Archive of Our Own

The door opens and the bell goes ding.

Draco’s eyes immediately fly to the entrance of his bookshop, his heart beating madly in the hope that it’s him.

He sighs when he realises it’s not Harry. Another customer in search of a book, most likely a best-seller by the looks of the lady who enters the shop and immediately heads for the new arrivals section.

Draco keeps on stacking books for his new display on queer authors through the centuries, when he feels Ophelia’s warm body sliding against his calf, a familiar purring making him smile as he looks at his feet.

“Hello, lovely lady,” he whispers in order not to disturb the elderly man who has fallen asleep on one of the armchairs in the reading nook, a copy of Cloud Atlas on his chest. “Are you back from your walk? I guess it’s time for lunch.”  

Draco’s pale fingers stroke the cat’s black fur, the colour of his nail varnish perfectly matching his cat’s fur. He checks on the customers in the shop and quickly hides in the little office at the back to prepare Ophelia’s food.

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” he tells her as he squats down and watches her eat, keeping the door open to listen for the familiar bell above the entrance of the bookshop. “It’s Tuesday lunchtime, but he’s still not here. I wonder if something happened. He’s never missed a single Tuesday.”

Draco goes back to the till, helping the woman find the book she was looking for and stifling a laugh when the gentleman snores himself awake and then apologises with an embarrassed look on his face.

“My grandfather used to fall asleep while reading all the time,” Draco tells him when the man comes to the till to pay for his book. “Sometimes I do, too. If the book is rather dull.”

“I just closed my eyes, and next thing I know it’s already lunchtime,” the man says, shaking his head. “My wife's going to wonder where I’m hiding. Got to head home, otherwise the missus is going to alert the police.”

Draco smiles, handing him a paper bag with his book and checking the door again when it dings.

Still no Harry.

The hours go by, and Draco’s heart sinks a little bit more.

Well, it’s not like Harry promised.

It’s not like they have a date.

But he’s been coming to Draco’s bookshop every single Tuesday for the past few years. It’s Harry’s only day off from his high profile Ministry job as Head Auror, and Draco still has no idea why Harry decides to spend it with him. After their truce in eighth year and Draco’s awkward attempts at making amends and proving he was capable of change, Harry seemed curious about him. The Prophet ran an article on the disgraced Death Eater living as a Muggle after he was sentenced to three years without his wand. It seemed like a death sentence at the time, but Draco managed to stay afloat by finding a job in a bookshop in Salisbury, living in a tiny flat just above it. He missed his magic like a lost limb during those years, but he decided to keep his head down and try to bite the bullet while he worked and learnt everything he could about Muggle books.

He loved the old volumes in the antique section, the sleek covers of the new arrivals, the intricate designs of the Penguin leatherbound classics. Persephone, the elderly lady who owned the bookshop, took a liking to him and taught him everything he needed to know about the job. When Draco’s sentence ended and he finally had his wand back, he decided to stay. Persephone never intruded or asked the reasons behind Draco’s mysterious need to take a day off every time there was a full moon. She just told him to rest and look after himself, and he would bake her favourite biscuits, full of gratitude and affection for that frail lady who had taken him in like a stray.

Three more years went by, and Draco stayed. He looked after Persephone when she fell sick, visiting her in hospital and running the shop when she was too poorly to get out of bed after her discharge.

He was not expecting her to die, another loss in his short life, after Mother’s sudden illness and Father’s disgraced death in an Azkaban cell.

He was expecting even less to find out she had left him the shop and the flat above it. The solicitor smiled at him when Draco started crying, offering him a cup of tea and a box of tissues. He didn’t know what Draco had done in his past. He had no idea that Draco didn’t deserve a bookshop, nor that woman’s kindness.

“Sometimes you need to tell your dickbrain to shut the fuck up,” was Pansy’s laconic comment when he told her. “You’ve been given a second chance – take it like the Slytherin that you are and make your fortune with it. Sell the shop and move with me to Paris. We can start a new life in a country where no one knows about us and what we’ve done. It will be just Draco and Pansy, not the Death Eater and the Bitch Who Tried To Hand In The Saviour.”

Draco didn’t even consider it for a minute, shaking his head and caressing the cover of an illustrated book on Mexican birds. He loved this shop too much to sell it. He loved his books and Ophelia and the cups of hot tea in cold winter afternoons, while he stared outside of the window during dead moments when he had no customers. He loved Monday evenings, spent tidying up and putting the books he found for Harry into a neat pile by the till. He loved the excitement of hearing the bell ring on Tuesday morning and seeing Harry’s smiling face greeting him as he entered the shop; glasses fogged up in winter and cheeks flushed in summer.

Every single week without fail, Harry arrives around ten o’clock with an empty bag and spends the morning chatting with Draco, reading the books Draco’s found for him and sitting on his favourite armchair by the window with a steaming cup of tea and Draco’s homemade biscuits.

Every single week, except for this one.

Draco pulls his sleeves up to clean the windows at the end of the day, clearing the Halloween display of fake cobwebs and plastic spiders. He stares at the moon on the other side of the glass and feels a shiver running down his spine.

Only two days left before his transformation.

He locks the shop door and turns the sign to closed, then climbs the stairs to his small flat, Ophelia at his feet like a trusted companion on the creaking steps that take him home. Draco strokes the soft feathers of Horatio, his old owl, and then writes a small message for Pansy to remind her of her monthly commitment at the shop.

He climbs under the shower with a groan, after a day spent on his feet, letting the hot water wash away his worries and sadness, or at least trying to. He lets his hand wander down, sliding lazily over his stiffening cock and closing his eyes while the indecent images start flooding his mind. A faceless body on all fours on a bed, spread open while a cock plunges into a slicked-up hole. Moans and thrusts, a begging voice and warm, sticky come filling up and trickling out. Draco lets out a gasp as Harry’s bronze skin and strong arms appear under his closed eyelids, his hands digging into the soft flesh of Draco’s hips. And it’s his own hole that is getting licked by Harry’s wanton tongue, that is getting teased and fucked and filled with so much come that it’s leaking out.

“Aahh,” Draco moans helplessly, painting the bathroom tiles with his warm release, moaning through the shudders that shake his body as he comes down from the delicious feeling and rests his forehead against the wall.

He finishes washing himself, his body loose and tired as he closes the water and then steps outside of the shower to grab a towel.

The evening is uneventful like every other that Draco spends on his own. He quickly reads the Prophet while his dinner finishes cooking, then listens to the Wireless while he eats. He lies on the sofa after dinner, a thick book in his hands while Ophelia purrs at his feet. He can’t focus on it, though, wondering if Harry is poorly, a familiar sense of dread constricting his chest at the memory of every person he’s lost in the past few years.

He could send an owl to Harry, but he doesn’t want to be a bother. And what would he write anyway? They don’t have an agreement; Harry simply turns up every Tuesday morning, asking for books to read and filling Draco’s life with green eyes and warm smiles, with fleeting brushes of his fingers against Draco’s when he passes him a cup of tea or a new book to read. And Draco’s completely lost for him, full of love to the brim, even though he knows that there’s no chance anything could ever happen between them. The ex-Death Eater and the Saviour of the Wizarding World. It’s simply unimaginable, and too scandalous to even consider. It would ruin Harry’s reputation, which would kill Draco.

Besides, Draco doesn’t even know if Harry fancies blokes. His love life is so private that even the paparazzi can’t seem to find out anything about him ever since he broke up with Ginny Weasley at the end of the War. And even if Harry liked men, liked him of all people, Draco knows he would be disgusted by his secret, by the ugly scar on his thigh and the beast he becomes every month.

It's Draco’s most precious secret, the one only Pansy is aware of, now that his parents are dead and Greyback carried the confession of what he’d done to Draco to the grave. It was Draco’s fault anyway, betraying the Dark Lord and failing to recognise Harry Potter. As if he could forget those emerald green eyes and that messy, black hair. As if Draco’s heart hadn’t started frantically beating in his chest as soon as his eyes had landed on Potter, in his home, at the mercy of his family. The urge to protect him, to save him, had caught him unawares, and Draco had caved in, uttering those words that would change his life forever. He had regretted it afterwards, when Greyback’s sharp teeth had sunk into the soft skin of his thigh, breaking it and making him scream in pain, begging for mercy. He had regretted it during his first transformation, when bones cracked and clothes ripped and his throat burnt after howling at that bloody moon for a whole night. He regretted it, but not for long. As soon as his eyes had met those green irises again, his resolve had settled once more.

He didn’t say anything about it at the Trials, not even when Harry testified in his favour. He didn’t confess that he was punished severely for not handing in the Saviour, because he knew he deserved to be sentenced. So he accepted the latest punishment with tears in his eyes, remembering the day he took the Mark, the number of times Father cast an Unforgivable on him because he had failed and disappointed him yet again, remembering the bite and the transformation.

He felt hot tears falling down his cheeks and told himself that he had touched rock bottom and the only way was up now.

It was when he stumbled upon the bookshop that he found out about the beauty of Muggle literature. He didn’t understand anything about Muggles and the world he had been ungracefully thrown in against his will, but he knew books. Books were familiar to him, like a friend he knew he could turn to in difficult times.

He was sceptical at first though, turning up his nose at the odd titles and thin books made of crinkly paper, but then Persephone stood at his side and handed him a copy of Hamlet, gently taking Draco’s elbow and depositing him on the armchair next to the window, the same one Harry sits at these days. And Draco was lost after that book.

He read another, then another, until he was spending more time at the bookshop than looking for a job and his meagre allowance was worryingly running out. 

“I don’t have the money to pay for these,” he told Persephone apologetically after a week. “I don’t even have the money to buy myself lunch, to be honest with you,” he confessed with a whisper, feeling so ashamed that his cheeks burnt.

“I happen to have some leftovers from yesterday evening,” Persephone said with a kind smile, “and I need someone to help me with the shop. I’m getting quite old, you see, and I don’t have any family left to help me. Would you be interested in a job here? I can’t pay much, but I can let you stay in the small flat just above the shop for free.”

Draco still remembers the way relief washed through his body when he heard those words, how incommensurably grateful he felt, lost and found all at the same time.

“Thank you,” he breathed out shakily, unable to say anything else.

Hamlet was the first book he bought with the first money he ever earned in his life. It now sits on the bookshelf in his room, a second-hand paperback, the pages yellow with use and the Pre-Raphaelite painting on the front cover faded and crinkly. It also sits on his skin, an elegant scribble under his elbow in blue ink. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ 

Draco runs his thumb over it, thinking that there are so many things in heaven and earth that he hadn’t even dreamed about before, as his fingers trace the letters and his mind settles on Harry again.

Such an impossible dream, he tells himself with a sigh.

He goes to bed, still thinking about messy curls and a broken smile, and when he wakes up in the morning he has that stupid hope in his chest that maybe Harry will turn up today. Maybe they’ve changed his day off, after years of a seemingly perfect routine.

No such luck.

The bookshop is quiet, except for a few elderly people and a couple of mums on maternity leave in search of a good book for their babies — his usual customers for a Wednesday morning.

Draco feels restless and anxious, the moon looming over him by the late afternoon, a nasty reminder of what’s in store for him tomorrow. His skin feels prickly and tight, the clothes too uncomfortable even though he chose them specifically in the morning with the knowledge he would need to wear something soft and loose. He shuts the shop and climbs the stairs feeling weary and full of the wrong type of nervous energy. Ophelia can sense it somehow, keeping her distance from him and preferring to sit on her favourite chair instead of at his feet like every evening.

“You’ll have to stay with Pansy tomorrow evening,” Draco tells her distractedly while scratching his neck. Merlin, he feels hot and uncomfortable with his pyjamas on. “Fuck, I need a cold shower.”

He ends up touching himself, thoughts of Harry and his hands and his mouth like shards of glass shattering when he comes with a deep groan, feeling unsatisfied and jittery soon after, needing more, craving a heavy body pinning down, filling him up and keeping him there, safe and still.

Draco knows it’s probably the hormones, but he also suspects it’s his own twisted desires.

Mother explained it that bleary morning after his first transformation, after Greyback had laughed at him and called him ‘a little omega bitch’ and Draco had blushed and cursed and cried helplessly.

“There are different types of werewolves,” Mother said slowly, avoiding his eyes, trying to spare him the shame she clearly felt every time she looked at him now. “Alpha, beta and omega. He’s an alpha, but you…you’re the rarest type.”

Draco had no idea what she was talking about, didn’t want to hear any of that crap about what he was now. Wasn’t it bad enough that he was a beast and his life was over? But no, Mother had patiently healed his wounds while he sobbed in his childhood bed, telling him about hormones and heats and ruts, and it had slowly dawned on him. He was something to be desired amongst monsters like him. Something rare and craved, since he could carry life.

“I don’t…” he said, cheeks on fire as he looked at the floor, at the duvet, at anything but his mother.

“You’re seventeen, and the thought has probably never crossed your mind,” his Mother replied calmly, “but maybe one day, when the war is over and you cannot find a pureblood wife like we hoped because of…because of what was done to you, then maybe…a husband, instead…”

Draco’s face heated up at the thought, his mind going towards the impure thoughts that had driven his lust since he had started touching himself. He’d never wanted a wife, not really. He knew he was expected to, that he would have had to push those desires down and forget about them for the sake of preserving the bloodline and producing a Malfoy heir. But maybe this was his only way out of an arranged marriage, because who would want him now?

He thought about it when Mother left him alone to lick his own wounds. For the first time he allowed himself to consider those images that populated his mind every time he touched himself in the darkness. Strong arms and broad chests, a hard cock between his lips, inside him, opening him and making him moan wantonly.

The need to be filled and bred.

He’d always wanted that, even before being bitten.

He looked at books in the library, found out about the different characteristics of werewolves, learning about smells and hormones, about what going in heat was going to feel like. But he didn’t have much time to learn, because there was a war, and then there wasn’t one anymore, but his life was a wretched mess anyway. With no magic and no family left, and a Muggle job to learn, Draco had no time to think about what those things meant anymore.

The hunting lodge was a blessing in disguise.

The Wizengamot decided to strip him of all properties as a punishment, all except for one they didn’t even know he still possessed, lost in the burnt archives of Malfoy Manor. A tiny hunting lodge in the New Forest, not too far from Salisbury. He couldn’t live there; there was nothing around it, no wand to Apparate daily, and Draco needed a job to survive. But with no Galleons to buy Wolfsbane, it was the only safe place for him to be during his monthly transformations. His Mother’s magic still kept the wards alive and ready to contain the beast inside him.

So Draco moved to Salisbury to have a safe place where he could transform, and then ended up staying. After the years went by, the thought crossed his mind several times that he could maybe get some Wolfsbane, but he didn’t want anyone to know, anyone to figure out his secret. He just wanted to disappear from the public eye and lead a quiet life, spending his days surrounded by books and his Tuesdays helplessly swooning over the Saviour.

He kept on going to the lodge every full moon, letting the beast roam wildly, releasing all its energy and howling at the moon until the first lights of day pushed it back in the deepest corner of Draco’s body, tucked safe and secure for the next thirty days.

He pushed his needs back, too. He let himself give in a few times, going to Muggle clubs for a tentative hook-up that always lasted until dawn broke in the sky, just like his transformations. He avoided other wizards, not wanting to draw attention to himself or to get hexed, knowing full well that no one would want to have sex with an ex-Death Eater with a werewolf bite anyway. But it felt like he was lying to Muggles, hiding such an important part of himself when he couldn’t even cast protective spells and had to rely on those odd condoms.

He could have looked for other werewolves over the years. He knows there are ways to find them, that he could let his untrained nose attempt to trace their smells, but he doesn’t want to. He still remembers Greyback’s acrid and pungent smell, the way it disgusted him and made him feel powerless and terrified. He wonders if all alphas smell like that or if it was just that horrible beast that did.

He closes his eyes and remembers the way Harry smells. Like freshly-baked bread and caramel, like that chai tea that he always drinks, the spices tickling Draco’s sensitive nose in the best possible way. Like warmth and sunshine. Like something safe and electrifying at the same time.

There’s only one person Draco wants, as impossible as it is. And he will never have him.

So Draco has never managed to know what it’s like to get filled with warm, sticky come, to feel it trickle down from his used hole with a shiver. And sweet Merlin, he craves it. He wants to have green eyes watching him as he falls apart and gets fucked mercilessly into the mattress or against the wall, anywhere as long as it’s with Harry.

“Hello?” a voice calls, making Draco snap out of his hormone-induced reverie.

“I’m so sorry, how can I help?” he asks, flushing scarlet as he scans a book for a customer and tries to dampen his arousal, calling himself stupid and unprofessional.

He looks at the clock on the wall and curses under his breath, feeling cold sweat on his back as the time of the transformation approaches. It’s nearly midday, and Pansy is late.

The bell dings loudly, making Draco’s hair stand on his arms with his sense so alert, and he’s about to say, “About time, Pans,” when his mouth freezes open as he stares at Harry Potter, standing in the doorway of his bookshop on a Thursday morning, looking like a complete and utter wreck but still impossibly gorgeous.

“Harry,” he murmurs, his eyes scanning the other man’s face, noticing the pale skin and dark circles under his green eyes, the hood of his coat pulled up to hide curls that are even messier than usual. Harry’s wearing old Muggle clothes, his jeans ripped at the knees and trainers wet. He’s just standing there by the open door, looking exhausted and sick, his nostrils flaring as he stares at Draco with wide eyes and parted lips. “Hey, are you okay?”

Harry shakes his head, eyes still glued to him, looking startled and dumbfounded by a sudden realisation that Draco fails to grasp. He looks shocked as he inhales deeply and lets his green eyes roam all over Draco’s body.

“I-I…” Harry stutters, his dark eyebrows creasing as he desperately looks at Draco for a moment that stretches endlessly, until someone appears behind Harry and asks if they can enter the bookshop. “I’m sorry, I …”

Draco takes a step closer, and a sudden gust of wind carries Harry’s intoxicating scent inside the shop, making Draco shudder at how delicious and familiar it is, so warm and spicy, mixed with something more overpowering that makes Draco almost heady with it. It’s a new smell, more intense and captivating than anything Draco has ever smelled before.

“Harry…” he repeats, feeling almost dizzy with the need to break the distance between them and touch him, have a proper sniff at him and fill his nostrils with Harry’s scent.

“I’m sorry,” Harry repeats, taking a step back. “I-I have to leave…”

Draco doesn’t even have the time to call him back, to check what happened to him, because Harry’s gone, probably Disapparating in one of the little side streets next to Draco’s shop, leaving him confused and desperate as he tries to figure out what on earth happened to Harry to make him run away like that, to make him look so unwell when he was in perfectly good health the last time Draco saw him. And besides, today is a Thursday, and Harry is a creature of habit, always turning up on the same day at exactly the same time. 

What in Merlin’s name is going on?

“Darling?” Pansy touches his arm, startling him as she appears at the doorway. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I had to take Puffy to the vet because he was sick. Are you alright?”

Draco nods, feeling the sweat run down his spine, a sense of nausea claiming him and making him almost gag on the spot. He needs to go, before the day comes to a close, to hide and prepare for the moon.

“I need to leave,” he croaks out, swallowing several times as he closes his eyes and takes a few steadying breaths.

“Circe, you’re not usually this bad, what happened?” Pansy asks, looking concerned when Draco’s eyes finally open.

“I don’t know,” Draco blurts out, shaking his head. He feels his skin on fire, his heart thrumming in his chest like a mad tambourine.

He feels desperate and lonely.

Empty.

“Can you Apparate or do you want me to Side-Along you?” Pansy whispers in his ear, grabbing his arm and guiding him to the little backroom, where Draco keeps his coat.

“I’ll be fine,” Draco says, wondering if he actually will be. He doesn’t want to splinch himself, but he feels the sudden need to just go, to be somewhere safe where he can take his clothes off and just feel some cold air against his burning skin.

Pansy gently pushes him inside the backroom, checking that no one is looking and closes the door behind her back. Draco squeezes his eyes shut, clutching his wand, until he channels his magic, focusing on the hunting lodge, on the thick woods around it, the smell of the earth and the green leaves.

Crack.

He exhales as he opens his eyes and finds himself in the familiar living room, the air smelling stale after so many weeks of the house being shut, so he opens the windows, all of them, letting the cool and fresh air in, filling his lungs with it.

Draco hums, taking his clothes off slowly, running his hands along his fevered skin, over the raised scar on his thigh, which always feels more tender and sensitive before a transformation.

He looks at the tattoos on his arms, at the whale and bowl of petunias falling into the void. His thumb brushes across the drawing of the hands with golden handcuffs around them, the ten matches slowly consuming themselves.

He runs his fingers over the quotes inked on his arms and thighs, the words dancing on his pale skin and reminding him of the books he’s read, all the feelings he’s poured onto the paper.

There are a few more hours left before the moon rises, and Draco spends them naked, nervously pacing around the tiny house and letting the adrenaline course through his veins, getting more restless than usual, feeling hard and insatiable as he pulls at his cock and comes with a strangled moan all over himself, Harry’s name on his lips like an indecent prayer.

When the time finally comes, he opens the doors that lead to the woods, the cold air of the night making his skin rise and his teeth chatter. He groans as he feels the painful pull of muscles and tendons, the bones breaking and rearranging themselves in the most agonising way as Draco screams and begs to the moon, tears on his face as he howls his loneliness.

If only he had a mate.

If only there were someone with him during the lonely nights in the woods.

The wolf takes over, giving Draco respite from the thoughts and the pain.

And then he runs and chases, the ground vibrating underneath him.

He hunts and digs his fangs into warm flesh, snarling when a fox approaches.

He howls and growls, looking for something, searching for him.

The trees are thick and the earth soft under his paws, and Draco smells the air, sensing him. Not too far, but still not close enough. He runs and runs, his nose attuned to something, to that scent that has him howling desperately.

He finally reaches the end of his lands, that border that infuriatingly keeps him in and prevents him from roaming the woods, searching for his mate. The magic is so strong, and it stings as he digs his paws in the earth, trying to find a way out.

He can smell him so close, can almost see him, and then he’s there.

A black wolf, whining as he runs towards him and is pushed back by the same barrier that keeps Draco locked in.

They whimper together, digging, groaning, howling, snout in the mud in the pointless attempt to reach for each other.

But then the moon is gone, and the first pink clouds appear on the horizon. Draco is so tired, so weary and heart-broken as he drags himself back to the house, where he knows he will need to be by the time the sun is up.

His muscles and bones start hurting again as the transformation repeats, sinews and joints snapping in place as Draco screams and finds himself naked and sore on the cold earth, not too far from the lodge. He wishes he had his wand to apparate, but he drags himself on unsteady feet to the house, slowly so as to not scrape his wounds.

As soon as he steps through the door, he finds his wand on the mantelpiece and casts a series of healing spells on the open gashes that are bleeding, his nails all broken and in a worse state than usual. He heals the cuts on his face, then manages to reach the shower, where the hot water stings and makes him groan as he washes, the water turning brown and red, sobs escaping him as he rests his forehead against the tiles.

If only he weren’t so alone, all the time.

He’s hungry, but too exhausted to do anything other than collapse on the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and sinking into a restless sleep.

He dreams about branches snapping under his paws, about a scent that makes his heart race and his cock throb in anticipation. He dreams about green eyes and a deep voice telling him to be still, to be good for him, and he’ll be rewarded. Like that, good pet.

He wakes up with a start, still hard from his dream, which is unusual. He normally lacks the energy for pleasure after a full moon, so he wonders if something’s up with him. He’s not meant to go into heat for at least another three months.

Draco groans, his stomach rumbling as he reaches for a bag of snacks that he keeps on the bedside table for mornings like this, knowing full well that he will be too tired to cook. He eats a protein bar, then munches on some nuts while he contemplates the bruises on his pale skin. He heals a few when he feels a bit more human with a full stomach, not wanting to turn up at the shop looking like he’s been in a fight. He sleeps a little longer and then Apparates back to his flat above the shop just before midday.

“You can go home,” he tells Pansy, making her jump.

“Go back to bed, you menace,” Pansy says, gently pushing him towards the stairs that lead to his flat. “You look like a wreck, and I have nothing better to do today anyway.”

“But…” Draco tries to argue, knowing that Pansy had to take a day off to replace him at work, or she’s going to fall behind on her orders for Madam Malkin.

“That blonde with divine boobs just winked at me,” Pansy hisses, “now sod off and let me see if I can take her home tonight.”

Draco chuckles and decides that another little nap can only do him good. He slides under the warm duvet when he suddenly remembers something, like an itch at the back of his brain that has been nagging him all morning.

There was something last night in the woods.

Something that called to him.

But Draco can’t remember what, can’t put his finger on the irritating feeling that he ought to recall what was so important that it took all the energy out of him in an attempt to reach it.

He’s back at the shop before closing time, telling Pansy and her latest flame to go and get dinner somewhere and stop snogging in his shop, when it suddenly hits him.

The black wolf.

There was another wolf in the woods, for the first time since Draco turned.

He starts to panic, thinking that someone found him, that his secret will be discovered, when the door of the bookshop opens with a loud ding, and Draco’s eyes lift to meet green irises.

Harry stands there, the door still open and letting in the cold air of the evening. He looks awful, even worse than yesterday, even though his face is partly hidden by the hood of his coat.

“Harry,” Draco murmurs, waiting for him to come inside.

“Are you about to close the shop?” Harry asks, his voice a little hoarse and deeper than usual.

Draco checks the big clock on the wall and nods.

“You can still come in for a cup of tea,” Draco says, smiling tentatively, feeling deep down that something is terribly off with Harry, with the fact that he’s here on a Friday evening, looking like an utter wreck. “I still have the books I got for you. I got an interesting one on the history of be-”

“Can we go outside?” Harry asks, then tilts his head with a grimace. “Please? Sorry, I’m…”

Draco nods, confused and a bit worried by Harry’s unusual behaviour. He waits for the last customer to leave, watching Harry lean against the shop window outside and looking forlorn, then Draco turns the sign to ‘closed’ and locks the door behind him.

“Is there anywhere in particular you would like to go?” Draco asks gently, putting his coat on and wrapping his scarf around his neck with a shiver. This is so weird, he thinks, seeing Harry outside of the comfort of Draco’s nest, the impression that something is wrong like a persistent whistle in his ear.

“Can we just…” Harry asks, looking lost and sad, “walk for a bit?”

“Yes, sure,” Draco replies, heading towards the cathedral as the other shops close and people hurry home to make dinner and see their loved ones. It makes his loneliness feel sharper, the pain a little deeper. That’s what he loves about living above the shop; he can just climb the stairs and ignore the fact that there’s no one to rush home to, that no one except for his cat will be there for him.

“I wonder what it feels like to look forward to going home,” Harry mumbles with his eyes glued to a lady who is running with a Sainsbury’s bag clutched in her hand. “To have someone waiting for you, happy to see you at the end of the day.”

“I was actually wondering the same thing,” Draco says with a sad smile, his eyes meeting Harry’s.

“You have Ophelia,” Harry points out. “She loves you to bits.”

“You could get a pet,” Draco suggests kindly. “I can take you to the local RSPCA, if you want.”

Harry shakes his head, burying his hands in his pockets as they approach the cathedral, the grass damp under their feet as they step on it. Draco inhales deeply, remembering the smell of the earth last night, the feeling of it under his paws.

“Sorry for dragging you out,” Harry mumbles, staring at an empty bench and sitting down. Draco follows him, their shoulders brushing together as he sits too close, regretting it instantly when Harry flinches and turns his face the other way. He’s about to stand up and move when Harry turns again and grabs his arm. “Don’t. I’m just…I’m sorry I’m being so weird. I’m just…struggling a lot at the moment.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” Draco says softly, finally noticing the bruises on Harry’s face, his split lip and the way his hands are shaking. “Hey, what happened to you? Do you need me to take you to St Mungo’s?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, letting out a shaky breath. “I’ve already been there, and I don’t want to ever go back…I’m…I just needed to see you. So badly…”

Draco blushes, Harry’s grip on his arm tightening and grounding him, making Draco swallow loudly and blink a few times at him.

“I was worried that something had happened to you,” Draco admits, unable to confess that he missed Harry and was dying to see him.

Harry breathes out loudly, letting his hand slide down until it reaches Draco’s wrist, lifting it to inspect his fingers.

“Your nail varnish is all gone,” Harry comments, studying the dreadful state of Draco’s nails after the transformation. He completely forgot to fix them, tries to think of an excuse before Harry asks what happened to him, but then Harry’s hand travels further down and closes around his, so warm and strong, bigger than Draco’s. “I like that about you. The way you look.”

“Oh,” Draco stupidly says, his eyes widening in surprise.

“Your long hair, the tattoos and the nails,” Harry confesses, staring at his feet. “You look…good.”

“Thank you,” Draco whispers, his voice hesitant as he considers he must be dreaming. Yep, he’s definitely dreaming.

“I’m sorry it’s so cold,” Harry says, squeezing his hand. “I just can’t…be inside at the moment.”

“Is it your claustrophobia playing up again?” Draco asks, remembering Harry’s broken confession one Tuesday evening about struggling to be in small, cramped spaces, about cupboards under the stairs and his awful Muggle relatives. Draco had felt a rage he didn’t think he could contain when he found out, and had to go and smash something in his office when Harry was calm enough to continue reading his book.

Draco tried to find them, the Dursleys, tracked them down and considered what to do with them, how to punish them for what they had done, but then Harry had said something about being glad Draco could have his wand back and do magic again, because he liked the smell of his magic, the way it felt on his skin every time Draco cast a warming charm on him, and Draco thought he couldn’t lose this for the sake of revenge. He still sent a few dung bombs and a couple of Howlers to the Dursleys though, thinking that it was the least he could do.

“It’s not the…” Harry starts, wiping his face with his free hand and letting out a big sigh. “Everything feels stuffy and too crowded…”

“The bookshop is empty now,” Draco suggests, “and I can cast a cooling charm.”

“The smell would be too much,” Harry blurts out, blushing furiously after his confession and averting his gaze.

Draco stares at him, feeling embarrassed himself. He doesn’t think his shop stinks. He loves the smell of books, the paper and leather tickling his sensitive nose in the best kind of way. His bookshop smells like home, because that’s what it is to Draco. An extension of his flat.

Maybe he should consider buying an air freshener, but they always smell wrong to him, fake and pungent in the worst kind of way.

He’s about to tell Harry he’s sorry his shop stinks, when Harry’s stomach starts rumbling loudly.

“Are you hungry?” Draco asks, enamoured by the sheepish look on Harry’s face when their eyes meet.

“I haven’t had anything to eat today,” Harry confesses. “Everything tasted off this morning, and then I…didn’t have the energy to cook.”

“Come on,” Draco says, standing up and pulling Harry up with him. “I know just the right place, but we need to hurry because they shut in,” Draco checks his watch, “ten minutes, shit.”

“I can’t eat inside,” Harry says apologetically, but Draco pulls him and starts walking fast towards the town centre.

“We can eat outside,” Draco explains, his fast walking turning into a jog as he feels his joints protesting painfully after the morning transformation. Harry’s normally much fitter than him, what with his job as Head Auror, but he seems to be struggling too.

Draco loves letting his eyes linger on Harry’s lean muscles and broad shoulders when he’s caught up in a book and can’t see him staring longingly and hungrily at him, and today is no exception.

When they reach the pie shop, Harry’s eyes widen in surprise, looking at the last few Cornish pasties and pies on display as one of the employees starts putting them away.

“I-I can’t,” he mutters, pointing at the shop.

“What would you like?” Draco asks, opening the door and motioning at the shop assistant to wait. “I’ll get it for you, and we can eat it in front of the cathedral.”

“A pasty?” Harry asks, looking surprised and touched by Draco’s offer. “Or any pie with meat. Thank you.”

Draco apologises for the late order and gets them both a traditional pasty with some potato wedges, holding the steaming food with cold fingers and handing it to Harry when he leaves the shop.

“Let’s hope our bench hasn’t been taken,” he says with a smile, noticing the way Harry’s eyes seem to water, his gaze leaving him as he turns the other way and sniffs. When they get to the bench, Draco casts a strong warming charm that makes both sigh in contentment, and then Harry unceremoniously tucks in, moaning around the perfectly crumbly pastry and the tasty filling.

“This is bloody amazing,” Harry says, a few crumbs falling from his mouth.

“I know, right?” Draco says, nearly scalding himself with the filling of his pastry. “Best ones in town.”

They eat in companionable silence, and it doesn’t feel awkward because they’re kind of used to coexisting side by side without the need to speak, doing it every Tuesday in the bookshop when Harry comes to visit.

Draco notices the dark circles under his green eyes, the way Harry keeps on yawning as he finishes the last morsel of his dinner, licking his fingers afterwards.

“You look exhausted,” Draco observes, tilting his head and noticing how limp Harry’s curls look, how bruised his split lip is. “Maybe it’s time for you to try to get some rest.”

“Can’t sleep,” Harry mumbles tiredly, closing his eyes with a deep sigh.

“I have some Dreamless Sleep in my flat, if you want,” Draco suggests. He doesn’t normally use it, but he still has it for emergencies, especially for those dreadful nights when he goes into heat and there’s no one in bed with him to share the burden of his arousal.

“Can’t take that stuff,” Harry mutters with a grimace. “My Mind-Healer said I’m forbidden. I used to take it after the war because I could never sleep, and I…it was getting addictive, so it’s best if I avoid it.”

Draco nods, knowing full well how potions can mess up with you, especially when you feel most vulnerable. He wonders what’s wrong with Harry, if it’s his depression making him feel dreadful or if it’s something different.

It’s not the first time Harry looks sad and worn out, but Draco’s never seen him like this, and he’s never missed a single Tuesday, not even when he was so depressed that he spent most of the day curled up in his armchair with tears in his eyes or a vacant look on his face. Draco had to miss a few days over the years due to his ‘furry problem’, as Pansy likes to affectionately call it, but he always warned Harry beforehand, saying that he would be out of town for work or sending him an owl to let him know that he was feeling unwell. He doesn’t know what Harry ends up doing on those days. He never dared to ask.

“What helps me when I can’t sleep,” Draco says, hesitantly placing his hand on Harry’s knee and squeezing it lightly, “is to drink some warm milk with honey and to find an extremely boring book to read. I reckon something on potions would do the trick for you.”

Harry smiles – finally – and Draco’s lips curl at the corners as he observes the man he loves more than anything else in the world, thinking that he would do anything to make Harry feel better.

“I’ll try that,” Harry says, shivering from the cold when Draco’s spell starts wearing out. “I guess I should go now. You’re probably tired, too.”

“Hm,” Draco hums, feeling exhausted deep down in his bones, especially due to the full moon and the night spent howling and searching for the other wolf.

“Do you…” Harry starts, fiddling with his wand instead of Apparating, then looking at Draco with a hopeful expression. “Do you think we could meet up again? Outside?”

“Yes,” Draco replies without even thinking about it. “Sure. I finish working at five tomorrow, and Sunday’s my day off.”

“I wouldn’t want to…” Harry starts, “not on the only day you have off work. You’ve probably got a million thin-”

“I want to,” Draco says vehemently, interrupting Harry and promptly feeling embarrassed by his own enthusiasm.

“Okay,” Harry says with a smile, his lip curling up in a way that makes the cut open, the red blood glistening on his mouth. Draco casts a quick healing charm that makes Harry shudder, closing his eyes and humming as the magic stitches his skin back together. “I’ll come by around ten. Would that be okay?”

“Yes,” Draco replies,  feeling so excited that he could jump around like a child at Honeydukes.

“Thanks,” Harry whispers, and his eyes crinkle around the edges, going soft in a way that Draco recognises because he’s seen that look before, every time he gives Harry a book he particularly loves or when he bakes him his favourite biscuits. “I’d better go home now.”

Draco nods, and looks around, finding no one in sight as Harry waves at him, and then Disapparates with a loud crack.        

Draco paints his nails dark blue that evening, thinking about the depths of the ocean and the way his love for Harry sometimes makes him feel like he’s drowning in it. He carefully thinks about the books he could get for Harry, about the ones that made him feel better when going through his own depression, then he writes a neat list and tucks it in the pocket of his coat, ready for the next morning.

Draco can’t wait for Sunday, making sure the bookshop is in mint condition for Laura to take over. She’s young but extremely enthusiastic, and Draco knows that he’s leaving the shop in good hands every Sunday. He usually cleans his flat and does the weekly shopping on his day off, but today he feels like a bundle of raw energy as he waits downstairs for Harry to turn up. He has a bag with three of his favourite novels, including Norwegian Wood, and he hopes Harry will like them. It feels like a different level of intimacy, giving him those books, as if Draco were cracking his heart open and offering Harry a piece of it.

The bell tinkles, and Draco’s eyes meet emerald green, a smile blooming on his face when he notices that Harry looks a bit better, his wounds and bruises gone and his face less tired.

“Are you sure you want to spend time outdoors?” Harry asks when Draco joins him on the pavement. “It’s freezing today.”

“The weather looks good,” Draco says, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “And besides, we can always cast warming charms,” he adds in a whisper.

They walk for a little bit, going past the tourists heading for the cathedral and the groups of shoppers approaching the town centre. Draco follows Harry until he leads them to a little side-street, checking that no one is around. Harry offers his hand, and Draco stares at it for a few seconds, remembering that moment a lifetime ago when he was the one who offered Harry his hand, and the feeling of rejection burning through him when Harry refused to take it.

He lets his palm slide along Harry’s, feeling the warmth seeping through his skin, the calloused fingertips wrapping around Draco’s hand in a firm grip that makes him wonder what it would be like to have those hands on him, to feel them roam over his skin and take him apart, make him his.

“Ready?” Harry asks, his voice a little deeper than usual, as if he were affected in the same way by the simple contact between them. It’s not like they’ve never touched before, but it’s never been deliberate like this.

Draco nods, and he squeezes his eyes shut when the tug of Apparition makes his head spin, Harry’s magic sizzling over his skin like an electrifying spark that shakes him to the core. He gasps, realising that Harry is much more powerful than he had thought, and when he opens his eyes, he finds himself on a sandy beach, the cold wind ruffling his hair and making Draco shiver.

He looks at the expanse of the sea, the blue horizon stretching indefinitely as the sunlight shimmers on the surface of the water. A seagull calls, making Draco turn his head towards the tiny house with a red roof and a garden that stretches onto the beach.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes out, feeling a raw energy in his body, inhaling the fresh sea air and smiling at Harry, their hands still joined as he notices the way Harry looks at him, his gaze fond and eyes crinkling at the corners.

“It’s my secret little corner,” Harry explains, starting to move as their hands stay firmly tucked together, keeping each other warm. “No one knows that I have this place, not even Ron and Hermione. I come here when I need…time. Space.”

“Oh,” Draco simply says, feeling his cheeks heat up at the thought that Harry’s taken him to his secret hideout, Draco of all people. Not even Granger and Weasley know about it, which is baffling to say the least. Draco wonders if he and Harry are friends — hopes they are — because he would take anything Harry is willing to offer, even the crumbs of his affection. His heart soars when Harry holds his hand and takes him for a walk along the beach, explaining how he bought the house after the war, when his Mind-Healer suggested finding a place for himself that didn’t hold any memories of the people he had lost.

“I like Grimmauld Place,” Harry confesses with a sad expression that tells Draco otherwise. “Most of the time, at least. Sirius left it to me, and I got it fixed and redecorated the shit out of it after the war. It was a mammoth task, but I did it, and now it’s lovely and cosy, but…”

Harry pauses, kicking a pebble and frightening a little crab that scurries away quickly.

“But?” Draco asks softly.

“But sometimes, when I’m feeling down, all I can see is all the people who died,” Harry adds grimly, his voice cracking. “I can see Sirius with a bottle of Ogden at the kitchen table. Remus crying on the flowery armchair next to the fireplace the day Sirius slipped through the Veil. I can see Fred running down the stairs with a cheeky grin on his face, Tonks changing her hair colour to make a rainbow for me in the garden. And all of those memories shatter my heart a little bit more every time…I thought I’d grow stronger over the years, but…”

“Harry…” Draco murmurs, because he lacks the words to console him, so he pulls him closer instead, wrapping his arms tentatively around Harry’s shoulders and hugging him in a way that he hopes isn’t too awkward. Harry seems to melt in his embrace, burying his face in the crook of Draco’s neck and inhaling with a tiny whimper, shuddering as he grips Draco’s coat and brings him closer.

Harry rocks them to an imaginary music, then seems to remember himself and gently pushes Draco away, staring at the sand with an embarrassed expression on his face.

“I’m sorry, I’ve just…” he mumbles, nervously tugging at his curls. “I’m going through a bad period. Something happened, and I’m struggling to cope with it…”

“It’s fine,” Draco says, finding Harry’s hand again and squeezing it. “I’m here for you.”

“Would you like to get some fish and chips?” Harry asks, pointing towards the group of houses at the end of the beach. “The local chippy is pretty good.”

“Sure,” Draco says, and they end up getting a big portion of cod and chips with a side of mushy peas that they eat sitting on a bench in front of the little harbour.

They don’t talk much after that. Draco gives Harry the books he’s picked for him and relishes the way he blushes and accepts them with a grateful smile. Then they just sit and walk in silence until Harry says that it’s getting cold and the warming charms are not strong enough for Draco’s frail complexion, which makes him laugh and elbow him.

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Potter,” he argues.

“I don’t want you to get sick because I’m weird and I can’t bear to stay indoors with you,” Harry says, which makes Draco falter.

With him?

Does Harry mean that Draco is the problem?

He doesn’t have the time to ask, because Harry has already grabbed his wrist and Apparated them back to Salisbury, looking all sheepish and adorable when he asks Draco if he doesn’t mind seeing him again next week after work.

“I’d love to,” Draco says, before Harry can argue that he’s going to be tired. “Any time you want. Just send me an owl or come to the shop around closing time.”

Harry nods, looking relieved and happy in a way that makes Draco’s heart clench in his chest and his stomach do an odd little backflip. 

It’s the following morning that Draco realises something is off.

The front page of the Prophet has a giant photo of Harry wearing his Auror uniform, his expression intense as his brows crease in concentration and his eyes flash at the photographers.

The title is disconcerting.

Where is Harry Potter? The Saviour’s disappearance leaves the DMLE in a state of chaos.

Draco blinks a few times, his frown deepening the more he reads about Harry not turning up for work the previous week, making the Ministry start an official investigation to discover his whereabouts and suspecting a kidnapping.

Draco is confused. Is Harry alright?   

He reads the article again, jotting down a few key facts on a pad he summons.

Harry seems to have disappeared the previous Monday. There was an important Auror mission he was involved in, but the article doesn’t specify what its purpose was. No one at the Ministry seems to know his whereabouts.

Draco thinks about it all day, wondering if Harry is simply hiding because his depression has taken a turn for the worse, but then he remembers him saying that something had happened and that he wasn’t coping with it.

On Tuesday morning, the papers carry even more disconcerting news.

There’s an appeal from Granger and Weasley, her bushy hair and his freckled face looking worried on the front page of the Prophet as they ask for their friend to contact them as soon as possible.

Draco’s fingers start nervously tapping on the table, his stomach in knots as he wonders what in Merlin’s name is going on. Why are Harry’s best friends not aware of where he is and what happened to him? He anxiously waits for Harry to turn up, his eyes glued to the door, longing for the familiar sound of it opening to reveal green eyes and messy curls, because it’s a bloody Tuesday, and Tuesday is the day Draco gets to have Harry for himself, but no such luck.

Harry doesn’t come, and Draco reads the articles about him for the umpteenth time.

He doesn’t even know the Apparition coordinates of Harry’s secret house, has no clue where it was because he stupidly didn’t think of asking. All he can do is wait.

His patience is tested for another day, his anxiety coalescing into pure dread that something bad has happened to Harry, that he’s in danger and Draco is completely powerless and unable to do anything to save him.

But then on Wednesday evening, just as Draco is turning the sign on the door to ‘closed’, a hand pushes the handle open and startles him. Harry’s there, looking tired and worn-out but still alive.

“Fuck, I was so worried about you,” Draco can’t help but blurt out, taking his hand and dragging him inside, forgetting Harry’s unusual need to stay outdoors and watching his eyes widen and nostrils flare as he freezes on the threshold and grips Draco’s hand tight, so tight that it starts to hurt. But Draco’s temporarily distracted by Harry’s intoxicating scent, hitting him like a slap across the face as Draco lets out a little whimper and leans closer, wanting to fill his lungs with it, to bask in the smell that sets his senses alight and makes his magic sizzle. It's so much more intense than usual, so mouth-wateringly good.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, an almost animalist sound escaping his lips before he shuts his eyes and makes a clear attempt to calm down.

“Apparate us to the beach,” Draco urges him, fearing his own reactions to Harry’s scent, and Harry’s jaw clenches before he grips his wand and makes Draco’s head spin as his feet sink into cold sand. The wind is strong and ridiculously cold, and Draco is not even wearing his coat, so he shivers, pulling his cardigan around himself while he watches Harry take big gulps of air.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, “fuck, you’re going to freeze like that. Come here.”

He casts a warming charm that envelops Draco in a hot bubble, making him instantly relax as Harry’s magic surrounds him, like a warm hug that makes him feel safe.

“Are you okay?” Draco asks, his eyes lingering on Harry’s stubble and pale skin, catching his green eyes staring at Draco’s lips and wondering what the Gryffindor is thinking about. “I got so worried. Everyone is looking for you, and the papers published lots of articles about your disappearance.”

“I’m alright,” Harry says, sounding exhausted. “I’m sorry I disappeared. I just…”

He seems to be struggling to find the right words, turning his head towards the dark surface of the water, its rhythmic splashing on the shore like a distant lullaby that calms Draco’s nerves and makes him wonder what the right thing to do or to say is.

What does Harry need?

“Let’s go for a walk,” Draco says, gently taking Harry’s hand, giving him a chance to pull away. Harry squeezes it back instead, letting the tiniest smile flutter on his lips when their eyes meet.

“I fucked up,” Harry confesses much later, when the sky is so dark that Draco can barely see what’s in front of him. Harry leads them towards his little house on the beach, turning the lights on with a flick of his wand and sitting on the porch. Draco can see a kitchen full of plants inside, light blue furniture and white walls with a windchime made of seashells hanging by the door.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” Draco says, shaking his head, but Harry rests his chin on his hands as he stares at the darkness and frowns.

“I planned the raid myself,” he explains. “Got my best Aurors on the job. It was supposed to go smoothly, but then…”

There’s a moment of pause where the only sound is the howling of the wind and the noise of the waves crashing in the distance.

“Did anyone get hurt?” Draco ventures, turning to look at Harry’s lovely profile.

“Just me,” Harry replies, “but it could have been much worse. I could have…”

“Harry,” Draco says, trying to find the right words to comfort him. “I’ve known you for a long time, and you’re the most caring man I’ve ever met. You would have never put your Aurors in danger on purpose. You probably spent days planning that mission, and things can go wrong even if you’ve prepared everything in the most careful way. It’s not your fault. The most important thing is that you’re fine.”

Harry scoffs, turning his head the other way as he sniffles and takes deep, steadying breaths.

“I just wanted to see you,” he whispers, his voice so low that Draco barely hears it. “I was supposed to hide and figure out what to do after I Obliviated the Healers at St Mungo’s.”

“What?” Draco asks, confused, but Harry’s eyes lock with his, wet and scared.

“I just needed to lie low and figure out what to do, but…I missed Tuesday…and…” his lips quiver as he clenches his jaw and grabs a stone from the ground to throw it towards the shore. “I just needed to see you, and then…”

“I’m glad you came to see me,” Draco confesses, which seems to magically calm Harry’s nerves and make him deflate. “I was worried because you didn’t turn up, and…”

“Tuesday is my favourite day of the week,” Harry admits, worrying his bottom lip between his white teeth. “They kept on trying to make me work on Tuesdays, but I always said no, because…I like coming to see you, and I like the bookshop. No one knows that it’s the place where I spend my day off. I never told a soul.”

“Hmm,” Draco hums, his heart surging and beating faster than ever. “Tuesday also is my favourite day. It’s a shame you can’t come to the shop anymore, but…I like this, too.”

“Even if you’re freezing your balls off?” Harry asks with a chuckle, bumping his shoulder against Draco’s.

“I don’t mind the cold,” Draco admits with a smile. “And your warming charms feel so good.”

“Oh,” Harry says, suddenly looking embarrassed. “Can…can I hold your hand for a bit? I know it’s weird, bu-”

Draco doesn’t even let him finish, interlacing their fingers together and letting his warm palm press against Harry’s cooler one.

“There,” he says soothingly.

“I don’t usually like being touched,” Harry confesses, touching his nose in a nervous gesture and then straightening his glasses. “It feels like my skin is too tight and sensitive, and it really bothers me if someone tries to hug me, unless it’s a person I know and trust, but sometimes…sometimes all I crave is to be held and to hold someone really tight, to feel a warm body pressed against mine, to ground me and make me feel like I’m really here. I…I know it sounds weird.”

“It doesn’t,” Draco says, tilting his head and smiling at him. “It makes an awful lot of sense to me. I often feel the same.”

Draco thinks of all the times he’s fallen asleep curled up in his cold bed, craving the feel of a body pressed against his back, wrapping him into a tight embrace and grounding him. Someone who would whisper sweet little nothings in his ear, a tickling breath on his skin as strong thighs slide over his, pulling him even closer.

“How come you get it and my friends don’t?” Harry muses with a sigh, resting his head on Draco’s shoulder in a familiar gesture that sends a storm of butterflies raging in his stomach.

If only Harry wanted him in the same way Draco desperately wants him.

“Your friends are really worried about you,” Draco ventures, regretting it instantly when he feels Harry tensing up and raising his head from his shoulder.

“Did you…have you contacted them?” Harry asks, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“What? No!” Draco says, and Harry instantly relaxes. “It’s not my place; they’re your friends, and you have a right to hide. Besides, I don’t even know where we are right now.”

“Cornwall,” Harry immediately replies. “I’ll write the Apparition coordinates down for you.”

“You don’t have to,” Draco says, not wanting Harry to feel obliged, but the other man summons paper and a pen from his house, writing down an address in his messy handwriting.

“I loved the books you lent me last time,” Harry confesses when the night is so dark that Draco feels his eyelids drooping and his body leaning against Harry’s for support and comfort. “They made me feel seen. Like it’s not just all in my head.”

“I’m glad,” Draco says, wishing he could take Harry’s hand and drag him inside to look for his bed and climb on it together, to press his lips against Harry’s sensual mouth and feel him warm and strong against him.

“Time for bed,” Harry says, making Draco blink a few times in embarrassment. “Let me take you home.”

Draco falls asleep alone that night, dreaming of Harry’s calloused hands stroking his naked body languidly, whispering that he wants to fill him up against his skin, his lips trailing a line of kisses along his back, nestling between his thighs to swallow him whole.

“What are you hiding?” Pansy asks with a raised eyebrow on Friday evening.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco replies dismissively.

“You look like a lady with the vapours, darling,” Pansy deadpans, then leans closer to whisper in his ear, “or like a bitch in heat.”

“Fuck off,” Draco says, pushing her away as he makes dinner and feels her eyes on him.

“Is this about the mysterious person you’re meeting every Tuesday? The one you don’t want me to see.”

“It isn’t,” Draco lies, and he knows full well that Pansy can see through his shit, but he has zero intention of sharing Harry’s secrets with her, especially considering how much she loves to gossip. “And now tell me about that girl you’ve been dating. I like to live vicariously through your conquests.”

Pansy complies, but still spends a good part of the evening trying to pry information from Draco about the reasons behind his unusual behaviour and his odd evening and weekend dates that prevent Pansy from meeting him.

“I bet it’s Potter,” Pansy sighs dramatically, making Draco nearly choke on his wine. “You’ve always been obsessed with him. Besides, he’s rather gorgeous. It's a shame he’s decided to bugger off and disappear. Can’t really blame him, though. The amount of pressure he's probably under must be insane.”

Draco wonders if Harry’s finally told his friends where he's hiding, since there are no more appeals from Granger and Weasley. The papers still feature extensive articles with the wildest theories regarding the Saviour’s sudden disappearance, until on Sunday morning the Prophet’s front page features the Minister’s sombre face, announcing to the Wizarding World that Harry Potter has sent him a letter to resign from the DMLE.

Draco’s biscuit falls from his hand into his cup of tea, splashing the kitchen table and becoming a soggy mess by the time he manages to fish it out of his mug.

Harry’s no longer Head Auror.

Draco summons the piece of paper with the Apparition coordinates to Harry’s secret house and goes there straight away.

The weather is as miserable as it gets in Cornwall, with strong, gusty winds and a pouring rain that soaks Draco to the bone by the time he crosses the short distance to the house. He bangs on the front door until a startled Harry opens it, wearing only a t-shirt and boxers.

“You’re going to catch your death. Come in,” Harry says, letting Draco stand on the doormat, dripping water all over it while Harry fetches his wand to get him dry because Draco’s fingers are numb from the cold and he can’t use his properly. “There you go. Are you alright?”

Draco inhales and realises immediately his mistake.

The house smells like Harry in an overwhelming way. It’s like a punch to the stomach, like being immersed in a jar of honey and trying to swim to the surface. He feels the sweat down his back, his breathing coming out short as he struggles to contain the urge to grab Harry’s t-shirt and pull him towards him to crash their lips together and rub himself all over him.

Harry smells divine.

He smells like sex.

“Merlin…” Draco whimpers, his face flushing when he realises he’s getting hard and Harry will definitely realise.

“I need to open the windows,” Harry says, his eyes widening as he rushes towards the nearest window to open it wide, then moving to another one until they’re all ajar and the cold autumn air is rushing in, giving Draco’s senses some respite as he collapses against the wall and slides to the floor. “Hey, are you alright?”

“Just give me a moment,” Draco murmurs, embarrassed and mortified.

“Did something happen?” Harry asks, kneeling in front of him and letting his palms rub soothing circles on Draco’s arms

“I read the papers,” Draco replies, whimpering when Harry’s hand brushes against his neck, then slides just under his ear. He tilts his head and basks in the feeling of Harry’s fingertips running on his skin, closing his eyes to better enjoy it. “Feels good. Please, don’t stop.”

“Mhh,” Harry hums, moving to his cheek, letting his thumb trace the shape of Draco’s lower lip. Draco feels the urge to touch him, his cock hardening again. “Cup of tea?”

“Okay,” he replies, missing Harry’s hand as soon as it leaves his skin, chasing after it with a little whine that makes Harry stare at him when their eyes meet again.

“Do you want to come to the kitchen with me?” Harry asks, offering his hand so that Draco can get off the bloody floor. “The windows are all open.”

Draco feels ridiculous as he walks behind Harry, trying to hide the bulge in his trousers when he sits down and watches Harry make him a cup of tea and open a packet of chocolate malted milk biscuits.

“You left the DMLE,” Draco says, suddenly remembering the reason for his visit.

Harry simply nods, running his fingers through his messy curls and sighing.

“I can’t work there anymore,” he replies, looking forlorn. “Not after what happened. I wrote to Ron and Hermione to explain, and they seem to understand…I just…”

“It’s okay,” Draco says, not really knowing what he’s trying to say to console Harry. Because Harry clearly looks upset by his choice, even though he seems determined about it. “Do what feels right for you.”

“The weather’s shit, but…” Harry starts, biting on his bottom lip in a nervous way that Draco finds terribly endearing. “Would you still like to spend some time here? We could watch some telly or just…read…I still have to finish one of the books you lent me.”

“Yes,” Draco says, not believing his luck. “That would be lovely.”

It feels a bit like their Tuesday routine, with the exception that they’re in Harry’s house, so lovely and cosy, in spite of the freezing wind, and Harry looks more at ease as he reads on the sofa, his feet touching Draco’s as they sit at opposite ends of it. Draco borrows a novel  by Isabel Allende, and sinks in the marvellous adventures of a Chilean girl ending up in California during the gold rush with a Chinese man as her faithful companion.

“Are you not going to ask me what I’m going to do from now on?” Harry mumbles when Draco’s about to leave after dinner. His green eyes are glued to the floor, his bare feet twitching nervously as Harry tortures his lips with his teeth. “Hermione sent me a stash of pamphlets with career options, and I just…”

“Take a break,” Draco says. “Read, walk on the beach, have some nice food, relax. You deserve to do whatever you like for once. Whatever makes you happy.”

“I miss our Tuesdays,” Harry replies, blushing when their eyes meet. “But Sundays are turning out to be even better.”

Draco goes home and can’t stop thinking about Harry’s words, about the way his cheeks flushed and eyes glimmered when they parted earlier. He thinks about him all day at work on Monday, knocking into a pile of books and ruining a display because he’s too distracted.

At half past five, he shuts the bookshop and Apparates straight to Cornwall, knocking on the door and finding it open.

“Harry?” he calls, not finding him downstairs.

“In the shower!” Harry replies from upstairs, his voice muffled by the sound of the water. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Draco goes to the kitchen and decides to make himself a cup of tea to settle his nerves. He opens a window in the process, careful not to step over the boundaries Harry has set for them. He puts the kettle on and grabs a cup, but can’t find the teabags anywhere. He starts rummaging through the cupboards, until his attention is caught by something he sees in a small drawer under the microwave. He opens it fully and stares at the contents.

There’s a stash of bookmarks, the ones he gave Harry over the years. Draco collects them, like the bookworm that he is, but he always has some spares, and Harry used to have the terrible habit of putting dog-ears on his books, so Draco started giving him bookmarks to save those poor books.

Draco finds an old receipt. He lifts it up, trying to read the faded words, and his eyes widen in surprise when he realises it’s the first book Harry’s ever bought from him. A second-hand copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar that Harry held in his hands for a whole hour, explaining later that it was his favourite book when he was little, but that he could only steal it from his awful cousin when he was distracted, and then borrow it from the school library when it was available.

“We have a new copy,” Draco pointed out, looking at the worn cover and scratches on the book Harry was clutching to his chest as he got his wallet out.

“I like it second-hand,” Harry said sheepishly. “I can pretend it was mine since I was little. That this is the one we had at home.”

Draco didn’t say anything, a lump in his throat, but when he discovered where the Dursleys lived, he broke into their house at night, looking for that book. He never found it, called himself an idiot for breaking the law for something so sentimental and stupid, but still swapped the salt and sugar in the kitchen, vanished all the spoons and cracked Petunia’s collection of fine china in a fit of rage.

He holds the old receipt in his hand now, wondering why Harry kept it, and he then spots something else.

There’s an open envelope, a flash of a smile peeking out from the cream paper, and Draco’s heart stops beating for a mad moment when he realises that it’s own face he’s staring at. He carefully extracts the photos with trembling fingers, remembering the day Harry brought a Muggle camera on a Tuesday morning, saying that he wanted to take pictures of the shop because he liked Draco’s neat displays and cosy armchairs.

He lied.

They’re all photos of Draco.

There’s Draco frowning at the computer, the tip of a pencil between his pink lips. Draco smiling at an elderly lady as he helps her pack her bag. Draco holding a steaming cup of tea while he stares out of the window with a maudlin expression on his face. Draco’s hands, black nail varnish stark against his pale complexion, holding a copy of Wuthering Heights. Blue ink on his milky white skin, the stanza that begins with ‘Did you want to see me broken?’ from Still I Rise by Maya Angelou, just above his elbow. There's a photo of the Shakespearean quote 'It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves' on Draco's bicep that made Harry stare and touch his skin with featherlight fingers, muttering that he loved it, that he felt exactly the same. Another photo of Draco's white-blond hair, curling around his ear and looking soft.

His smile, his lips, his hands, his tattooed skin.

“Draco?” Harry’s voice startles him, making Draco jump and drop all the photos on the counter. Harry stares at them, then swallows loudly, his Adam’s apple bobbing on his neck. “You were not supposed to open that drawer…now you’re going to think that I’m a weirdo.”

His black curls are still wet from the shower, and the open window does nothing to diffuse his mouth-watering scent as Harry approaches, green eyes locked with Draco’s as he breaks the distance between them. Harry’s wearing a t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, but he’s barefoot, and Draco suddenly can’t breathe when Harry steps so close that the tips of their feet are  touching.

“Harry…” he murmurs, the voice dying in his throat.

“I was happy to just have Tuesdays,” Harry murmurs, his eyes falling on Draco’s lips and lingering there, as if hypnotised. “I thought I could make do with having you only one day a week while you were working, but…but I’m greedy, because I grew up with nothing and now I long for everything.”

“What are you trying to say?” Draco asks, tilting his head to fill his nostrils with Harry’s scent and wishing he could drown in it.

“That I want you so badly,” Harry confesses, his voice deep and low, as if it came from the core of his body, as if it was pulled out of him. “One window is not enough to mask the way you smell.”

“How do I smell?” Draco asks, careful as he lets his hands rest on Harry’s hips, afraid  that he is going to open all the windows and pull away from him.

“You smell like something I want to devour,” Harry groans, his eyes setting Draco alight with need, the green so intense and mesmerising. “Like the most delicious thing on earth.”

Draco uses one of the few wandless spells he can cast and shuts the window, and then Harry growls, inhaling deeply while his eyebrows crease.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” Harry murmurs, eyes glued to Draco’s lips.

“Kiss me. Please, Harry. Fucking touch me, please…” Draco begs, sounding so desperate to his own ears, and Harry’s on him in an instant, his lips hot and wet and demanding. Draco moans into the feeling of having Harry’s mouth on his, his tongue sliding inside his mouth and licking into Draco, urgent and hungry.

Draco has imagined their first kiss a million times. He pictured a tentative brush of lips that made Harry blush, an awkward kiss pressed to the corner of Harry’s mouth, featherlight fingers tracing his temples and whispered words of love.

This is nothing like it, he thinks as Harry slides his fingers through his hair and gives it a tug to tilt Draco’s head and deepen the kiss even more. This is carnal and desperate and greedy. Harry groans into his mouth, one hand sneaking under Draco’s t-shirt to slide along his naked back and pull him even closer, rocking against him. And Harry’s so hard that Draco gasps, feeling him stiff and big against his own erection.

“Want you,” Harry mumbles when they part for air, as if he weren’t already touching every naked inch of skin he can find, his fingers so hot that they’re leaving a burning trail on Draco’s body. “Need you, Draco. So badly, you have no idea. Can I…”

Draco nods, not even knowing what Harry is asking for. Anything. Everything, as long as Harry keeps on kissing him like his life depends on it.

“Oh, fuck…” Draco moans when Harry’s fingers start working on his trousers, then his magic sizzles when he gets frustrated, unbuttoning Draco for him and making his tailored trousers pool around his knees.

He worries for a second that Harry is going to ask about the scar on his thigh, but Harry just stares at him as if Draco were the most beautiful thing on earth.

Suddenly Harry’s hand moves, his palm hot and sweaty around Draco’s length. His mouth captures Draco’s gasp as he starts stroking him languidly, watching Draco’s reaction with open eyes, as if he wanted to commit to memory the indecent image of Draco falling apart in his arms.

“Look at you,” Harry murmurs against Draco’s mouth, wiping his thumb over Draco’s slit, then stroking his frenulum and making him keen. “So hard for me, Draco. So good. I want to feel you…”

“Please,” Draco begs again, his fingers fumbling for Harry’s trousers, tugging them down unceremoniously and letting out a surprised little moan when he feels how hard and thick Harry is.

“You make me so hard,” Harry mumbles desperately, a needy groan escaping his lips when Draco makes their cocks slide against each other, the most delicious friction making them both close their eyes as they get lost in the perfect feeling. “It’s never been like this…with anyone…”

“Harry…” Draco breathes out, but then Harry casts a wandless lubricating spell, and they’re both panting, Harry’s fist closed around them and stroking them fast, faster still, and it’s all too quick, like a rush of adrenaline that goes straight to Draco’s head and makes him moan into Harry’s mouth as he comes so hard that he sees flecks of light dancing under his closed eyelids.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Harry whimpers, coming all over Draco’s belly, his release warm and sticky all over Draco’s skin.

The smell of their combined pleasure goes straight to his head, and Draco moans again, touching it with his fingertips, spreading it with his thumb over his stomach.

“You need to go,” Harry murmurs, and it doesn’t register immediately, because Draco is still coming down from his high, his mind like thick cotton wool as he brings his thumb to his lips and tastes Harry’s bitter come. “Draco, you need to leave.”

“What?” Draco asks, watching Harry’s eyebrows crease as he takes a step back with a look of utter sorrow on his beautiful face.

He’s still hard, his cock so beautifully ruddy and thick while Harry tries to tuck it back into his trousers.

“Draco, it’s not safe,” Harry mumbles, averting his gaze but then looking back into Draco’s eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you. You need to leave. Now.”

“Harry, I don’t under-”

“Please, Draco, please.”

Harry takes another step back, looking heartbroken and desperate, and Draco’s breath hitches in his throat as he stares at the other man, unable to understand what the fuck is going on, why he’s being pushed away after he finally managed to get a chance to touch Harry. After he found out that Harry wants him just as badly as Draco does.

But Harry looks so heartbroken as he casts a cleaning spell on himself and then opens all the windows with a flick of his finger. A single tear runs down his cheek, and Draco can’t stand it anymore.

“I love you,” he whispers, then a little louder, over the deafening sound of his beating heart. “I’ve been in love with you for so long, Harry.”

Harry lets out a whine, his fists clenched as a shiver wracks through him.

“Please, Draco…”

Draco finds his wand in the pocket of his cardigan and Disapparates.

He strips as soon as he gets home, climbing under the shower to wash away the smell, the perfectly indecent feeling of being covered in Harry’s come, to be marked as his.

Draco suddenly can’t stand it anymore, can’t face the reminder that he had what he craved for so long, only to feel it slip through his fingers after a mere moment.

He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.

He wants to dissect every minute of the evening, to pick at all the words that have left his mouth and all the ways he’s touched and kissed and loved, but it’s too late.

His heat comes.

He can sense it, little by little as the hours go by. It’s a dull pain in his lower abdomen at first, then a fire spreading further up, his fingers tingling with the need to touch himself and relieve some of the arousal that is making him sweat and curl up in his bed.

He gets up to send Pansy an owl, asking if she can open the shop for him the following day and look after Ophelia, apologising for the late notice. The heat has started too early, and he doesn’t understand what’s happening to his body.

When he starts feeling the first signs of wetness between his legs, Draco Apparates to the hunting lodge, stumbling to bed and panting as he goes under the covers. It’s the middle of the night, and the house is dark and cold, so Draco starts a fire with a flick of his wand, shivering as he listens to the wood crackle and the wind howl outside.

There’s a knock on the door.

Draco freezes, wondering if it’s Pansy who’s come to check on him. She’s the only person who knows about the existence of the lodge, but she’s never come here.

Another knock, this time more urgent, pulls Draco out of his stupor, and he goes to open the door with his wand clutched between his fingers. But when he opens it, it’s green eyes that greet him.

“Harry?” he asks, feeling Harry’s hand on his chest, pushing him inside and then shutting the door behind his back. He crowds Draco against the wall, burying his nose in Draco’s neck and inhaling deeply, as if he had been holding his breath and needed Draco like oxygen.

“I tried, but I couldn't,” Harry mumbles, his trembling fingers finding Draco’s waist, sneaking under his pyjama top and digging into his skin. Draco feels slick sliding down his hole, wetting his boxers, and Harry groans. “Oh fuck, you smell so good, Draco. I want you so badly that I can’t think anymore.”

“How…” Draco starts, confused as Harry starts trailing wet kisses down his neck, sucking on the sensitive spot under his ear. “How did you know I was here?”

“I tried your flat,” Harry murmurs against his skin, rocking his hips against Draco’s and making him gasp. Harry is possibly even harder than he was earlier. “But you weren’t there, so I assumed…”

“How do you know about the lodge?” Draco asks, wondering if the Ministry somehow knows about it, if it’s because Harry is Head Auror.

“I could smell you,” Harry replies, finally looking him in the eyes. “The first time I turned…I could sense your scent for miles that first night. I let my nose guide me to you, and I found you, but your wards wouldn’t let me in.”

“You were the black wolf,” Draco blurts out, dumbfounded and shocked.

Harry nods, nuzzling his cheek with the tip of his nose, inhaling and letting out a little needy sound as their mouths finally touch, a tentative brush that makes Draco sigh and close his eyes.

Harry is a werewolf.

He’s the black wolf that made him go mad with need that night.

“I got turned during that mission,” Harry explains, fingers moving across Draco’s skin, slowly pulling up his pyjama top, making it go over his head and then mapping his body, the faint scars all over his chest that Harry left there so many years ago. He reverently traces them, a mixture of guilt and something else painted on his face. A possessive glint, Draco thinks. “I…I’m…”

“I like them,” Draco confesses, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he bares his heart while Harry explores his body. “They make me feel…yours.”

“Mine,” Harry groans, sliding his hands along Draco’s sides until they reach his waist, pulling him closer so that he can press their lips together. A low growl rumbles in Harry’s chest as he kisses him open-mouthed and wet, sliding his tongue against Draco’s in the most debauched way. “Want you. All of you. Want to fill you up, Draco.”

“Harry,” Draco moans, desperately and wantonly, as if the mere name were like liquid gold on his tongue. “I’m so wet. I’m in heat, and…I’ve never been this wet before…”

“Fuck,” Harry says, grabbing Draco’s hand and stepping away from him, even though it seems to be an incredible effort to remove his hands and lips from Draco’s skin.

Draco leads them to bed, but it takes them a while to get there, because Harry won’t stop kissing him, and sucking bruises on his skin as he slowly gets rid of their clothes, one item at a time. He finds Harry’s bite mark, still red and raw on his thigh. Draco runs his fingertips over it, trying to be as careful as he can, and Harry watches him with half-lidded eyes.

“Does it still hurt?” Draco asks, remembering his own scar and how sore it was, because his mother refused to take him to St Mungo’s and they didn’t have the right potions to treat him properly.

“Only a bit,” Harry replies, placing his hand over Draco’s and letting them both stroke it. “It feels nice when you touch it.”

Draco feels shaky, as if gravity were not working anymore and his body were floating. As if it were all a wonderful dream and not reality when Harry finally lays him on the bed and spreads himself on top of him, pinning Draco's wrists above his head and rocking into him, their hard cocks sliding against each other and making them both gasp.

Harry is heavy above him, but it makes Draco feel safe. Loved.

“Harry, please…” he whimpers, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for, but Harry is suddenly kissing his way down his neck, wrapping his lips around a nipple and teasing the other one with his thumb. He traces Draco’s scars with his tongue while he strokes Draco’s cock lazily, fondling his balls and letting his fingers brush against the wetness behind them.

“Stay still for me, my love,” Harry says, his voice low and hoarse. “Can you do that for me, pet?”

Draco nods, because he’s lost the ability to utter words other than please, and Harry, and more.

He lies still while Harry kisses his way down his body, giving a kitten lick to the tip of his cock and making Draco nearly jump off the bed. Harry stops, and Draco takes a deep breath, whining as he closes his eyes.

“I won’t move. I promise,” he blurts out, overwhelmed when Harry’s tongue starts doing indecent things to his cock again, then swallows him whole. “Fuck, Harry…”

Harry lifts Draco’s legs, placing them over his shoulders, and takes him deep inside his mouth, until the head of Draco’s dick hits his throat and he thinks he’s going to lose it, but then Harry’s mouth leaves him, travelling further down. When he reaches Draco’s hole, Harry lets out a little whimper and kisses him there, almost reverently.

The first lick makes Draco moan, loud and desperate. The second one has him panting, Harry groaning against his hole, whispering between strokes of his tongue and his fingers that Draco tastes amazing, that he’s never going to have enough of him, that Draco is so good for him, absolutely perfect, lying so still while Harry makes him fall apart.

“I’ve got you,” Harry whispers when Draco’s legs start shaking. “I’m going to take care of you, love.”

“I love you,” Draco murmurs, and Harry raises his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he smiles at him. He casts a wandless cleaning charm on his mouth and then kisses Draco fully on the lips, making him relax again and moan softly in Harry’s arms.

“I love you,” Harry whispers against his mouth, his eyes shining with happiness. “For so long, Draco. I thought you would never want me, because of our past, and then…because I turned into a werewolf, but that day, after my first transformation…when I opened the door of the shop and I smelled you…I understood that we were the same, that maybe it wasn’t so bad that I got turned if it meant that I could share that secret with you.”

“I assumed you thought that I stank,” Draco confesses, and Harry laughs, the beautiful sound filling the room and Draco’s heart with so much joy.

“Quite the contrary,” Harry says, rubbing their noses together. “I didn’t think I could resist if I were in the same room with you. I want you so badly.”

“Hmm,” Draco hums, kissing him slowly, letting his tongue drag across Harry’s top lip until they’re both brimming with need. “I want you to fuck me. To knot me.”

“Fuck,” Harry says, closing his eyes and breathing hard, his fingers stroking Draco’s long hair and his temples, as if to calm himself. “Can I…can I fuck you raw? I’ve never…with no one…”

“Me neither,” Draco confesses, his cheeks flushing when their eyes meet. “Please, Harry. I want it so much.”

Draco spreads his legs under Harry, letting him place his hands under Draco’s knees to lift him up. And he’s so wet that they don’t even need lube, Harry’s cock teasing his entrance in the most delicious way before he tentatively pushes in, going past the tight ring of muscles and making Draco gasp as Harry slowly sinks inside him.

“You feel so hot,” Harry groans, “and wet and tight. Shit, I’m going to come straight away.”

“Merlin, fuck…”

Draco’s at a loss for words, a needy sound escaping his lips as Harry starts to move, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper and faster, until they’re both panting and clinging to each other, their mouths colliding for another heated kiss before Harry starts mumbling against Draco’s lips.

“Want to fill you up with my come,” he murmurs, making Draco nearly come on the spot. “Want to breed you, Draco. You’re going to be so full of me, love.”

Draco’s mouth opens on a broken moan, and then suddenly Harry pulls out and turns him around, taking him on his hands and knees, hard and fast, until Draco starts to feel it.

Harry’s cock gets thicker and thicker at the base, stretching Draco in the most delicious way. And he’s still drenched, but soon Harry can’t move anymore, his hand wrapping around Draco’s neglected cock to stroke him fast.

“Harry…”

“I’m going to put my baby in you, love,” Harry says, overwhelmed. “Going to fill you up with so much come and then knot you.”

“Fuck,” Draco whimpers, his muscles clenching as the orgasm approaches, feeling like it’s taking so long as it builds up and up and up until he comes all over the sheets and Harry’s fingers, white sparks dancing under his eyelids.

“So good for me, pet,” Harry says, and then he keens, rocking his hips against Draco as he lets out a deep groan and starts coming, and it feels never-ending. Harry shudders as he pours his hot come inside him, making Draco feel complete.

Full.

Harry nuzzles his neck, letting out a little whimper as he inhales and leaves a kiss under Draco’s ear. He’s still fully lodged inside him, and Draco feels safe, grounded. Harry carefully moves them so that they’re lying on their sides, his thigh over Draco’s, so close that they’re breathing in unison.

“So there are actually perks of being a werewolf,” Harry comments to break the silence, and Draco laughs, feeling Harry tense next to him.

“You okay?” Draco asks

“Shit, you’re going to make me come again,” he mumbles on a broken moan, letting his hands skid over Draco’s skin, tracing invisible patterns that make him shiver and sigh, content and so in love that it feels like his heart is going to burst.

“I never thought I could have this…” Draco confesses, and Harry wraps his arm around his waist and kisses his neck, humming against his skin. “I never thought I could have you.”

“I read a few books on werewolves since I was bitten,” Harry says, casting a cleaning charm on Draco and on the sheets before pulling the covers over both of them. “And I was a bit confused at first, but then it all started to make sense.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asks.

“Your smell,” Harry explains, “the fact that I couldn’t stay away from you. The fact that you went into heat at the same time I went into a rut. It’s because you’re my mate.”

There’s a moment of silence when Draco tries his best not to cry, bites his lips and looks up in an attempt to control his feelings, but then Harry moves so that he can kiss his cheek and whisper sweet little things into his ear, calling him love and pet and you’re my sweetheart, and Draco can’t hold back the tears anymore, finally feeling complete. Truly happy for the first time in his life.

“Will you stay with me during the next full moon?” Draco asks much later, when they’re both facing each other, their fingers intertwined as Harry kisses him tenderly.

“Of course,” Harry replies with a smile. “We’ll run together and howl at the moon.”

Draco smiles back at him.

His heart is overflowing with love.

Full.