Title: we have this well in hand
Author: tryslora
Characters/Pairings: Draco/Harry (background Harry/Ginny, past Draco/Astoria)
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: adultery, erotic confessions
Other Warnings/Content: public sex, hand jobs
Word Count: ~3700 words
Summary/Description: Wine heals all ills, or at the very least, it lubricates conversation. And conversation inspires something else entirely.
Author's Notes: I just couldn’t resist. And honestly, fine wine, excellent food, and hand jobs under the table in public? Isn’t that how every unexpected dinner date between former enemies tends to go?


The restaurant is crowded, and when Harry requests a table for one, the waitress gives him a sympathetic look. “I’m terribly sorry,” she says, “but it’s the middle of our rush, and almost everyone has a reservation. Have had, for weeks.” She glances off to one side, where there are high tables and stools, and people crowded around with their pints and baskets of small bites. “If you can find a spot in the bar, we’d be happy to bring you a bite there.”

It’s not that big a deal. Harry hadn’t expected special treatment; it’s a Muggle place, and they have no idea who he is. But it would be nice to get something to eat at a place he’s heard so much about, since he happens to be in town.

“You could try to make a reservation for later in the month?” the hostess suggests, and Harry shakes his head.

“I’m just passing through town,” he admits. “My friend’s been here and raves about it often, and I thought I’d stop in while I was here. She never mentioned needing a reservation.” He cranes his head, looking past the hostess, trying to see something of the inside of the space. “Although knowing Luna, she might just decide to sit with someone else if it’s busy.”

“We’ve done that,” the hostess admits. “Sometimes, if there’s someone here alone, we might seat another table-for-one patron with them. But I’m afraid—”

“Excuse me.” The tone is dry, the words dripping with irritation as the newcomer interrupts. “I have a reservation, and I’d like to be seated.”

Harry glances to his right, registering the sharp features and the pale hair first, the way the mouth twists into a moue of displeasure, relaxing only when the hostess’s gaze drops away to look at her list. The bloke’s fit, his coat a fine quality, the crease of his trousers measured and perfect.

“Malfoy,” the man says, and Harry blinks. “Table for one.”

The hostess glances up, gaze darting between Malfoy and Harry. “I see, yes, we have your table ready, Mr. Malfoy. But if I might ask—”

“What.” It’s not a question, the word flat and angry and inviting nothing.

“I was actually just saying that if someone came in on their own, I’d be happy to join them in order to get a chance to eat here,” Harry says, trying to keep his tone light. “Luna raves about it.”

Malfoy’s head turns, gaze pinning Harry. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“Work,” Harry says. “I didn’t advertise it, and as I wasn’t assigned to come visit you, I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You know each other?” The hostess sounds hopeful.

“Unfortunately.” Malfoy looks past her into the crowded restaurant, heaves a low sigh. “Fine, Potter, you may join me. If only because if you don’t, I’m quite certain that Luna will have my head for being cruel to you. I have no desire to listen to hours upon hours of crackpot theories, when a single hour with you can save me.”

The hostess’s shoulders sag as she relaxes. She picks up two menus. “Right this way.”

#

They end up in a back corner at a tiny circular table. The hostess waves down a server, and a second place setting is brought, although it barely seems to fit. Harry moves his seat so that the wall is at his back, and he and Malfoy are seated next to each other, wedged into the corner. Malfoy glares, and Harry smiles. “You’re easy to rile up.”

“Why are you here?” Malfoy asks, lifting the menu and staring at it. “I’m ordering the wine. You have no taste.”

“How would you know? We aren’t sociable, nor friends,” Harry points out.

Malfoy lowers the menu, lets his gaze sweep over Harry. “Given what you’re wearing, and the fact that you didn’t have the foresight to make a reservation at one of the most sought after restaurants in town—you have no taste. I don’t need to spend time with you to know that, Potter.”

“Then maybe you ought to order my meal as well.” Harry lays the menu on the table, folds his hands on top of it. “Since I have no taste.”

It’s worth giving up his sense of agency to see the way Malfoy’s gaze narrows, to know that he’s gotten under his skin. Harry grins as amiably as he can manage, and Malfoy sniffs, returning to his perusal of the menu.

It seems strange to see Malfoy out of the Manor. It’s been more than a decade since the war, and Harry rarely sees Malfoy out in Wizarding London. He sees him when he has to do a visitation to the Manor, on official Auror business. He’s seen his picture in the news, of course, first when he married Astoria Greengrass after a whirlwind affair, then again after the birth of their son. The Malfoys may have lost status during the war, but they were still considered worthy of news.

And of course, more recently, when Astoria left.

“Are you staring for a reason, Potter?” Malfoy places the menu neatly atop the one Harry left on the table, aligning the edges with careful precision. “I hope you have no allergies. Although perhaps I should hope that you do. It would certainly make the evening interesting.”

“You don’t want me gone,” Harry says dryly. “Then you’d have to deal with Ron doing visitations to the Manor, and we both know how you’d hate that. You like sparring with me.”

“I don’t entirely hate it,” Malfoy admits. He glances out into the darkness of the restaurant, and a moment later a waiter is by their table, hands folded and head cocked in readiness. Malfoy reels off a dizzying list of wines and food, from appetizers through the main meal, seven courses in all if Harry’s counted correctly.

“That’s going to take longer than an hour,” Harry says.

“If you’re going to experience the restaurant, you should take care to experience it properly,” Malfoy informs him. To the waiter he says curtly, “Bring the first course and the wine immediately.”

#

Wine heals all ills, or at the very least, it lubricates conversation. By the third course, and their third glasses of wine, Malfoy is proudly telling a story of his son’s first solo flight accomplished the prior fall, before his fourth birthday. Harry counters with a story of James’s and Albus’s antics, and accepts a taste of the delicately smoked white fish from Malfoy’s plate. It’s different than the salmon Harry has, lighter and melting on his tongue. He reciprocates by placing a small chunk of the salmon on Malfoy’s plate, then watching as he tastes it, eyes closed. Malfoy reaches for his wine, takes a sip of that, and makes a small noise of pleasure.

“You know,” Harry says, clearing his throat to get Malfoy’s attention. He waits for the grey eyes to open, to be focused entirely upon Harry, and then he clears his throat again because his voice seems to have become stuck.

“I know… what?” Malfoy prompts.

“Our boys. Albus and Scorpius. They’re the same age,” Harry manages to say. “And James is only two years older. We ought to get them together sometime.”

One eyebrow arches, and Malfoy laughs, a surprisingly indelicate snort. “I’m absolutely certain Ginevra would approve, if I were to appear at your home.”

“The war was more than a decade ago,” Harry says dryly. “We’ve all gotten past it. Ginny flies with Millicent Bulstrode every day. She’s not going to tell you that you can’t be in our house because you supported Voldemort.”

Malfoy takes the last bite of his white fish, then places the fish fork on the plate and nudges it toward the center of the table. He washes it down with an indelicate swig of his wine, leaving the glass empty before he places it on the table. His gaze is intent when he folds his hands together against wooden surface, leans forward slightly into the small space between them. Harry can see an edge of blue in his eyes, just around the rim, lightening to the pale grey of his iris.

Harry licks his lips, and Malfoy smirks.

“She won’t have me in her house because I am not acceptable in society,” Malfoy murmurs. He leans back and dabs at his lips with his napkin, before replacing it in his lap. His knee knocks Harry’s under the table, and Harry jumps a bit, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Ginny doesn’t give a shit about society,” Harry grumbles. “You know that.”

“She’s friends with Astoria,” Malfoy says. At Harry’s surprise, he shrugs one shoulder. “Ginevra flies with Millicent, as you said. Millicent’s sleeping with Daphne, and Daphne’s Astoria’s sister. It’s only natural that they might be social. And I’ll have you know, I’ve experienced the sharpness of your wife’s tongue in recent memory, on Astoria’s behalf. She’s protective, isn’t she?”

“Astoria’s the one who left,” Harry says, slightly bemused by the entire conversation. It’s hard to imagine Ginny defending Astoria, although it’s not difficult at all to imagine her taking Malfoy down a peg.

“Yes, well.” Malfoy pauses, smiles politely at the server who whisks away the fish plates and replaces them with a pair of tiny plates. Each plate has a small spoon, upon which rests a dollop of something that looks vaguely like a miniature snowball. Malfoy lifts his and Harry echoes the motion, letting the frozen bite fall on his tongue.

There is a sweet-tart explosion of flavor across his tongue, brisk and swift, and Harry blinks in aftermath. He sets the spoon down at the same time as Malfoy, and the server murmurs, “I shall return with your entree shortly,” before taking those plates as well.

Malfoy seems at a loss for what to do with his hands, his fingers tapping against each other as he smiles thinly. “Astoria left after finding me in our marriage bed, caught in flagrante with another man. She had quite a lot to say—about the action itself, about my choice for company, and of course, the location. I wonder, sometimes, if she could have forgiven any two of the three, but not all at once. I was surprised at how easy it was to retain guardianship of our son, but then, she never did want to be a mother.”

Harry is staring. He’s aware that his mouth hangs open, his head cocked as he tries to take the words in. An image fires within his mind, one of Malfoy on his knees, arse in the air, pale skin reddened with desire and fingerprints showing as a bloke without a face grips his hips and pounds into him. Harry licks his lips, closes his mouth, and prays the heat of his cheeks isn’t visible. “Ah,” he says quietly. “I see.”

He’s saved by the placement of a plate in front of him, thin slices of steak artfully draped over carefully mounded potatoes and an arrangement of vegetables. Tiny droplets of some sweet-smelling liquid dot the plate in a spiral, splashing larger and larger the further from the center they are. His glass of wine is replaced with another, the liquid deep and red.

The server stands with his hands clasped in front of him, watching avidly.

Malfoy lifts his glass, swirls it gently before he takes a sip. This time, their meals and wine appear identical, which disappoints Harry in some way he can’t define. Malfoy holds the wine in his mouth, closes his eyes, then swallows as Harry watches the bob of his Adam’s apple. Malfoy inclines his head, and the server nods and steps away.

“I don’t know anything about wine,” Harry admits, and Malfoy smirks.

“No taste, Potter. We covered this earlier, if you’ll recall.”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Harry bites back a laugh at the way Malfoy’s eyebrows rise, at the way the smirk becomes an honest smile, just for a moment. Harry lifts his glass, murmurs, “To an evening without altercation.” He’s pleased when Malfoy takes a long sip of his own wine, as well.

They fall silent long enough to taste their food. Malfoy cuts the beef meticulously, tastes it first alone, then with a smear of the glaze and a taste of potatoes. As Malfoy nods, Harry feels that it’s safe to just eat and enjoy. He doesn’t have a refined palette, perhaps, but he can tell that the meat melts on his tongue, and the glaze is laden with flavor that coats his mouth in a pleasant way.

“I don’t think Ginny would mind,” Harry finally says. He gestures with his fork when Malfoy gives him a curious look. “If you were to bring Scorpius by. She’s not going to judge Scorpius by your sins.”

“Do you think it’s a sin, then, to fuck another man?” The words drop quietly into the small space between them, too crude to match with Malfoy’s voice.

“Not a sin, no.” Harry’s of the opinion that everyone ought to love who they want, as long as everyone involved is all in.

“Have you ever considered it?” Malfoy’s tone is still idle, his hands well-occupied with the slicing of another bit of beef. He glances up, his gaze raking over Harry. “You are, after all, the man who was once The Boy Who Lived. I’m quite certain that you’re the subject of many fantasies, both male and female.”

Harry is not going to answer that question, not when the earlier mental image of Malfoy bare-arsed on a bed is still vivid in his mind. “I’m married,” he says curtly, and Malfoy snickers.

“Obviously that has never stopped me before,” Malfoy murmurs.

Under the table, Malfoy’s knee knocks against Harry’s, then stays put, resting just against him. It’s only a light pressure, but it reminds Harry vividly that Malfoy is there, within reach, and that he has just implied that he may have fantasized once about Harry.

Harry focuses on eating, until the plate has been polished off. He gulps the remainder of his wine, and accepts the fresh glass when he is given a light salad of julienned vegetables, and a small serving of a sweet white wine.

#

Dessert is a deep, dark chocolate cake, paired with a bubbly sweet red wine. The wine is excellent on its own, but when Harry sips it after taking a bite of the cake it is absolutely fucking brilliant. He makes a small noise, low in his throat, and he sees Malfoy shift in his seat.

“Better than sex?” Malfoy asks dryly. “If this is what Ginevra sees of you, I can’t see why she doesn’t just tie you to the bed and keep you there.”

The wine has lubricated Malfoy’s tongue to an alarming degree. There’s a flush of red upon his cheekbones and the tip of his nose, and the smirk has tilted into a lopsided smile. Harry feels his own skin heat in response, and he sets his fork down. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Malfoy leans forward and picks up Harry’s fork. “That moan,” Malfoy murmurs. “That whimper. They go straight to my prick.” He spears a bite of cake and offers it to Harry. “Do it again.”

It’s uncomfortable to sit. Harry’s been oddly half-hard since partway through the meal, and now Malfoy’s offering to feed him. He opens his mouth to object, but can’t find the words. Malfoy pushes the fork a little closer, chocolate touching Harry’s lip, and he takes it in on reflex.

It’s still good, maybe better because of the way Malfoy is watching him so intently. Harry wraps his fingers around his glass, holds on more tightly than he means to as he raises it to his lips. One small burst of fruity sweetness to offset the depth of the cake.

Harry closes his eyes, a low sound drawn from him.

“Beautiful,” Malfoy whispers. He lays the fork down with a clink, and Harry opens his eyes, blinking to find Malfoy so close. “If you were interested in men, I’d want to hear that sound again. I’d want to draw it out of you, know that you were making it because I’d touched you. Kissed you, perhaps taken your prick into my mouth. I’d want to tease you until you were louder, crying out. Hungry.” Malfoy’s hand brushes Harry’s knee under the table. “Desperate.”

Harry’s fully thick and hard, trapped in his jeans. He licks his lips, tries to find words to counter this. “What makes you think I’m not interested in men?” he whispers. And oh, fuck, he did not meant to say that aloud. He didn’t mean to think it, to even let the idea near his mind. He’s married. He can’t have this conversation.

And yet…

Malfoy’s hand lands upon his knee, squeezes lightly. “Oh?” One eyebrow arches, and he turns his chair slightly to face Harry. They are both wedged into the corner, too close to each other, as Malfoy’s hand drifts up the inside of Harry’s thigh. Harry moves slightly, lifts his hips, and Malfoy fits his palm over the ridge of his prick. “Oh, I do see,” Malfoy murmurs. “Or rather, I feel your interest. If I could see your interest—if we had privacy—I’d open these ridiculously tight jeans of yours. I might go down to my knees, take your prick out so I could see exactly what it looks like. Admire it. Kiss the tip, just once, then take it in my mouth.” Malfoy pushes the ridge of his palm against Harry’s prick, slides it along the length.

Harry grits his teeth, shifts his hips into Malfoy’s touch. He wants to buck up, wants to rut hard against him, but he doesn’t want to be obvious, here in their corner.

Malfoy stops for a moment, and Harry whines at the loss of contact. When Malfoy grips his wrist, Harry looks over at him, watches as Malfoy looks down and raises his eyebrow.

What?

Oh.

Oh.

Harry lowers his hand slowly, slides it under the table and across the small space until it lands on Malfoy’s thigh. His prick is evident, thick and warm beneath the smartly cut trousers. Harry finds the head and squeezes, just a little; he’s rewarded by a small shift of Malfoy’s hips, and a slow, small smile.

“Very good, Potter,” Malfoy whispers. “You know, I wouldn’t let you finish in my mouth. Someday, perhaps, but not this first time. I want to fuck you, you see. I want to use my tongue and my fingers and open you up, and then I want to press inside of you. Slow, easy, making sure you enjoy every moment of it. I want you to feel me, I want you to know that it’s me inside of you, that it’s me fucking into you.” His hand strokes along Harry’s prick with every word, and Harry can feel the world narrowing down to the point of that particular pleasure.

Malfoy’s breath hitches as Harry presses the heel of his palm against his prick, strokes him hard. Malfoy shifts in his seat, getting closer to Harry, and Harry can’t help the small whine.

“And when I’m deep inside of you,” Malfoy murmurs. “That’s when I’ll take your prick in hand and I’ll work it with my slick fingers, stroking you while I fuck you. And you’ll come like that, all over the bed that lies beneath you. And you’ll make that beautiful sound, that long, low whine, just before you call my name.”

“Malfoy.” Harry twitches, and he can’t help it, bucking up once as Malfoy presses down, and then he’s coming hard enough that he collapses back in his chair. His breath is rough, his chest aching, and Malfoy looks far too pleased with himself.

Malfoy’s also still hard as a rock.

It’s hard to do with one hand, but Harry manages to get Malfoy’s fly open. He pushes his hand inside, jerking back when he finds hot skin. Malfoy’s groan begs him to continue, and Harry manages to tug Malfoy’s prick free. It’s right there, hidden only by the table, and Harry strokes along it quickly. It only takes a moment before Malfoy comes as well with a low groan and a twitch of his hips.

Harry’s hand is sticky, and his jeans are soaked. Malfoy reclines in his chair, glances over at Harry with a satisfied smirk. “I think we should meet for dinner again.” Malfoy touches the table top with his free hand. “Right here. This should be our corner.”

He should say no. Harry knows the correct thing to say, and yet, he says instead, “I’ll be coming through again in a month. In the meantime, you should visit. We’ll introduce our sons.”

Malfoy quietly brings out his wand and cleanses them both, erasing all traces of what they’ve just done. “We certainly can discuss that. Over dinner. Here. Same time next week.” It sounds more like an order than a suggestion.

It’s not all that far to Apparate.

“Over dinner. Here. Same time next week,” Harry echoes quietly. He goes silent when the server brings the bill, and Malfoy sends him off with a large sum of Muggle money.

“I didn’t expect you to agree so quickly,” Malfoy says.

Harry’s not entirely certain why he did agree. He shrugs one shoulder. “Neither did I. But we’ll figure out why I did next week, I’m sure.” Harry needs time to process, to think about what he’s done and what he’ll do going forward. Time to figure out what to say to Ginny, and whether he should say anything at all. He licks his lips, and watches as Malfoy tracks the path of his tongue.

Harry has no idea why this just happened, but he can be sure of one thing: it affected both of them. And that’s all he needs to move forward.

He raises the remains of his dessert wine. “To whatever comes next.”

Draco raises his glass, then smirks as he takes a small sip. “Whatever it is, I’m certain we shall have it well in hand.”