Title: The Stranger More Familiar
Author: mindabbles
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Neville, side Neville/Lee
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Xenophilia
Other Warnings: Oh dear, none this time.
Word Count: 6,600
Summary/Description: He can't get back to his rooms quickly enough. The sensations of being surrounded by strangeness, the sheer number of people, all the different tastes and smells and textures, thrum through his body.
Author's Notes: This goes out especially to elizassecret who requested this pairing. Thank you so much to lyras for the record-time beta.




Watching Minerva McGonagall walk to the edge of the school grounds and turn on the spot, Disapparating for the last time, is something like stepping off the Hogwarts Express for the first time. This is it, this is the moment when everyone will realize that the bounce was a fluke and he really is a squib.

*

The Headmistress' – his – office is filled with the portraits of those who came before him. They were witches and wizards who had done great things, been accomplished in the study of magic. They had been powerful and brave, leaders all. Two months into his tenure as Headmaster, and Neville is still waiting for the Board of Governors to swoop in and inform him that they made a terrible mistake, or for the school itself to crumble due to his incompetence. It hasn't happened yet, but every day that it doesn't just makes it more likely that the next day will be the one.

*

"What's wrong?"

Lee's hands smooth along Neville's sides, fingers curving around his hips, gripping the loose fabric of his robes. He nips at Neville's neck, tugging the skin between full lips. He rolls his hips and Neville can feel his long, hard cock pressing against his thigh.

"What's wrong?" Lee asks again, moving his hand down the front of Neville's robes and cupping the conspicuously soft cock.

He's gorgeous. Lee is kind and strong, smart and so, so good with his hands.

Lee pulls back, his handsome face creased with concern. "You all right?"

It's not a friendship many would have predicted, and certainly not something anyone would expect of Neville. No strings, a drink a couple of times a month, and sex that is on again, off again, and usually brilliant.

"Just the stress, I think," Neville says, gesturing vaguely around the Headmaster's office. Stress really can't account for why he can't get it up when Lee is right there, broad shoulders and firm, round arse, wicked tongue and lovely hands.

Ever since Minerva left, Lee has hinted that he'd like to shag in the office. Lee seems to think this should be dead hot, but all Neville can think is that the portraits of all of those real heads of the school are watching him.

He yearns for the greenhouses, for the smell of the soil and the tingle of excitement that came from unwrapping a parcel that contained a plant that he had never touched, from a place that he had never seen. He can't think, can't find his footing anymore. After all these years, having been a war hero and a damn good professor, here he is: a round-faced, clumsy boy who's always losing his toad.

*

He wants, no needs, to get away.

He's doing all right, he supposes. There have been no opening of secret chambers containing monsters and no students have died. Lessons go on and parents are not banging on the gate asking what the hell he's done to their children. It's not that he can't do the job, day in and day out. It's more the constant effort involved in not running away. He is pushed to breaking point, so very far beyond his comfort zone, having everyone know who he is. It was a different thing to know that everyone who had been educated at Hogwarts since Kingsley was Minister knew about his parents, about his life at school, about what he did in that last year of the war, when he spent every day in the serenity of the greenhouses and retired to his simple, comfortable rooms at night.

He doesn't plan it. He would never have come if he'd tried to plan it. He knows nothing about Muggle London. He'd never even taken the tube to King's Cross Station as a student.

It's the weekend and he's blissfully free. No meetings and no plans. He toys with dropping in to see Lee, but somehow turns left instead of right at Diagon Alley and finds himself wandering down the street. Cars and taxis zip noisily by, startling him every time. People bustle past, eyes trained on the pavement; no one calls to him. No one asks him to tell them about the war. No one expects anything of him—except perhaps they expect him to do something obscene, if the way several people eye his robes with trepidation is any indication.

He steps into an alley and transfigures his robes into navy trousers and a white shirt with a grey jumper pulled over.

There's a cafe three streets away from the Leaky Cauldron and Neville darts in. People queue and, with his heart unaccountably pounding – he's only ordering a coffee after all – he parrots the words just spoken by the young woman ahead of him in the queue.

Neville surreptitiously transfigures one of the galleons in his trouser pocket into the same paper bill that the young woman just handed the girl behind the counter. He takes his paper cup, carefully holding it by the little cardboard sleeve, and sits down at a small round table. The chair is hard and uncomfortable. Someone has carved "LB loves" into the table, and perhaps LB was interrupted because there is no indication of who she or he loves.

He opens the newspaper that has been left on the chair next to him. Photos of grinning men in striped jumpers are oddly still in the page. The paper feels thin and strange to his fingers and when he pulls them away, they are smudged with black.

He stays for ages, anonymous in this world where no one knows him. The sense of not knowing quite the right way to behave recalls to him the time before anyone expected him to be extraordinary. He sips his sickly sweet drink – bright bursts of sugar, vanilla, and bitter espresso on his tongue.

*

He can't get back to his rooms quickly enough. The sensations of being surrounded by strangeness, the sheer number of people, all the different tastes and smells and textures, thrum through his body. Desire stirs in his belly with a force he hasn't felt for months. He rips open his trousers and decides in that moment not to transfigure them back to robes. Ever. He curls his fingers around his cock and is hard as soon as he strokes once from base to tip.

*

He makes forays into the Muggle world again and again, pushing himself a little more every time. An internet cafe. Shopping for clothes. Riding the tube. A pub on a Saturday night.

Each time, he basks in the difference, soaking in the feeling of being the only wizard amongst thousands of Muggles. Each time, he forces himself to stay in their world past the time he thinks he can bear it. He dashes into an alley and Disapparates, hard and aching.

On the third adventure, he begins to bring back tokens—a napkin from the cafe, a fare card from the tube, a book with that thin, delicate paper. He wonders if he's gone completely round the bend, because he doesn't touch anyone, try to pull anyone, yet he returns to his rooms each time and comes harder than he has in years, stroking himself, eyes closed and letting the images from his latest outing fill his head.

He takes to avoiding Lee and he knows he'll have to say something about his, well, shift in interests. But Lee is not an idiot, and they are friends first. So, when Lee tells Neville that he has started seeing someone, without naming the man who they both know Neville would know if the bloke existed, Neville knows that Lee understands that something has changed.

*

Soon he needs to go further afield, spend longer on his outings, to get his blood racing and his cock hard. A cup of coffee or a trip on the metro doesn't do it any more. Entire days. Museums. Book shops. And he starts looking, no longer trying quite so hard to blend into the background. One day he catches a man's eye. The bloke is wearing neat black trousers and a crisp, lavender, cotton shirt. The man looks over his shoulder as he's going into a shop and Neville's mouth goes dry. Full, pink lips begin to form a smile; silky black hair pulled back with a leather tie swings over his back, stark contrast against the pale shirt. Neville catches a glimpse of wide, grey eyes that seem to widen slightly with surprise before the man arranges his face back to a pleasant, bland expression. He turns and opens the door of the shop, leaving Neville rooted to the pavement and trembling, although it was only a look and that does not make a whit of sense.

*

The Dragon's Den Smoke Shop, Proprietor of fine and rare cigars

The words are burned in curling script into the ornate wooden sign hanging outside the shop. As with other things that are distinctly Muggle, Neville feels like his nerve endings are closer to his skin when he walks inside.

Every waking moment, and in many dreams, he's seen that beautiful man entering this shop. He can't get him out of his head, and it's not the square shoulders and long legs that hint at a physique that could melt Neville's spine, nor the shining black hair that looks like it would slide through Neville's fingers like gossamer. Well, it's not primarily that. It's the look in the grey eyes, like recognition, but that's impossible.

Neville had expected the shop to be smoky and uncomfortable. He was almost looking forward to being engulfed in that, but the air is remarkably fresh and he wonders how on earth Muggles manage such things. The shop is all dark wood and large, brown leather chairs. There are a few people, all men, in the chairs, each with a cigar between their fingers, some with a small tumbler of what looks like whisky on the end tables next to them.

The patrons are older men in tweed on whom the cigars look like an appendage, a part of their bodies, and younger men who look to be trying this on, an accessory to their black tailored suits that drape elegantly over bodies that speak to hours at the gym.

Neville wanders tentatively around the shop. Boxes off cigars, some out on shelves, some behind glass, fill the shop with a deep, earthy scent. It has been weeks since he has found something so completely new to him and he concentrates on keeping his breathing even and not calling attention to the lunatic whose cheeks are flushing at the site of cigars.

"May I assist you?" a smooth, cut-glass voice says behind him. Neville turns and it's him. Maybe he should have seen that coming, or perhaps he didn't let himself hope that the man with the stunning grey eyes would be here.

If he lets himself be honest, this is the first time the thought of a man has drawn him away from Hogsmeade more than the thrill of disappearing into this unknown world. For this is the thing about the unfamiliar—it is only unfamiliar for so long.

"I don't know," Neville says and the flush on his cheeks deepens at the clumsy response.

The man smiles cautiously and clenches his fist at his thigh. Something about him makes Neville have to struggle not to round his shoulders and look down at his feet, like he did when he was a kid and was sure he didn't belong with the others in Gryffindor.

"I take it you're new to fine cigars?" the man asks. Neville nods and the man unclenches his fist. He looks into those grey eyes and they are the same as they've been in his fantasies every night.

"New to cigars, full stop," Neville says and he's graced with a true smile. The man looks him over and Neville is very glad that he's taken some more care to dress well. Some of his most enjoyable jaunts have been to expensive men's clothiers.

"Welcome to The Dragon's Den." Neville is offered an elegant, well-manicured hand. "My name is Xavier and this is my shop."

Neville closes his fingers around Xavier's hand and his skin tingles at the touch. He drops Xavier's hand, perhaps too quickly, for fear of holding on for too long. An expression that is not quite a frown crosses Xavier's face and he turns to the nearest shelf. He stretches to pull down a box. His neat, grey shirt stretches tight over his slim torso as he reaches and Neville's hands itch to wrap around the black leather belt encircling Xavier's waist.

"This is perfect for a beginner," Xavier says. He draws his fingers along the length of the cigar and snips the end with a contraption he pulls from the pocket of his well-fitted trousers. "Gentle, a bit shy at first smoke, but full bodied enough to give you a taste of what's to come."

He extends his hand, and their fingers brush as Neville takes the cigar, surprisingly weighty for its size.

Neville has never smoked anything in his life and his heart hammers against his ribcage. Something about this man already makes his insides squirm and it is suddenly drastically important not to make an idiot of himself.

"Just take it in your mouth," Xavier says, his voice slipping down Neville's spine like liquid silk.

"What?" Neville asks, in an unusually high voice.

"The smoke." Xavier raises an eyebrow and one side of his mouth twitches up. Neville wonders what that smug face would look like from his knees, with Xavier's cock sliding in and out of his mouth.

Xavier holds a lighter to the end and Neville inhales and the smoke burns in his throat, making him cough.

"That's good," Neville chokes.

Xavier laughs and Neville wants to hear that sound again and again. "It is good. Cedar and spring grass, white pepper on the finish. And why the devil did you come to a cigar shop?"

Neville shrugs and sucks the smoke into his mouth again. This time he's careful to hold it in his mouth and it tastes earthy and spicy. Xavier nods in approval and shows Neville to one of the large, leather chairs just as Neville is overcome with a wave of dizziness.

He slips the paper ring from the end of the cigar onto his finger and then into his pocket. He goes home an hour later with the smell of smoke on his Muggle clothes and earthy taste of the tobacco on his tongue.

*

Wednesday evening finds Neville back in that leather chair, this time slowly savouring vanilla with a floral tone on the last half of the cigar.

He's never come to London mid-week before, and never twice in one week.

Xavier is busy tonight. Some sort of men's club has filled the lounge and he is kept running, reaching up to the highest shelves, pouring drinks, and talking and laughing with everyone he serves. Neville loves to watch him work. The hair on his arm stands on end every time Xavier pulls over the stepladder to reach a shelf, wipes a table by hand, or holds the flimsy paper money in his fingers. The men are all charmed by him and Neville knows he has no right to be disappointed that the attention showered upon him last time wasn't reserved for him.

*

Preparing for exams and dealing with several issues of the budget keep Neville busy for weeks: too busy to slip on his Muggle clothes, Apparate to the nearest tube stop, and heart racing, purchase a fare card to the stop nearest The Dragon's Den.

He realises one night, as he strokes himself, quick and hard, that it is no longer just the places; it is no longer any Muggle. It is Xavier.

*

He strides purposefully down the pavement, confident in his newest dark denims and soft, brown leather jacket. It felt like Xavier's chairs beneath his fingers when he touched it in the shop.

The door makes a soft sound as he pushes it open and Xavier turns from where he is checking a new order, several boxes that look as if they've travelled a long distance. He smiles in surprise, and Neville is certain, pleasure.

"I thought you'd decided that you didn't need one more vice," Xavier says, that ebullient charm washing over Neville like a balm.

"I only have the one vice, really," Neville says. It's true enough. "How many have you got?" he asks, and the flirtatious lilt to his voice surprises him.

"Too many to count," Xavier says. He turns and looks over the shelves with the intense concentration he always has when picking out just the right cigar for a particular customer, matching moments to flavours and textures. Neville has come to crave being in the presence of that concentration.

Xavier lifts down a box and runs his finger over the tightly packed row, selecting one from the middle, and it occurs to Neville that he has never seen Xavier smoke.

"Smoking isn't one of them, is it?" he asks.

"Sorry?" Xavier turns, the cigar held carefully between his index and middle fingers.

"Your vices," Neville says. He steps closer to Xavier. He can smell just a touch of sandalwood, earthy and woodsy like the cigars. "Smoking isn't one of them."

"No," Xavier says. He reaches into his trouser pocket for his lighter and offers no further explanation.

"A cigar shop proprietor who doesn't smoke? Is there some meaning there?"

"Sometimes a cigar is only a cigar." Xavier smiles, apparently certain that Neville will understand the reference. He does this all the time, little cultural references that any Muggle will obviously get, and he smiles. The smile shivers over Neville's skin every time. Neville sometimes thinks that Xavier knows the effect it has on him – that he has an inkling Neville doesn't get the reference, and does it just to see Neville flush.

Xavier sighs and turns to sit gracefully in one of the big, leather chairs. "I divorced very young. I had a rather public life, open to the scrutiny of all, at one point in my past. I had certainly never planned this: to be here so long." He gestures around the shop. "I needed somewhere to be unnoticed, not to mention a way to earn a living. Walked into this shop and asked for a job. I suppose I liked the name. The rest is, as some say, history. I could probably do something else now, but I like this, so I never left it. I have no idea why I'm telling you this."

"I can't imagine you going unnoticed," Neville says and Xavier looks at him with pleased surprise. He wonders what, in this vast society of Muggles, where it seems that everyone is anonymous, Xavier could have been hiding from. "I understand that. I have a few people with their eyes on me, as well."

"That's why you come here."

There is something familiar about the drawl at the ends of some sentences, about the way Xavier holds court in the shop as if he's Head Warlock at the Wizengamot, and Neville thinks he should hate such arrogance, but it drives him to distraction.

"That's not the only reason," Neville says. He lowers his eyes. He doesn't want to see the look on Xavier's face at his relentless, clumsy flirting. If it's pity or revulsion, he doesn't want to know. He wants to hold on to the possibility that's in it every time he walks into the shop, at least.

"Good."

Neville looks up, not lifting his head all the way as if that will protect him if he's misheard the warm tone. The cigar Xavier had chosen for him is on the table. Xavier's hands rest loosely on his knees and he presses down on them to push himself to standing.

Neville stands in the middle of the shop, eyeing Xavier as if he were a Hippogriff who hadn't yet gone down on bended knee.

"Can I—" Xavier begins, but his lips are against Neville's before the rest of the words can spill from them. Neville has the ridiculous thought that Xavier kisses just like a wizard and his cheeks heat with shame that he wanted this to be different.

Xavier curves his hand around the back of Neville's neck, fingers splayed so that two weave into the hair at the base of Neville's skull. He exerts firm pressure, pulling Neville into the kiss. Any other absurd notions leave Neville's head as Xavier's tongue slips between his lips to run along Neville's lower lip.

Neville lets his hands fall to Xavier's waist, running them back and forth over Xavier's belt. The wool of his trousers is coarse in contrast to the whisper-soft cashmere jumper. Under it all, he feels Xavier's trim body and his quick, shallow breaths. Xavier slides his hands under Neville's jacket, pushing aside the soft leather and working their way under his shirt. Xavier's fingers are cool and bold on his skin and his sharp desire for this man, building from the first time he set foot in the Muggle world, makes him hard as stone in a breath.

He feels big and clumsy, a person in excess, next to Xavier's slim, efficient form. He's not the small, round boy he once was. His shoulders and chest broadened when he was in his early twenties. People began to look at him with less incredulity when they asked, "You really did that?" when his shoulders looked as if they might carry such a weight.

Xavier's warm mouth moves to Neville's neck and Neville looks past Xavier's shoulder to the door, expecting to see a line of spectators. He can't remember Xavier turning the "closed" sign in the window and pulling the long, black shade down over the glass.

"When—" he starts to ask, but Xavier pushes his leg between Neville's and he can feel Xavier's cock, long and hard, on his thigh. "Oh." He gasps and dares to move his hand to grasp Xavier's arse.

Xavier makes a sound like an exhale of smoke, blissful and addicted, and Neville tightens his grip on Xavier's arse, pulling him hard against him, nearly lifting him onto Neville's thigh.

"Here," Xavier says, his crystal voice gone rough. "Come here." He pushes Neville back into the chair and falls on him, immediately straddling his lap. He leans to kiss Neville, open mouthed and breathless, chestnut-brown hair soft against Neville's face.

Neville slides his hands under Xavier's jumper again and his skin is as soft as the cashmere. He slides it up, exposing Xavier's skin to the air, probably damaging two hundred pounds worth of designer knitting. Xavier doesn't complain. He rocks forward, rolling his hips and pressing down on Neville's cock through the fine wool of his trousers and the rough denim of Neville's.

Neville knows in that moment that he is going to come like this, during what would be the beginning of the beginning of foreplay with Lee. But with Lee, he couldn't look down and see the outline of his –admittedly gorgeous – cock straining the fabric of his trousers. With Lee, he would know what would come next, and he wishes for a moment he'd stopped off at the Muggle equivalent of the Apothecary and bought some condoms.

Xavier moans and presses into Neville's hand. Neville strokes his cock through his trousers and the dirty, desperate feel of doing this fully clothed, in a Muggle shop, makes him dizzy.

"Oh, oh Mer—" Neville is cut off by Xavier's mouth on his. He curls his tongue around Xavier's, kissing deeply to stop himself from saying anything else and he comes, hot and adolescent, in his jeans.

Xavier reaches down and pushes Neville's hand harder against his cock, rocking and spreading his legs wider and wider until he rips his mouth away from Neville's and gasps against Neville's throat.

Xavier's forehead falls to Neville's shoulder and Neville strokes Xavier's soft thick hair. They stay there for several minutes longer than seems decent, breathing in tandem, and Neville's chest fills with trepidation as he considers all the reasons Xavier might be avoiding looking up.

Finally, Xavier lifts his head and pushes back to stand. He leans over to look into Neville's face. He raises his hand and Neville flinches. A look of regret visits Xavier's face and he reaches out with a gentle touch.

"I'm sorry," Xavier says, his hand on Neville's cheek, grey eyes solemn.

"What for?" Neville asks. His stomach seems to work around something that isn't there. "I wanted that, you know. I have wanted that."

"Never mind then. It's nothing," Xavier says. His forced, casual air is a chill on Neville's skin. "See you around, eh? Come for a smoke?"

*

Neville leaves for London early, earlier than he ever has. The shopkeepers are just sweeping their bits of the pavement clear of the debris of the night.

It has been over a week since Xavier crawled into his lap. It has been over a week since he could think clearly, since a giddy nervousness didn't overcome him every time he let himself think about the grey eyes and elegant hands.

He strides along the pavement from the now-familiar tube stop, his heart pounding harder with each slap of his leather-soled shoes on the concrete. He'd gone over those last words Xavier had said a million times, imagining a different meaning each time. He'd waited, like a young man with his first lover, for word. But of course, the initial attraction, the separateness, the sheer gulf between their worlds, meant there was no way for Xavier to reach out with a hopeful, Could I see you again?

Neville is half-sure that those grey eyes will be shuttered, regret plain on Xavier's face when he sees Neville push open his door. The other half is certain that the quiet, Come for a smoke? had been the assurance for which he hoped.

He looks up to find he is at the shop. He pushes open the door and steps inside. Xavier is not there waiting to greet his first guests. Neville glances at the clock on the wall and realizes that no one comes to a cigar shop and lounge this early.

"Just a moment," a voice that is Xavier's, but not quite, calls from the back. "Not quite open just yet."

Neville cranes his neck and looks to the back room. A man, with long blond hair and a pointed chin, stands in the store room. He's wearing Xavier's green cashmere jumper and Neville's chest is suddenly hollow. A lover.

And then two things happen at once. He recognizes the man, finally finding the name that the strangeness of seeing him in this world had hidden. He watches Draco Malfoy touch his wand to his head and then his face and then his throat, muttering spells.

Neville's feet react before his brain fully understands what he is seeing. He runs out of the door and he hears a voice, now solidly Xavier's, call out, "Hello?"

*

The first morning, Neville had returned to his rooms and downed enough Firewhisky to sedate an erumpent. On the second day, he panicked, waiting for the Daily Prophet to call for a statement or the Board of Governors to demand his resignation. On the third, he realized that Draco had run from notoriety in their world, he wasn't likely to make a mad dash back in to create a scene.

By the fourth, he can't help but think that Draco does, in fact, know how to reach him. For a week, he swings wildly between wanting to put the whole business – from his first foray into the Muggle world to the sight of Draco Malfoy with Xavier's thick, brown hair – and a tiny spike of hope every time an owl arrives or he hears someone at his doorstep.

On the eleventh day, there is a sharp knock on his door.

Draco pushes past him, striding in his sitting room as if he owns the place, robes billowing behind him. Neville cannot imagine, in retrospect, how he didn't recognize the arrogant walk or the haughty look in his eyes. His grey eyes, the same, after all.

Draco turns on his heel to face Neville, who hasn't come all the way into the room, hesitating at the door as if it is no longer entirely his sitting room.

"My purpose here is simple," Draco says in a clipped tone that Neville could never have imagined coming from Xavier. "Clear the air, have it out. You know. But I know, too."

Neville remembers this now. The boy Neville had been so afraid of had been at least as afraid as him, both children of Voldemort's first war.

"So I don't tell and you don't tell," Neville says. For all he's wished that Xavier, Draco, would come, he wishes now that he'd leave before all of his memories of the past few months sour and curdle. "And you knew all along." Draco freezes and Neville blinks, the realization crashing over him. "Hang on. You knew who I was all along."

"And I never said a word to anyone, Longbottom," Draco says, raising his pointy chin. "I kept your little secrets and now you'll keep mine."

"That's not what I meant," Neville says, stepping into the room. It's his sitting room and he hasn't been afraid of Draco Malfoy since he was sixteen.

There's a faint stain of colour under Draco's high cheekbones. He looks down at his expensive Italian shoes. They are the same ones Xavier was wearing when Neville last saw him.

"You were going to tell me," Neville says. He can hear Xavier's hesitation, the edge of regret in his voice, when he told him he was sorry those weeks ago. Draco raises his eyes to meet Neville's, lovely grey eyes, and Neville realizes he's been falling for him for months. "You've kissed me, but I've never kissed you."

Draco rolls his eyes. "I should have known my impression that you'd grown out of being soft was faulty."

Neville laughs at the affectionate, teasing nuance to Draco's words. He wraps his fingers around Draco’s wrist, thumb caressing over the back of his hand. He tugs and Draco complies, stepping closer until the toes of their shoes touch. Draco licks his lips, leaving them shiny and lush. Neville is drawn forward and takes his mouth in a kiss, gentle until he feels Draco pressing back, parting his lips in invitation.

It’s familiar and strange, and Neville has to keep opening his eyes to see that this is not Xavier, because the lips feel the same and the hands are the ones of his memories. The heady rush of desire at being looked upon by those grey eyes with something other than scorn is the same, and it was Draco all along.

Draco strokes Neville’s throat gently, a giddy counter-point to the intensity of the way he tastes Neville’s mouth. The long, silky hair tangles through Neville’s fingers. He wants to touch all of him, taste all of him. He has to break the kiss and gasp against Draco’s throat, slow this down because he’s hard and aching and he does not want it to end as quickly as last time.

"I’ve thought about you every night," he says. Draco looks down again, and Neville’s afraid he’s gone too far and Draco will bolt. "This must be odd for you. I mean, we, you, were always—" Neville stops himself because he will not slip back into that self-deprecating boy’s skin.

"People change, Neville," Draco says. He runs his hand down Neville’s chest, splaying his pale fingers against the deep blue of Neville’s robes. His other hand hovers three centimetres from the tie of Neville’s belt.

“Yes,” Neville breathes, and he sees Draco's smile for the first time.

With one quick motion, Neville’s robes are open and Draco is kissing him again. Neville scrabbles at the front of Draco’s robes, his fingers gone clumsy with need. He pulls his wand from his loose robes, mutters a spell, and both of their robes slip from their shoulders and drape themselves neatly over the back of the sofa. There are benefits to the familiar, after all.

He steps back to look at Draco. There is a pale flush on his chest at the V of his white shirt. He wears light trousers that hang perfectly on his long, slender legs. He stands with an easy grace, waiting, with no hint of self-consciousness about his obvious arousal, and Neville's mouth goes dry. He curves one hand around his Draco's hip and presses the other over his hard cock, sighing. Draco closes his eyes and bites his lip. He moves his hand, firm strokes, as Draco begins to tremble. Draco groans and rips open his trousers, buttons flying and skittering across the wooden floor.

"Beautiful," Neville says. The outline of Draco's cock is prominent, mouth-watering, where it pushes out his pants, and the flat planes of his stomach contrast with the dark green silk.

"We've done this standing up and clothed before," Draco drawls. If anyone had told Neville he would someday like that sound, he would have told them they were mad.

Neville wraps his arms around Draco and Apparates them to his bedchamber. "Is this more suitable?" he asks, and he can't help the delighted grin that forms on his face.

Draco slips his hands under Neville's shirt and pushes it off his shoulders. Neville holds his breath as Draco unfastens his trousers and slides one hand into the back of them, fingers rambling warmly over his arse. "Now it is."

Neville kicks his trousers and pants the rest of the way off and decides against thinking too deeply on the unlikelihood of his current situation. Instead, he presses his mouth to Draco's throat, pulling warm skin gently between his lips, sucking deeper, harder until Draco groans and squirms.

"Get on the bed," Draco says, his usually clear, precise voice gone deeper and thick.

Neville holds onto Draco's hips and backs toward the bed. "Come with me." He lies back on the high, luxurious mattress and pulls Draco down on top of him.

Draco kicks his pants off from where they were dangling at his ankle. He's all perfect, soft skin and long, hard muscles. He moves over Neville with such a sensuous grace and Neville tries to touch him everywhere, desperate not to miss a movement. Every sense seems heighted, Draco's ragged breath the clearest sound he's ever heard, the smell of Draco's skin the sharpest scent. Neville strains up to kiss him. Their tongues slide against each other in perfect time with their bodies, heated skin stuttering against heated skin. Draco shifts and his cock pushes between Neville's thighs and nudges his balls.

Neville needs more. He wants to see Draco, feel him. He wants to fuck him, feel Draco inside him, and feel Draco come. He works his hands between them and presses up, pushing Draco until he is sitting astride his thighs. Draco opens his hands against Neville's chest and smirks down at him. He knows he's beautiful and he tosses his head back, showing off a gorgeous column of throat and rocking his hips forward so that his cock brushes Neville's.

"What do you want?" Neville asks, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

"I want you to show me what you thought about after that first time you came to my shop."

The demand, with its simple, confident conceit, pools low in Neville's belly and he stops to circle the base of his cock with his thumb and index finger.

"I wanted to touch you."

"Then touch me."

Neville trails one finger over the head of Draco's cock, lingering over the sensitive tip, and his fingers come away wet. He can hear Draco swallow and he starts to thrust with his hips, pushing into Neville's hand as Neville carefully slips his foreskin back and forth. Neville's hand moves on his own cock, sliding down each time his fingers squeeze around the end of Draco's. He angles their cocks so the heads rub together, friction so searing and sharp that he nearly can't bear it, but he never wants it to end.

"Here, let—" Draco gasps. He scoots up, closer, so that his length slides along Neville's. His hand is cool and slick when he closes it around Neville's hand, pulling both of their cocks into their combined grip.

Neville pushes down on the bed with his free hand, arching up into Draco's grip and against his body. He can feel Draco's arse and balls pressing against him and his fantasies of Xavier turn pale and insipid compared to what's in front of him.

"Harder," Neville groans. His fingers are laced with Draco's and he tightens his grip. Their cocks rub against each other in the circle of their fists and Neville cries out when he feels the head of his catch on the head of Draco's. "Oh fuck, do that again. Fuck."

Draco makes a sound that is closer to a growl than anything and does it again, and again. Every touch brings him closer and he feels it, white hot and teetering on the edge. Draco leans forward, his hand slipping on Neville's chest, pinching his nipple as Draco braces himself to stroke harder. Neville groans, loud and long, keening as the orgasm rushes from him, spilling over their hands and Draco's cock.

"Now, now," Draco orders. He falls forward, arms on either side of Neville's shoulders. Neville doesn't have time to regain his balance, because Draco is thrusting against him, soft hair brushing Neville's face, hot breath ghosting over his lips. He strokes with the pace and force that Draco seems to demand and moans when he feels Draco come over his stomach.

Draco stills, panting. Neville doesn't move. His hand is steady on Draco's waist and Draco's hair is still hanging around them, shuttering out any awkwardness or uncertainty. Draco sighs and falls onto the bed next to Neville. Neville lies still, staring at the ceiling. This was the thing with Lee – they both always knew where they stood.

After what might have been thirty seconds or an hour, Neville extends his little finger and it finds the soft skin of Draco's inner wrist. "What did you think that first day, when I came to your shop?" he asks, voice soft and even.

Draco lifts his head and props it on his elbow, looking down at him, one perfect eyebrow raised. "When you first came in? Or by the time you'd left?"

Neville laughs and Draco's expression relaxes into one he'd come to associate with Xavier when he'd found just the right cigar for a hard to please customer. "Perhaps I'll leave well enough alone."

"I'll tell you my thoughts from here on out," Draco says. He yawns and slides his arm up the bed and lies back down, his head resting on Neville's shoulder. "How's that?" he asks, his voice languid and lazy, softened by impending sleep.

"That suits me just fine."

Neville closes his eyes and wonders what the banter among the portraits in his office will be in the morning when Draco joins him for his first cup of tea.