added a second finger to the first, twisting and scissoring them until Harry cried out.
“Please,” Harry hissed. “Oh god, please Draco. Now. Get inside me now.”
Draco let out a shuddering breath and reached down to run his hand over Harry’s taut and quivering belly until he could trail his fingers over his cock. Harry twitched at the touch, then made a soft strangled sound of pleasure in the back of his throat when Draco flicked his thumb over the tip.
Draco grabbed Harry’s hips and tilted him up to get a better angle, then thrust into his ass straight to the hilt. Harry let out a choked scream and threw his head back, arching his body into the quick, violent motion and relishing the pain/pleasure sensation of being filled. Draco pressed his face into the back of Harry’s neck and moaned as his body contracted around him at the invasion and squeezed him deliciously tight.
“Malfoy?” Harry gasped.
Draco panted, trying to catch his breath, and didn’t answer.
“Draco,” Harry said more urgently, pushing back against him. “Move, damn you. Fuck me or get off me.”
Draco laughed a little, pulled back, and thrust deep again. Harry made a low mewling sound in his throat and rocked forward on his elbows.
“Sure, Potter,” Draco muttered, thrusting again, loving the little whimpers and moans that Harry couldn’t hold back. “Whatever you say.”
He began moving in deep, steady strokes, tearing screams and little cries of pleasure from Harry’s throat, making a game out of forcing him to moan his name like a wanton. At first, Harry tried to muffle the sounds against his forearm, but then Draco angled his hips just so, glanced off that spot that made pleasure sing in his blood and dance up his spine, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to care whose name he was screaming.
Draco watched Harry arch beneath him, against him, taking everything, taking him deep and loving it. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life. He tangled the fingers of one hand in Harry’s raven hair and forced his head back so he could scrape his teeth over the curve between his throat and his shoulder. Harry cried out, but he didn’t stop rolling his hips in time with Draco’s thrusts. His mouth fell open a little, spilling little desperate cries and hitching breaths with every jerk of Draco’s hips, his fingers pressing against the bare wood floor so hard that the tips were white.
“Maybe…I should…try to kill you…more often,” Draco panted against Harry’s ear.
“Oh god,” Harry gasped. He made a low keening sound and tried to free his head from Draco’s hold.
Draco let him go and returned his hand to Harry’s hips, his fingers digging in so hard that there would be marks there in the morning. Once free to move again, Harry pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts eagerly, arching his back to brace himself against the sheer violence of Draco’s movements. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for more, to beg for Draco to do it harder, but he knew that was impossible. Draco was already fucking him into the floor so hard that it skated the fine line between pleasure and pain.
Draco set his teeth into the curve of Harry’s shoulder as he pushed into the tight, yielding heat of Harry’s ass over and over. He knew that he was close, could feel it in the tightening of his balls and the tingling sensation at the base of his spine, and his rhythm became irregular.
“No,” Harry groaned. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“Can’t help it,” Draco whispered. He stilled his thrusts, held himself deep inside Harry, his breath hitching, his skin quivering and feeling two sizes too small to contain all the rioting sensations flooding his body. “Give me…a second,” he said.
“Draco, please…”
“Look, Potter, I’m about half a fucking second from orgasm, so unless you want me to come inside you right now you’ll-” Harry deliberately tightened his muscles around Draco’s cock. Draco hissed. “-Stop that!”
Harry laughed breathlessly and did it again. “Then finish it. Now.”
With a feral growl, Draco shoved Harry’s face down on the floor so that one cheek was pressed to the wood and thrust into him with a hard snap of his hips, tearing a scream louder than all the rest from his throat. He did it again and felt Harry shudder beneath him, then Harry was coming with a strained shout and Draco pushed into him again, let the quivering sensations of Harry’s orgasm roll over him, through him, and bring his own. They both cried out as Draco came inside Harry, filling him up and spilling over.
With a heavy and exhausted sigh, Draco collapsed over Harry’s back, sweat-slick skin pressed together, his heart racing, his skin twitching with aftershocks.
“Draco?”
“Potter…be a good little pillow and…shut up,” Draco murmured against his back.
“You’re crushing me,” Harry said, pushing up, trying to throw him off.
Draco reluctantly pulled out of him and flopped onto his back with a grunt. Harry touched his chest and he twitched like a fly-bit horse. “I am not snuggling with you, Potter. Cut it out.”
“Don’t be an ass, Malfoy,” Harry said, sounding sleepy and not at all offended. “I was just going to offer you the other side of my bed. For the night. If you don’t want to sleep on the floor.”
Draco rolled his eyes and got unsteadily to his feet. “Sorry, Potter. I have to be in Bristol in the morning.” He fastened his jeans and looked around for his shirt. It was over by the armoire with Potter’s trousers and still soaking wet. He pulled it on and reached down beside Harry for his jacket.
Harry caught his hand. “You don’t have to leave,” he said quietly, his eyes large and wounded. “I won’t turn you in for…for whatever. I-”
Draco removed his hand from Harry’s and picked up his jacket. “That’s sweet, Potter, really,” he said, and he even meant it a little. “Where’s my wand?”
Harry sighed and looked around for it. He found it over by the nearest bedpost and handed it to him.
Draco took it, then stood there awkwardly, looking down at Harry, naked in the moonlight, covered in sweat and come. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.
Harry smiled at him a little and got up to climb up on the bed. “I’m not. Goodbye, Malfoy.”
Draco nodded, even though he knew Harry couldn’t see it because his eyes were closed, then he turned around and left as quickly as he could. He smelled like fuck and he needed a shower.
Good thing it was still raining outside.
****************
“Tell that happy Irish asshole that I don’t care what kind of wonderful things he can do with glass, I am not paying him that much for each and every fucking sculpture. He can just forget it.” Draco slammed down the phone and stood glaring at the painting on his office wall. It was a Picasso. Blue Period. Very nice, and worth more than all of the other shit in his gallery combined.
He hated agents. Hated them. They were the devil and the plague. Their sole purpose in life was to make him, and respectable business men like him, miserable.
“Sir?”
Draco gritted his teeth and turned his head to glare at Delaney over his shoulder. “What?” he snapped.
She flushed and looked down at her hands, which were clasped in front of her. She’d tried to suck him off the day after he got back from London, under the desk on his lunch break as per usual, and he’d gotten so angry he’d almost hit her. She hadn’t tried again.
“Sir, there’s someone here…to see you. I thought you might want to know,” she mumbled.
“A patron?” Draco demanded, turning to her and looking at her fiercely as though his sour mood was all her fault.
“Uh…no sir, I don’t think so,” she said. “But he asked to speak with you and I thought…you might know him.”
“Fine, fine,” Draco muttered, dragging a hand through his blond hair, making it look more disheveled than before. “He’s in the main gallery?”
“Yes, sir, he’s…looking at the Rembrandt.”
“Good, maybe he’ll buy it,” Draco said, his tone implying that he seriously fucking doubted it. He noticed that Delaney was still standing there looking totally cowed. “Was there something else?”
“Well sir, there’s another shipment. It was just dropped off and-”
“So deal with it while I take care of this-” he waved an eloquent hand “-customer.”
She nodded and backed out of his office in front of him as he walked toward the door. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure everything’s taken care of. I-”
“Delaney,” Draco said heavily.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go away.”
Her eyes widened like she was about to cry, which made Draco’s fingers itch to slap her, then she turned and rushed down the hall into the back of the building, presumably to deal with the men unloading the shipment. He really needed a new assistant, Draco mused. Preferably some tough as nails old battle axe with a harelip.
He walked out into the showing room, his mind still on Delaney and his damn Irish glass blower, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. What can I do for-Harry?”
Harry turned around and grinned at him. He was looking flat sexy in black jeans and a hunter green t-shirt. “Hello.”
Draco stared at him some more, then noticed something glinting in his right earlobe and said, “Is that a fucking earring, Potter?”
Harry’s grin widened and he nudged his glasses up on his nose. “Yeah. Me and Ron got them about two years ago,” he said. “’Course, Ron got a tattoo of a dragon to go with his, which I thought was a bit too much, and-”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Draco cut him off before he got around to mentioning exactly where on his freckly body Weasley had gotten his tattoo. That was one mental image that Draco could happily live without, thank you.
“I came to look at the art, Malfoy,” Harry said vaguely. He gestured to the Rembrandt, a lovely portrait of the artist’s mistress. “Tell me, is this real?”
“Of course it’s real,” Draco said, mildly offended. Then he glared at Harry. “Do you even know what it is, Potter?”
“A pretty picture?” Harry ventured.
He was joking. Draco could see it in the way his pretty green eyes did that annoying twinkling thing he’d learned from Dumbledore. He had to be joking.
“That is a very rare and exceedingly valuable Rembrandt,” Draco informed him smartly. “But I wouldn’t expect someone with your kind of culture lag to know that, Potter. I expect that comes from being raised in a broom cupboard by muggles.”
To his surprise, Harry actually laughed. He walked over and brushed a lock of Draco’s pale hair back from his face and smiled. “You know, I’ve missed you,” Harry said, and Draco knew he wasn’t talking about their one night of frantic sex. “I have no one to tell me what a complete prat I am anymore. No one to taunt me or try to get one over on me. No one to curse me and make fun of my parents. Strange that I should miss those things, really, but I do.”
“Potter, you’re not making any sense,” Draco said. He smacked Harry’s fingers away so they would stop playing with his hair. “Just because I chose to fuck you rather than kill you doesn’t mean I like you.”
Harry stepped in to him and tilted his head so that his lips were a scant breath away from Draco’s. “And just because I let you fuck me and liked it doesn’t mean I like you,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Draco asked, his lips barely moving lest they brush Harry’s.
Harry reached up, tangled his fingers in Draco’s silky hair, and pulled him down to kiss. Draco made a sound of protest that was lost on Harry’s tongue and hummed down Harry’s throat. Harry slid his tongue over Draco’s, coaxing him to respond. He was rewarded when Draco kissed him back, grazing his teeth over Harry’s bottom lip before catching it lightly between his teeth and tugging. He sucked Harry’s lip into his mouth, flicked his tongue over Harry’s tongue, then froze when he heard someone clear their throat, suddenly recalling that they were in a public place. And not just any public place, but his place of business.
“Uh…um, sir?” Delaney said, looking positively scandalized right down to the roots of her dirty-blonde hair.
Draco broke away from Harry and glared at her. Harry snickered and when the girl looked at him, he winked.
“What is it now, Delaney?”
“Well, sir, it’s…it’s one of your special crates again, sir,” she said. She was blushing so hard that her face was the color of a ripe cherry.
“’Special’ crates, Malfoy?” Harry said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with your other job, now would it?”
Draco lifted an eyebrow at Harry and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you missed me, Potter,” he teased.
Delaney did that throat clearing thing again and this time both of them glared at her. “Sir, it’s a rather large painting this time. I don’t exactly know where you want me to put it.”
Draco saw the guilty look Harry gave him when he heard that Delaney was talking about art, not death contracts. He smiled. “Come on, Potter,” he said, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. “You can help me find a place to hang it.”
/fin/
A/N: 1)This was quoted from 'The Winter of Our Discontent' by Stienbeck 2)I have no idea if either the A-Team or McGyver ever made it to the UK.
Pairing: H/D
Rating: NC-17
Warning: CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK
Summary: Wicked Assassin!Draco & sort of Victim!Harry. Draco gets a contract and shows up to find--who? (right, like you can't guess)
<>Moonlight and Shadow<>
Never again, they had said. In fact, the words had come straight from Scrimgeour himself just before he snapped Draco’s wand and ordered the pieces to be burned.
Arrogant prick. As if Draco had ever had any intention at all of obeying the Ministry. Black-market wands weren’t exactly hard to come by, especially with the kind of dark connections the Malfoy family had. The first one he bought had been a dud; one of those stupid Weasley toy wands that turned into a pair of purple spotted bloomers when he waved it. He hunted down the unfortunate bastard who sold it to him and made him exchange it. Then Draco killed him.
The second wand was real; hickory and unicorn hair, whippy. He was very fond of it. It spouted all manner of dark curses with so much ease that he was relatively certain it had been created with that specifically in mind.
It was a lovely weapon. Much better than a gun. Draco had been forced to use a gun on his first contract and that had been one hell of a mess. Blood and brain matter all over the floor, the wall, and worst of all, his clothes. It was just one more reason out of many that he was glad he wasn’t a muggle.
The Ministry could curse him until the sky turned red, but they couldn’t take that away from him, and as they couldn’t prove conclusively whether or not he had been a Death Eater or just reluctantly following in the footsteps of his dear old daddy, they couldn’t imprison him.
Bastards. If they knew what he did to pay the bills though… for that he could have been executed. Good thing he had no intention of ever letting them find out. As far as the Ministry knew, Draco Malfoy owned a relatively successful little art gallery in Bristol. They knew that he took in art on consignment from all around the world and that he lived well, but not extravagantly.
What they did not know was that the occasional canvas that showed up anonymously with a shipment from Paris or Florence or a hundred other places across the globe, was marked with a red eight-pointed star for a reason. His assistant knew that those crates were not to be touched or opened, and that was all that she knew. As far as Draco was concerned, it was all that she needed to know.
The art gallery itself had actually become much more successful than he could have ever predicted. It paid the bills and then some, but it had struggled for a while, and by the time Draco could have dropped it as a front and relied on its business alone to keep himself and Narcissa comfortable, he had already developed a taste for death. Well, maybe not death necessarily, but certainly for the power that he felt and the rush that he got whenever someone begged him for mercy and he said no.
He really loved that.
When the war had ended six years ago; Harry Potter triumphing as they all knew that he would, the Dark Lord melting like the silly green witch in the Wizard of Oz, and the wizarding world was finally ‘safe’, Draco had been left with very few choices. He was a Malfoy, and as such, superior in every way, but he knew nothing about work. Of course not, work was for house elves and mudbloods and people who didn’t know any better. Then the Ministry confiscated his home and his inheritance and Draco and his mother were suddenly homeless. He’d changed his mind about work pretty damn quick and tried to get a job. The only problem was, he wasn’t actually qualified for anything.
Well, not ‘anything’, but what skills he did have left him with only two options: become a whore, or kill people. They were the only two things he was any good at. The first one was definitely out. Draco liked sex, but the idea of falling on his back and spreading his legs for any Joe with enough gold to pay him rankled. It was true that he could have made more money as a prostitute than he made as a paid killer (he had a look about him that was greatly desired in that profession), but his pride and his vanity would not allow it.
So Draco did not even bat an eye when Delaney, his pretty young assistant (muggles had such bizarre names), came into his office and told him there was another crate for him.
“Just the one?” he asked, not looking up from the catalogue he was studying. That crazy glass-blowing ponce from Ireland was giving him hell again. He wouldn’t even be bothering with it at all, except the man was a bloody genius with borosilicate and a blowhose. He huffed out an amused breath. That didn’t even sound right in his head.
“Yes, sir,” Delaney said. “It’s one of your special boxes.”
He caught the curious tone in her voice and glanced up, narrowing his eyes. She was pretty, a bit too freckly and her hair was a messy, mousy color between dirt-water blonde and brown, but pretty enough that she knew it. Too bad she thought being pretty was enough to get her anywhere with him. She could flaunt her braless little tits in his face all day and shake her ass when she thought he was looking, but the only thing that would get her was sucking him off under his desk during her lunch break, then right back to work with no more than a ‘thank you, Delaney’ for her trouble. She was just too stupid to have figured that out yet, and he certainly wasn’t about to tell her. That would likely put an end to his lunch hour blow jobs, and he rather enjoyed them.
“Thank you, Delaney,” he said flatly. “That will be all.”
She smirked and left his office, swaying her hips a little too obviously as she went.
Draco shook his head sardonically, slapped the file he had been sorting through closed, and returned it to the cabinet. Women. They were all sluts. Every last simpering, giggling, blushing, whining, bitching one of them. It wasn’t his place to reach down and rescue Delaney from impending whoredom and he knew that most other employers felt the same way. If the girl hadn’t figured this out for herself by now, it was very likely that she would spend the rest of her life on her knees trying to get promoted.
The crate was flat and marked with a red star the size of an open hand. Ah, he had another contract. About fucking time too. Draco had been getting restless.
Draco broke open the crate with a crowbar and removed the painting. Oil on canvas; a fairly intricate rendering of a young Cleopatra with a small serpent twined around her fingers. It was really quite lovely, and something he would have been proud to hang in his gallery, but that was not the purpose of this piece. The purpose of this piece was entirely cloak-and-dagger.
He took the painting into one of the empty studios in the back where they had a large, industrial sized sink and a big jug of turpentine. He put gloves on, filled the bottom of the sink with turpentine, then submerged the painting in it and waited. It did not take long. In about five minutes, the paint had bubbled and he could scrape some of it away with his hands. In fifteen minutes, there was nothing left of the beautiful painting but some floating goo and a blank canvas.
And an address.
****************
London in the summertime was damn depressing. It not only ‘rained cats and dogs’ but it smelled like some vengeful deity had flushed their toilet on it.
Said deity was no doubt laughing at him right now, Draco mused as he swiped his sodden hair out of his eyes and tried to see the address on the giant Tudor mansion through beads of water that insisted on clinging to his lashes.
Gods, what an ugly house. Whoever lived there deserved to die for their abysmal taste in architecture alone. Not like he needed a reason, but if he had, that would have more than sufficed.
Well, like it or not, it looked like this was the place. Draco pointed his wand at the lock, quietly murmured, “Alohomora,” and when the lock clicked, he slipped inside.
He stood just inside the entryway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the pitch black darkness. When no wards repelled him and no vicious dogs attacked him, he silently made his way up the twisting staircase to the second floor, where the master bedroom was, and where his quarry slept.
He did not know his intended victim’s name, or even gender. All he knew was the address and that he was supposed to kill whoever was sleeping in the master bedroom. Draco had arranged for it to happen that way. He didn’t need to know a name. All he needed was a location and, if there was more than one person, a description. In this case, he had not even required that, as the inhabitant of this disgrace for a dwelling lived alone.
The bedroom was the first door on the right at the top of the stairs and the door was not locked. Draco held his breath as he turned the knob, waiting for the metal to grate or screech (the house looked to be that fucking old), but it didn’t. The room itself was huge, easily equal the size of the living room in his own house. There was a large, ornately carved armoire against the nearest wall, beside it, two comfortable looking chairs with a Chippendale table between them. In the center of the room was a four-poster bed with the drapes tied back and on the other side of the bed there was a massive circular picture window with a cushioned window seat.
Draco cautiously walked around the foot of the bed and glanced out the window. It was still raining. Of course it was.
He glanced down and saw a book laying open on the window seat, marked as though someone had been sitting in the window reading it, then been called away and forgotten to come back. He picked up the book and read the first line his eyes fell on by the moonlight coming through the window: ‘What a frightening thing is the human, a mass of gauges and dials and registers, and we can read only a few of those perhaps not accurately.’1
He snorted and put the book back down. Muggles.
In the bed, his victim stirred, at last drawing his full attention. Draco held his wand lightly in his hand and approached the bed to stare down at the sleeping figure.
Draco caught his breath. The man, for it was a man, was very beautiful. He had pale skin, which looked much paler by moonlight, and hair the deep, dark black of jeweler’s velvet. He wore nothing but loose-fitting cloth trousers and a linen sheet tangled around his feet. His legs were tucked up, his head rested on one arm, his mouth was slightly parted, and his long black eyelashes trembled as he dreamed. The whole scene was peaceful and innocent, and the man was so damn pretty Draco wanted to touch him.
So he did. He touched the feather soft bits of hair that had fallen over his face, lightly brushing them back, careful not to wake him. The man sighed in his sleep and moved his face into the touch. Draco’s fingers skimmed lightly over his jaw and he hastily pulled his hand back.
Draco had killed beautiful people before-men and women; wizards, witches, and muggles-but there was something different about this. He watched the slow rise and fall of the man’s chest as he breathed in and out, watched the rapid flutter of his eyelashes, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that those eyes were green.
The man made a soft murmuring noise of discontent at the withdrawal of the touch and move his head on the pillow. The moonlight fell across his forehead, revealing a jagged scar-the scar-and Draco silently cursed and stepped back.
Fuck, it couldn’t be.
But it was. It was Harry fucking Potter.
Draco clenched his hands into fists. He felt like killing somebody. Somebody, but not Harry Potter.
He wanted to fuck Harry Potter. But he wasn’t going to. No, he was going to leave the same way he had come in, then he was going to hunt down whoever had sent him on this farce job and eviscerate them. Slowly.
Shit, this was going to cost him. He would lose other jobs for recanting on this one. He sighed and crossed the room. He didn’t care. He could lose a few jobs. So what? But he was not killing Harry Potter.
****************
The plump little man trembled at Draco’s feet and held up his hands as thought that would do him any good.
Draco held the man’s wand and his wife’s wand in one hand, examined them critically, then returned his cool grey eyes to the top of the man’s balding head.
“Why?” Draco asked simply.
“Please,” the little man whimpered pitifully. “Please…I paid you. Keep the money, isn’t that enough?”
Draco knelt on his heels, grabbed one of the man’s fingers and bent it back, straining the tendons to the breaking point. The man howled in agony, but he couldn’t move to get away without putting more pressure on his finger.
“I asked you a question,” Draco said softly. “Do not make me repeat it.”
“Please, sir, what do you want?” asked the woman, the pathetic man’s wife, who was backed up into a corner of the kitchen with her blue eyes wide and frightened.
Draco gave a sharp jerk on the man’s finger and the bone cracked right at the knuckle. He shrieked. Draco could hardly blame him.
“Answer my fucking question right now and maybe I won’t kill you,” Draco snarled.
“Please don’t!” the man’s wife screamed.
Draco leveled a cold look at her and watched her pale. He pointed a finger at her and watched in satisfaction as she seemed to shrink in on herself. “You shut the hell up right now,” he snapped. “I don’t need you. You best remember that.”
Draco turned his gaze back to the man at his feet, who was holding his injured hand and rocking back and forth making a high pitched keening sound.
“My patience is wearing thin,” Draco said. “I am going to ask you one more time and if you don’t answer me, I’m going to shoot your wife.”
“No,” the man moaned. “No, please…I’ll-what are you doing?!”
Draco lifted the gun, pointed it at the weeping woman, and took aim. He hated guns, really, but they were so much more effective at intimidation with the muggleborns than wands. He thought it was probably all the episodes of A-Team and MacGyver2 they had watched as kids.
He pulled the slide back with a dramatic snick of metal gliding over metal and the man cried out.
“No, please,” he babbled. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, just please don’t hurt her.”
“I was sent a contract from you,” Draco said, his aim not wavering in the slightest. “A contract for one Mr. Harry James Potter. I want to know why.”
The man’s eyes shifted anxiously between the muzzle of Draco’s Glock and his wife’s tear streaked face. “I…I work with him.”
“Excuse me?” Draco said.
“I…At the Ministry,” the man said. “We’re both Aurors and-”
“And why do I give a shit?” Draco said. “I want to know why you hired me, and paid me what probably amounts to a quarter of your yearly salary, to kill Harry Potter. You better answer me and be damn quick about it.”
“Edmund, you didn’t!” his wife wailed.
“I thought I told you to shut up,” Draco hissed.
She whimpered and looked down at the floor between her feet.
“Edmund,” Draco said, trying out the man’s name to see if it would get a better response. “Why do you want Harry Potter dead?”
“Because…” he hesitated. “Because he’s been…sleeping with my daughter.”
That got his attention and Draco suddenly dropped the gun back to his side. “And how old is your daughter?”
“She’s sixteen,” he said.
Draco threw his head back and laughed.
“She’s not of age yet,” Edmund said defensively. “I’m her father. I have to protect her.”
Draco snorted. He wasn’t even going to tell the man how very unlikely it was that Potter was fucking around with his daughter. Now, if the man had had a son, that would be a different story.
Alright, so now he knew why, which left him in a bit of a dilemma. To kill or not to kill was the question now, and considering his profession, it was not one he had needed to ask himself in quite a while.
“Bugger,” he grumbled.
He quickly decided that it would be much easier to adjust their memories-not to mention cleaner-but it would be considerably more convenient to just kill them. And he would have loved to have read about it in the Prophet. So very few of his victims got into the papers these days, but this man was an Auror. That positively demanded the front page.
Oh well, there was really nothing for it. Front page news or not, he did not want blood and bits of skull on his jacket. It was leather.
He wiped their memories of his presence and added a few of Harry snogging some random bloke to Edmunds mind so that he would forget about killing him. He wondered why the man had thought Potter was shagging his daughter anyway.
He shrugged. It really didn’t matter.
Edmund and his wife looked at him blankly. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Er…I’m the wand maker’s assistant,” Draco improvised. He hadn’t the faintest idea in hell if the wand maker even had an assistant. “I came to check your wands for…tampering.” He held the wands out to them and they both took them, still looking confused. “They appear to be perfectly functional. No evidence of tampering.”
“Thank you,” Edmund said, straightening and trying to look like he knew exactly what was going on. “I assume the Ministry will be taking care of the bill?”
Draco grinned. Cheap bastard. “Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s all been taken care of.”
Edmund nodded crisply. “Alright then. Give your master my compliments.”
Draco bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh. His voice trembled with amusement when he said, “Yes, sir, I will.”
He got out of there before the man or his wife regained their senses enough to recognize him. The last thing he needed was a bunch of uptight Aurors raiding his gallery.
****************
Draco told himself that it wasn’t out of his way. He told himself that it was only natural to go back and check on Potter. It made sense in a way, but…
But he didn’t really believe it. Potter’s ugly house was miles out of his way, and the memory charm he’d cast on the Auror and his wife should guarantee his safety. And why the fuck did he care so much about Potter’s safety anyway? He didn’t, he told himself. He didn’t give half a shit if Potter was run down by a trolly, but he wasn’t going to kill him. That would have brought the Ministry down on his head in a hot second. They’d tear every piece of art from the walls of his gallery and destroy whatever they had to to find evidence linking him to Potter’s untimely demise. After all, who in the world had more reason to want the little prat dead than Draco Malfoy?
So he reminded himself of all of this, but he still went back. Midnight found him once again standing in Potter’s enormous bedroom, looking down at Potter’s pretty dreaming face, and thinking the most carnal, unholy thoughts about Harry Potter’s mouth.
Harry mumbled something in his sleep and sighed; his eyelashes fluttered, then went still again. He ran one of his hands down his own waist and rested it on his hip. Draco had the unexplainable urge to reach out and grab that hand, lace those slim fingers with his own and hold Potter’s arms down while he licked and sucked the salt from his skin, grazed his teeth over the swell of that hip, touched him and tormented him until Potter screamed.
Draco was probably the last person on the planet with any right to be thinking anything about Potter’s anatomy, but there it was.
Potter made a soft sound in the back of his throat and shifted restlessly. Draco let his gaze linger on the curves and hollows of Harry’s body, the planes of lean muscle, the lines of tendon, the smoothness of his skin, milk pale by moonlight. His fingers tingled with the desire to touch, but he didn’t.
Then Harry opened his eyes, looked at him, and smiled softly. “Hello,” he said. His voice was husky with sleep and it shot right to Draco’s groin.
Draco had tensed the instant those eyes focused on him, waiting for fear, for anger, hate, recognition, anything at all to show on Harry’s face. When he received nothing but that coy, sleepy smile, he cocked his head to the side and regarded Harry speculatively.
“Hello,” Draco said back. What else did one say in that kind of situation?
Harry moved and propped his head up on one hand. “This is a strange dream,” he said.
He thought he was having a dream? Well, that explained why he wasn’t reaching for his wand. “Yes, I suppose it is,” Draco said.
Harry sat up then, with his legs folded beneath him and swiped a hand through his tousled hair. He looked at Draco thoughtfully. “Do I know you? You seem…familiar.”
Draco laughed. “I should hope so, Potter,” he said, his silver eyes glinting with amusement. “I would hate to think I failed to make any kind of impression on you at all.”
Harry went very still and stared at him. Draco saw the moment that he recognized him and the instant he realized that he wasn’t dreaming and he took another step back from the bed.
“Malfoy?” Harry whispered. “Draco Malfoy?”
“Hello, Potter,” Draco said calmly. “It’s been a long time.”
“Five years-”
“Six,” Draco corrected him automatically.
“Five or six,” Harry conceded. “I’m not dreaming, am I?”
Draco grinned. “No, Potter, you’re not dreaming.”
Harry met his eyes and held them. “What are you doing here?”
Draco couldn’t resist. He told him. “I was supposed to kill you.”
Harry didn’t look all that surprised by this and it made Draco wonder what kind of friends he’d been making recently if the knowledge that someone wanted him dead didn’t even evoke a nervous twitch.
He saw Harry tense an instant before he rolled off the other side of the bed to crouch on the floor.
Draco laughed again. “Look, Potter, I’m not going to kill you, alright? I just-shit!” He fell to his knees on the floor as a spell flew by his left ear. “How the fuck did you-?”
Harry peered over the mattress, saw him, and shot a binding spell at him. Draco hit the floor as his heart leaped into his throat and threatened to choke him.
“You dumb son of a bitch!” Draco hissed. “I told you I’m not going to kill you.”
“Uh huh,” Harry said sarcastically from somewhere on the other side of the bed. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Well, yeah,” Draco said. “I mean, if I was going to fucking kill you, I would have just done it, not stood around talking to you about it-goddamn it, Potter! I swear if you throw one more bloody hex at me, I’m going to-”
“Kill me?” Harry said mockingly. “I knew you were lying.”
“I am not lying,” Draco said through gritted teeth. He crawled across the floor and crouched close to the side of the bed.
“Yeah?” Harry said. “Then what are you doing in my house? What were you doing standing over my bed?”
Draco sprang cat-quick over the bed and caught Harry’s hair in one fist as he started to scramble back. He pressed the tip of his deadly wand to Harry’s throat, put his face close to his, and whispered, “Put it down, Potter. Don’t make me hurt you.”
“Bastard,” Harry hissed.
He threw himself at Draco, surprising him and tumbling him to the floor on his back. Harry turned his head to one side and sank his teeth into Draco’s wrist, forcing him to open his hand and release Harry’s hair. Draco cursed and tried to scoot back and get to his feet, but Harry grabbed him, dug his fingers into Draco’s waist and climbed on top of him, pinning his arms to the floor under his knees.
He pointed his wand in Draco’s face and plucked Draco’s wand from his restrained hand. “You’re not supposed to have one of these, Malfoy,” he chided.
Draco growled and wriggled beneath him. His blood was rushing fast and hot in his veins and he was quivering with adrenaline and anger. “Get the fuck off of me, Potter.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Harry teased. He rolled his hips lightly over Draco’s groin and grinned wickedly when Draco gasped. “I rather like it up here.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Do you?” he said menacingly. “Well, don’t get too used to it.” He brought one of his legs up, hooked the heel under Harry’s chin, and shoved him off.
Harry made a startled squawking sound and hit the wood floor with a thud. His sweat dampened skin squeaked on the polyurethane and Draco laughed breathlessly as he got to his knees. He seized Harry’s trouser legs as he was trying to get to his feet and used them to jerk him back down on the floor. Harry grunted and strained to get away, which only made the trousers slip down his hips.
“Where do you think you’re going Potter?” Draco murmured. He climbed up Harry’s body and straddled him.
Harry lay flat on his stomach, his face turned to one side, resting on the cool wood floor. He was panting, they both were, and they had both lost their wands sometime during the brief tussle. Harry’s trousers now rested so low on his hips that Draco could see the little dimples in the flesh just above the curve of his ass. He put his thumbs into the slight indentations and lightly caressed the spots as his fingers dug into Harry’s hips.
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?” Draco pressed his fingers into Harry’s flesh and dragged his hands up his sides, tripping his fingers over each individual rib until Harry twitched.
“What are you really doing here?”
Draco smiled. “Well, Potter, if you want to know, I was supposed to kill you. I tossed that idea though, as it would likely cause me unending frustration in the long run.”
“So you…kill people now?” Harry asked, his voice shaking a bit.
“Been doing it for going on five years now, Potter,” Draco said matter-of-factly. He bent forward and pressed his mouth to the nape of Harry’s neck, swiped his tongue out and tasted his sweat, and hummed in pleasure. “I’m really very good at it.”
“What?” Harry asked, his voice rough like he wanted to moan.
“At killing people, Potter,” Draco clarified. He nipped the back of one of Harry’s shoulders and made him catch his breath.
“You didn’t answer…my question,” Harry said.
“Which one?”
“What are you actually doing here…if you’re not going to kill me?”
“Fantasizing,” Draco said simply.
Harry made a strangled sound of surprise beneath him and tried to shove him off his ass and get to his feet. Draco put his palms flat on Harry’s shoulders and held him down. Gradually, Harry relaxed again, though his blood was still roaring in his ears.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” he said softly, “but what were you fantasizing about in my bedroom?”
“Don’t be dense, Potter,” Draco drawled. “What do you think I was fantasizing about?”
“Malfoy?”
“Hmm?”
“Let me up.”
“No Potter, I don’t think I will,” Draco said. “I think I like having you at my mercy.” He slipped his hands under the waistband of Harry’s pants and over the curve of Harry’s ass. Harry moaned and shivered. “And from that sound you just made for me, I think you like it too.”
Harry groaned and tried to push up against him, not to throw him off this time, but to feel the heat of Draco’s body firm against him.
“Don’t you, Potter?” Draco whispered.
“No,” Harry said, but his body said differently. He was so damn hard that it hurt to be pressed flush against the floor, and every time Draco shifted on top of him, his cock pushed against the floor and he winced a little. “No. You’re a murderer,” Harry said. “Get off of me.”
Draco made a little tsking sound and sat back to take his jacket off. He threw it aside and peeled off his rain soaked t-shirt. It hit the wood floor with a wet plop and made Harry jerk.
“I’m not a murderer, Potter,” Draco said softly, lowering himself until his chest was flat against Harry’s back. “Murderers do it for free.”
Draco began trailing little biting kisses down Harry’s spine, flicking his tongue over each vertebrae that strained against the skin, every tiny little scar from his childhood, and every curve and indentation. He had the salt taste of Harry’s skin and his sweat on his tongue when he heard Harry whimper his name, and that was it. He forgot about childhood rivalries, about his father dead on the battlefield, about Harry fucking Potter snatching the Golden Snitch out from under his nose every blasted time-all of it. He could feel his pulse in his fingertips, the blood rushing in his veins so hot and fast that he was shaking, and he couldn’t remember ever feeling more turned on or alive than he did right at that moment.
He scooted back so that he was straddling Harry’s thighs instead of his hips and began tugging Harry’s pants down. Harry said something that he didn’t hear and pushed up on one elbow to reach down and untie the draw-cord.
Draco chuckled softly. “I thought you wanted me to get off you, Potter, not in you.”
Harry turned slightly so that he could meet Draco’s eyes. “I changed my mind,” he said hoarsely. “Hurry up.”
Draco tilted his head to one side, saw that he was serious, and got off of him. Draco started unfastening his jeans and Harry turned over to watch him. When he had his pants open, he reached out and jerked Harry’s trousers the rest of the way off with one sharp movement and sent them flying into a corner, then grabbed Harry’s hips and turned him back around.
“Sure, Potter,” he said into Harry’s ear, his hot breath on Harry’s neck making him shiver. “You want me to fuck you, I will. Get on your knees.”
“Malfoy, I-”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Malfoy-”
“Because if you want me to stop, you better tell me right now.” Draco moved between Harry’s legs and grabbed his hips, pulling him up and spreading him wide.
“Draco, wait!” Harry said, sitting back, incidentally, right on Draco’s erection.
Draco yelped, snarled out a curse, and shoved Harry off him. “Be careful, Potter, you idiot!”
“I’m the idiot?” Harry said indignantly. “You’re the one who was about to shove your dick inside me without any kind of lubrication whatsoever.”
Draco ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Potter was right. He knew Potter was right. Damn. “Give me your wand.”
“My what?”
“Your wand, Potter! Your fucking wand, where is it?”
“Er-here’s your wand.” Harry held up the lethal hickory thing and Draco took it, but he set it aside.
“No, not my wand, you sod,” Draco said, exasperated. “My wand isn’t any good at trivial shit like this. I don’t want to blow your ass up. Where’s your wand?”
They searched around on the floor for it until Draco finally discovered it under his jacket. He picked it up and with a mischievous grin, shoved Harry back down on his knees and elbows. “Open wide, Potter,” he whispered.
At Draco’s urging, Harry spread his legs. Draco muttered a quick spell and Harry gasped as slick fluid coated his entrance. Draco shoved his pants down on his hips and pressed against Harry’s ass, then changed his mind, pulled back and pushed a finger inside him.
Harry moaned, then the finger curled and deftly flicked over his prostate and he whimpered and pushed back against Draco’s hand. Draco laughed and added a second finger to the first, twisting and scissoring them until Harry cried out.
“Please,” Harry hissed. “Oh god, please Draco. Now. Get inside me now.”
Draco let out a shuddering breath and reached down to run his hand over Harry’s taut and quivering belly until he could trail his fingers over his cock. Harry twitched at the touch, then made a soft strangled sound of pleasure in the back of his throat when Draco flicked his thumb over the tip.
Draco grabbed Harry’s hips and tilted him up to get a better angle, then thrust into his ass straight to the hilt. Harry let out a choked scream and threw his head back, arching his body into the quick, violent motion and relishing the pain/pleasure sensation of being filled. Draco pressed his face into the back of Harry’s neck and moaned as his body contracted around him at the invasion and squeezed him deliciously tight.
“Malfoy?” Harry gasped.
Draco panted, trying to catch his breath, and didn’t answer.
“Draco,” Harry said more urgently, pushing back against him. “Move, damn you. Fuck me or get off me.”
Draco laughed a little, pulled back, and thrust deep again. Harry made a low mewling sound in his throat and rocked forward on his elbows.
“Sure, Potter,” Draco muttered, thrusting again, loving the little whimpers and moans that Harry couldn’t hold back. “Whatever you say.”
He began moving in deep, steady strokes, tearing screams and little cries of pleasure from Harry’s throat, making a game out of forcing him to moan his name like a wanton. At first, Harry tried to muffle the sounds against his forearm, but then Draco angled his hips just so, glanced off that spot that made pleasure sing in his blood and dance up his spine, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to care whose name he was screaming.
Draco watched Harry arch beneath him, against him, taking everything, taking him deep and loving it. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in his life. He tangled the fingers of one hand in Harry’s raven hair and forced his head back so he could scrape his teeth over the curve between his throat and his shoulder. Harry cried out, but he didn’t stop rolling his hips in time with Draco’s thrusts. His mouth fell open a little, spilling little desperate cries and hitching breaths with every jerk of Draco’s hips, his fingers pressing against the bare wood floor so hard that the tips were white.
“Maybe…I should…try to kill you…more often,” Draco panted against Harry’s ear.
“Oh god,” Harry gasped. He made a low keening sound and tried to free his head from Draco’s hold.
Draco let him go and returned his hand to Harry’s hips, his fingers digging in so hard that there would be marks there in the morning. Once free to move again, Harry pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts eagerly, arching his back to brace himself against the sheer violence of Draco’s movements. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask for more, to beg for Draco to do it harder, but he knew that was impossible. Draco was already fucking him into the floor so hard that it skated the fine line between pleasure and pain.
Draco set his teeth into the curve of Harry’s shoulder as he pushed into the tight, yielding heat of Harry’s ass over and over. He knew that he was close, could feel it in the tightening of his balls and the tingling sensation at the base of his spine, and his rhythm became irregular.
“No,” Harry groaned. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“Can’t help it,” Draco whispered. He stilled his thrusts, held himself deep inside Harry, his breath hitching, his skin quivering and feeling two sizes too small to contain all the rioting sensations flooding his body. “Give me…a second,” he said.
“Draco, please…”
“Look, Potter, I’m about half a fucking second from orgasm, so unless you want me to come inside you right now you’ll-” Harry deliberately tightened his muscles around Draco’s cock. Draco hissed. “-Stop that!”
Harry laughed breathlessly and did it again. “Then finish it. Now.”
With a feral growl, Draco shoved Harry’s face down on the floor so that one cheek was pressed to the wood and thrust into him with a hard snap of his hips, tearing a scream louder than all the rest from his throat. He did it again and felt Harry shudder beneath him, then Harry was coming with a strained shout and Draco pushed into him again, let the quivering sensations of Harry’s orgasm roll over him, through him, and bring his own. They both cried out as Draco came inside Harry, filling him up and spilling over.
With a heavy and exhausted sigh, Draco collapsed over Harry’s back, sweat-slick skin pressed together, his heart racing, his skin twitching with aftershocks.
“Draco?”
“Potter…be a good little pillow and…shut up,” Draco murmured against his back.
“You’re crushing me,” Harry said, pushing up, trying to throw him off.
Draco reluctantly pulled out of him and flopped onto his back with a grunt. Harry touched his chest and he twitched like a fly-bit horse. “I am not snuggling with you, Potter. Cut it out.”
“Don’t be an ass, Malfoy,” Harry said, sounding sleepy and not at all offended. “I was just going to offer you the other side of my bed. For the night. If you don’t want to sleep on the floor.”
Draco rolled his eyes and got unsteadily to his feet. “Sorry, Potter. I have to be in Bristol in the morning.” He fastened his jeans and looked around for his shirt. It was over by the armoire with Potter’s trousers and still soaking wet. He pulled it on and reached down beside Harry for his jacket.
Harry caught his hand. “You don’t have to leave,” he said quietly, his eyes large and wounded. “I won’t turn you in for…for whatever. I-”
Draco removed his hand from Harry’s and picked up his jacket. “That’s sweet, Potter, really,” he said, and he even meant it a little. “Where’s my wand?”
Harry sighed and looked around for it. He found it over by the nearest bedpost and handed it to him.
Draco took it, then stood there awkwardly, looking down at Harry, naked in the moonlight, covered in sweat and come. “I’m sorry,” he said at last.
Harry smiled at him a little and got up to climb up on the bed. “I’m not. Goodbye, Malfoy.”
Draco nodded, even though he knew Harry couldn’t see it because his eyes were closed, then he turned around and left as quickly as he could. He smelled like fuck and he needed a shower.
Good thing it was still raining outside.
****************
“Tell that happy Irish asshole that I don’t care what kind of wonderful things he can do with glass, I am not paying him that much for each and every fucking sculpture. He can just forget it.” Draco slammed down the phone and stood glaring at the painting on his office wall. It was a Picasso. Blue Period. Very nice, and worth more than all of the other shit in his gallery combined.
He hated agents. Hated them. They were the devil and the plague. Their sole purpose in life was to make him, and respectable business men like him, miserable.
“Sir?”
Draco gritted his teeth and turned his head to glare at Delaney over his shoulder. “What?” he snapped.
She flushed and looked down at her hands, which were clasped in front of her. She’d tried to suck him off the day after he got back from London, under the desk on his lunch break as per usual, and he’d gotten so angry he’d almost hit her. She hadn’t tried again.
“Sir, there’s someone here…to see you. I thought you might want to know,” she mumbled.
“A patron?” Draco demanded, turning to her and looking at her fiercely as though his sour mood was all her fault.
“Uh…no sir, I don’t think so,” she said. “But he asked to speak with you and I thought…you might know him.”
“Fine, fine,” Draco muttered, dragging a hand through his blond hair, making it look more disheveled than before. “He’s in the main gallery?”
“Yes, sir, he’s…looking at the Rembrandt.”
“Good, maybe he’ll buy it,” Draco said, his tone implying that he seriously fucking doubted it. He noticed that Delaney was still standing there looking totally cowed. “Was there something else?”
“Well sir, there’s another shipment. It was just dropped off and-”
“So deal with it while I take care of this-” he waved an eloquent hand “-customer.”
She nodded and backed out of his office in front of him as he walked toward the door. “Yes, sir. I’ll make sure everything’s taken care of. I-”
“Delaney,” Draco said heavily.
“Yes, sir?”
“Go away.”
Her eyes widened like she was about to cry, which made Draco’s fingers itch to slap her, then she turned and rushed down the hall into the back of the building, presumably to deal with the men unloading the shipment. He really needed a new assistant, Draco mused. Preferably some tough as nails old battle axe with a harelip.
He walked out into the showing room, his mind still on Delaney and his damn Irish glass blower, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, sir. What can I do for-Harry?”
Harry turned around and grinned at him. He was looking flat sexy in black jeans and a hunter green t-shirt. “Hello.”
Draco stared at him some more, then noticed something glinting in his right earlobe and said, “Is that a fucking earring, Potter?”
Harry’s grin widened and he nudged his glasses up on his nose. “Yeah. Me and Ron got them about two years ago,” he said. “’Course, Ron got a tattoo of a dragon to go with his, which I thought was a bit too much, and-”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Draco cut him off before he got around to mentioning exactly where on his freckly body Weasley had gotten his tattoo. That was one mental image that Draco could happily live without, thank you.
“I came to look at the art, Malfoy,” Harry said vaguely. He gestured to the Rembrandt, a lovely portrait of the artist’s mistress. “Tell me, is this real?”
“Of course it’s real,” Draco said, mildly offended. Then he glared at Harry. “Do you even know what it is, Potter?”
“A pretty picture?” Harry ventured.
He was joking. Draco could see it in the way his pretty green eyes did that annoying twinkling thing he’d learned from Dumbledore. He had to be joking.
“That is a very rare and exceedingly valuable Rembrandt,” Draco informed him smartly. “But I wouldn’t expect someone with your kind of culture lag to know that, Potter. I expect that comes from being raised in a broom cupboard by muggles.”
To his surprise, Harry actually laughed. He walked over and brushed a lock of Draco’s pale hair back from his face and smiled. “You know, I’ve missed you,” Harry said, and Draco knew he wasn’t talking about their one night of frantic sex. “I have no one to tell me what a complete prat I am anymore. No one to taunt me or try to get one over on me. No one to curse me and make fun of my parents. Strange that I should miss those things, really, but I do.”
“Potter, you’re not making any sense,” Draco said. He smacked Harry’s fingers away so they would stop playing with his hair. “Just because I chose to fuck you rather than kill you doesn’t mean I like you.”
Harry stepped in to him and tilted his head so that his lips were a scant breath away from Draco’s. “And just because I let you fuck me and liked it doesn’t mean I like you,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Draco asked, his lips barely moving lest they brush Harry’s.
Harry reached up, tangled his fingers in Draco’s silky hair, and pulled him down to kiss. Draco made a sound of protest that was lost on Harry’s tongue and hummed down Harry’s throat. Harry slid his tongue over Draco’s, coaxing him to respond. He was rewarded when Draco kissed him back, grazing his teeth over Harry’s bottom lip before catching it lightly between his teeth and tugging. He sucked Harry’s lip into his mouth, flicked his tongue over Harry’s tongue, then froze when he heard someone clear their throat, suddenly recalling that they were in a public place. And not just any public place, but his place of business.
“Uh…um, sir?” Delaney said, looking positively scandalized right down to the roots of her dirty-blonde hair.
Draco broke away from Harry and glared at her. Harry snickered and when the girl looked at him, he winked.
“What is it now, Delaney?”
“Well, sir, it’s…it’s one of your special crates again, sir,” she said. She was blushing so hard that her face was the color of a ripe cherry.
“’Special’ crates, Malfoy?” Harry said, eyeing him thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t have anything to do with your other job, now would it?”
Draco lifted an eyebrow at Harry and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you missed me, Potter,” he teased.
Delaney did that throat clearing thing again and this time both of them glared at her. “Sir, it’s a rather large painting this time. I don’t exactly know where you want me to put it.”
Draco saw the guilty look Harry gave him when he heard that Delaney was talking about art, not death contracts. He smiled. “Come on, Potter,” he said, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders. “You can help me find a place to hang it.”
/fin/
A/N: 1)This was quoted from 'The Winter of Our Discontent' by Stienbeck 2)I have no idea if either the A-Team or McGyver ever made it to the UK.