Title: Everything Is All We Want
Author:
Characters/Pairings: Harry/Neville, Harry/Neville/Draco
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: negotiation
Other Warnings/Content: courting, fingering, threesome, blow jobs, office sex
Word Count: 6,511 words
Summary/Description: Draco isn’t entirely certain he understands what Neville and Harry want with him. It takes time for them to help him understand.
Author's Notes: This could’ve been longer. Much longer. Like, it could’ve been 10k of loving negotiation with no actual sex. Um. These boys do like to figure things out! (I blame Draco’s wary streak)


Draco’s lips purse tightly as he stalks through the halls of the Ministry. His robes snap about his legs, the sound turning heads as he passes. He keeps his pointed chin up, his gaze never drifting to meet anyone else, fixed upon the way ahead. He stops only when he reaches the Head Auror’s office, pausing at the closed door.

His gaze drops to the girl who sits outside, her hands clasped on her desk.

“Mister Malfoy,” she whispers, looking up at him.

“Yes.” The word is bitten. Clipped. “I’ve been summoned.”

“You have.” She touches her wand to a circular device on her desk, leans forward and speaks clearly. “Head Auror Potter. Mister Malfoy is here to see you.”

“Door’s open, Sarah. Send him in.” The door clicks and creaks at the sound of Potter’s voice, sliding open just a crack.

“Go on,” she encourages.

Draco has no desire to linger where he can feel the eyes of several Aurors upon him. He turns with a swirl of his robes, pulls the door open and steps through.

The door clicks closed behind him, and the sounds of the bullpen fall away, deadened by a privacy spell. Potter stands behind his desk, hands against oak surface, his fingers spread.

Neville Longbottom sits slumped in one of the two chairs, his long legs sprawled. He has his hands clasped together over his stomach, and he tilts his head to look at Draco as he enters. “Malfoy,” he says, tone pleasant enough.

“Longbottom. An unplanned surprise.”

“I know.” Potter gestures to the other chair, and it twists towards Draco, inviting him to take a seat.

Draco does so, perching on the edge of the chair, his robes carefully arranged, hands clasped in his lap. His wand is in his sleeve, easy to retrieve should he feel the need to protect himself. “So, my meeting is with the head of the Auror division, and the master of research into the usage of magical plants. Can I hope that you require me for my expertise in Potions, or is there some more dire issue of which I should be aware?”

“Neither.” Potter sits and leans back in his chair; it rocks under his weight until he stops it by putting one foot up against his desk. “This is personal.”

Draco’s gaze flicks between Longbottom and Potter. “Personal.”

“Personal,” Longbottom confirms. He stretches, then leans forward, knees spread as he props his elbows there, gaze intent on Draco. “We’d have sent an invitation, but you’re notorious for ignoring them. Especially from Harry.”

“We’ve got a past,” Draco says dryly. “You both know that.”

Longbottom and Potter exchange a glance that leaves Potter scrubbing his hands against his robes as if his palms are soaked with sweat. Longbottom stays where he is, but Potter rises to pace behind his desk.

“Come to dinner tonight,” Longbottom says quietly. “At our flat.”

“We’re not friends,” Draco responds. He tilts his head, chin raised a shade higher. “You’re right. I would have ignored the invitation. If that’s all—”

“Look, it’s just one meal,” Potter interrupts. He leans on the desk, gaze intent on Draco. “Please. Neville’s a good cook. Everything’s fresh. And well, you might find we’re halfway decent company. It’s got to be better than going home alone, yeah?”

Draco moved out of the manor and out of Wiltshire years ago, not long after the war ended. As soon as he could return to Wizarding society safely, he had found his own flat in London, a small walkup where he could maintain a secured connection to the Floo, one house elf, and a quiet life. It’s been five years since then, and he’s re-established himself in society as a master of Potions.

It’s quiet, but that’s better than the alternative. Draco’s had enough excitement to last several lifetimes.

“Why?” he asks baldly, and again, they exchange a look.

Potter straightens, expression guarded. “We’re coming up on the seventh anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.” He comes around the desk to sit on the corner. “We’re all going to turn twenty-five this summer, yeah? We’ve seen a quarter century come and go and I was thinking that it’s time to leave all the prejudice of the past behind us.” He licks his lips, gaze level.

“So you’re inviting me to dinner.” One eyebrow arches delicately. Draco knows this isn’t it, that something else lies behind this, and he wants to know what that is.

“Dinner in private seemed like a good place to start,” Longbottom says easily, leaning back in his chair again. “If you’d rather start public, we can go out to lunch. Then I won’t have to cook.”

Draco shudders at the idea of being out in public with them, subjected to the stares and commentary of the common members of the Wizarding world. “You aren’t going to let this go.”

Potter taps his fingers against his thigh, exuding nerves, but Longbottom is perfectly still, voice low when he says, “No. We won’t.”

“Fine,” Draco says, and Potter stills, eyes suddenly wide.

“Seriously?” When Draco raises an eyebrow, Potter speaks quickly. “Half-seven tonight. I’m always stuck here until after six, and sometimes later. Neville gets home earlier, but he’ll need time to get things prepped. It’ll be good food, I promise, and afterwards, if you never want to talk to us again, fine.”

“It’ll be worth your time,” Longbottom says quietly, and it’s his voice that leaves Draco wondering what’s happening. The tone is low, firm, and it twists in Draco’s gut in uncomfortable and unexpected ways.

Draco shifts in his seat, adjusts his robes before he stands. “Very well,” he says tightly. He takes the slip of paper that Potter offers, glances at the Floo address. “Half-seven. I shall see you then.”

#

Draco steps into the Floo at exactly half past seven, emerging into a cozy sitting room on the other side. He dusts soot from his robes while nodding at where Longbottom reclines on the sofa across from a noisy box. Longbottom lifts something that looks like a thick wand and touches it; the noise goes silent.

“Harry’s not here yet,” Longbottom says, and Draco feels a chill at the base of his spine.

“Ah.” He schools his expression. “Then I’m early.”

Longbottom grins. “Nah, Harry’s late. Usually is, and almost always later than he thinks he’s going to be. Come in and sit, be comfortable. Should’ve told you not to worry about formal robes.”

Longbottom’s in trousers and a soft, hand-knit jumper that’s almost the same grey-green as his eyes. His feet are bare, slightly dusty from the floor. He looks almost Muggle. When he gestures at the sofa, Draco cautiously sits at the other end, smoothing his robes over his knees.

“Dinner smells good.” It’s best to be polite, to engage in small talk. Draco can smell herbs and the scent of well-roasted chicken. Something fruity—a chutney perhaps, or a sauce—lends sweetness to the air.

Longbottom’s smile quirks on one side, amused. “It’ll hold until Harry’s here. Will you?”

Draco skewers him with a look. “What are you implying, Longbottom?”

“You look as if you might slip off the end of the couch, you’re sitting so carefully.” Longbottom relaxes further, long legs extended and crossed at the ankles, almost touching where Draco’s feet rest against the floor. Longbottom’s feet are large, much larger than Draco expected, although he supposes they match his broad build and strong hands.

That thought sends blood unexpectedly south, and Draco purses his lips and fights against his body’s reaction. “I’m fine,” he says curtly. “Just how late do you think Potter will be?”

“Long enough for you and I to talk,” Longbottom says. “Harry and I, we’ve been talking about you a lot lately, Malfoy.”

Draco’s tongue flicks out, trying to dampen suddenly dry lips. “You have.”

Longbottom nods. “That we have. Shouldn’t surprise you, though, should it? Harry’s always had a fascination with you. Deserved, in some ways, I suppose, back when we were at Hogwarts.”

Draco’s breath is rough in his chest. “Are you trying to say that you think I’m up to something now?”

“No.” Longbottom sits up, leans on the back of the sofa as he moves into Draco’s personal space. “I’m trying to say that he might’ve thought you were up to something then, but that wasn’t the only reason why he followed you around.”

Draco’s throat goes dry. He pushes to his feet, carefully smoothes his robes down over his legs until he’s certain that he’s put together properly. Instead of responding, he looks around the apartment, seeking signs that seem to point to both Longbottom and Potter sharing the space. There are plants hanging near the window, lush and vibrant—Longbottom’s influence, most likely. He remembers Longbottom’s indifference to everything Quidditch, thus the Puddlemere banner likely belongs to Potter. “I didn’t know the two of you lived together.”

“About six months now.” Longbottom hasn’t moved, relaxed where he leans against the back of the sofa. “Harry moved in when Ron proposed to Hermione. We haven’t made it public—it’s best if folks don’t know where the Head Auror lives in general. Besides. I don’t think most folks realize we’re together.”

Draco blinks, turns back to look at Longbottom. “Together.”

Longbottom’s smile quirks. “Yes, together, Malfoy. It’s been a year, but Harry’s private, so he’d rather keep it out of the news.”

“And you don’t think I might sell this prime tidbit to the Daily Prophet?” Draco can’t imagine that they would trust him, and yet, here is Longbottom, offering up a sweet morsel for free.

“Given what I’m thinking might happen tonight, you won’t want to,” Longbottom says. He glances at the fireplace, sighs heavily. “Harry’s apparently going to be a while yet. You and I ought to talk a bit more while we’re waiting.” He touches the sofa cushion next to him. “Come and sit. Not going to bite, unless that’s what you want.”

Draco perches on the edge of the sofa. “I almost might think you’re flirting,” he says carefully. “If you hadn’t just mentioned that you’re with Potter.”

“What makes you think I’m not?” Longbottom leans back, gets comfortable again. “As I said, we’ve been talking about you a good bit. Sometimes we talk about fantasies.”

“No.” Draco pushes to his feet quickly, gets one hand up, finger jabbing at Longbottom. “I am not some sordid fantasy for sale.”

The Floo flares behind him, and Potter tumbles through, almost knocking into Draco. Potter rocks back and Draco sidesteps; they regard each other warily.

“Potter,” Draco says evenly. “I was just leaving.”

“Wait, why?” Potter’s mouth opens slightly, confused. He shoots a look at Longbottom, then quickly shrugs out of his formal robes, dropping them over the back of the nearest chair. His jeans are ripped at the knees—absolutely out of place for the Head Auror—and his jumper is frayed at the cuffs. “I’m sorry I’m late; things always seem to get away from me in the office somehow. You should take off your formal robes. Get comfortable. Did Neville serve dinner or did he make you wait on me?”

“I figured we’d wait, since I knew you were anxious to get home with Malfoy here. And since we were waiting, I thought we’d talk,” Longbottom says quietly. His gaze drops, shoulders slumped. “I arsed it up.”

“Actually, I appreciate your candor.” Draco smiles, lips pressed tightly together. “Now that I understand that you’re seeking the physical conclusion to a mental fantasy, I can reject the proposition and be off. Thank you for the invitation, but I am not interested.”

“Neville!”

“I didn’t say that,” Longbottom protests quietly.

“Draco.” Potter catches at Draco’s hand, tugs until he has to stop, blinking at the unfamiliar use of his own name from Potter’s lips.

“What?”

“We didn’t invite you here because we want to use you for a fantasy,” Potter says, his cheeks burning darker than usual with a red undertone. “Okay, well, there were definitely some fantasies included. But those weren’t the point of having dinner with you tonight. The point is—we want to get to know you better. Because we’ve both fancied you at some point or another. Including now.”

Draco’s gaze narrows. He pushes Potter’s hand from his arm, then crosses his own as he tilts his chin up. “You’re together,” he says, and they both nod. “Then care to explain how, exactly, you believe you fancy me?”

“If I could explain it, it wouldn’t have been eating away at me for months,” Potter grumbles, scrubbing a hand through his hair, making the messy strands worse than usual. “Seriously, this is the worst. I’ve got Neville, and he’s a fucking brilliant partner. We fit so well. But then there’s you. And one of the things that came with realizing I’m into blokes, Draco, was the extremely bright and vivid realization that I was, in particular, attracted to you. And still am.”

“It’s not about the fantasy,” Longbottom says. “It’s about you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Draco points out.

Potter’s laugh is slightly strangled. “We pay attention. I’ve seen you in the office, and I know you can still be a prickly arse, but you’re not one just because you can. You’re specific, you have ways you like things to be done. You’re careful. Cautious.” He hesitates, then quickly continues as if Draco might interrupt him. “And Neville’s spent time working with your research in Potions, looking at how it intersects with his own research. He says your a right brilliant Potions Master. We’ve both seen how you’ve changed since we were at Hogwarts. And we’re both interested in, well… in you, Draco.”

“I haven’t given you leave to call me by my given name.” The way Potter keeps repeating is, as if they know each other well, pricks at Draco’s nerves. He purses his lips, tries to convey his displeasure at the familiarity.

“I’m hoping that by the end of dinner, that’ll change.” Potter gestures at the doorway that leads to the kitchen. “I just thought we could have a nice dinner, so let’s not let it go to waste. We’ll eat. We’ll talk. That’s all this is about tonight. If you think we don’t know each other, then maybe we can change that. I’d like it if we all got to know each other.” Potter glances at Draco’s robes, then his own ripped jeans. “We’re not really big on formality here, so please, if you’ve got something on under your robes, please take them off and be comfortable.”

Draco feels the weight of Longbottom’s gaze upon him as he slowly picks apart the buttons of his robes, opening them and shrugging them off. His shirt is crisply pressed, as are his trousers. Not a seam out of place. He carefully folds the robes over his arm, looks for a place to hang them.

Longbottom gestures with his wand, and one of the plants obligingly extends a thick stalk in the shape of a hook. “Go on then, hang them up,” he says. “We’ve got a dinner to eat.”

#

The meal is good. Longbottom’s a more than fair cook, and someone has good taste in wine. The white isn’t too oaky, nor too sweet, just crisp enough to complement the chicken well. They go through most of two bottles between the three of them, and at the end, Draco covers his with a hand when Longbottom tries to offer him the remainder.

“I’m done,” Draco says. “I do have to make my way home safely.”

“We’d make sure you get there safe,” Potter tells him. “Besides. We’re wizards. Neville’s got a plant for everything.”

Longbottom’s ears flush pink. “High praise, but in this case, true. If you crush the flower buds of the bertam palm and place the paste beneath your tongue, you’ll be sober in minutes. Tastes better than most hangover potions, and works better than a Pepper Up potion.”

Over the course of the dinner, they’ve each gone into depth about their chosen fields. Longbottom’s enthusiasm for his plants is evident, and his breadth of knowledge extensive. Draco already knew—he’d consulted with him more than once in the past—but he respects him even more now.

“You don’t have to leave right away,” Potter points out. “You’re welcome to stay for a while. Talk more.”

“You don’t think we’ve covered every topic?” Draco lifts one eyebrow. “Potter, I now know that treacle tart is your favorite sweet, although, to be fair, I may have noticed that on my own back in Hogwarts. I know that despite being immersed for years in Gryffindor red and gold, you prefer blues and greens. I heard about your first date with Longbottom.”

“I’d like to tell you about my first date with you,” Potter says, and Draco freezes.

“Potter.”

Longbottom rises, lifts the plates from the table. “You two go on into the living room while I clean up. I’ll bring those buds in a moment.”

Draco isn’t certain if he’d rather be sober or exceedingly pissed right now. He follows Potter into the living room, takes a cautious seat at one end of the sofa. Potter gestures, and Draco forces himself to lean back, to relax.

“We—Neville and I—have been talking about this for a long time, like I said,” Potter tells him. “So I had this idea that we’d invite you over and Neville would cook, and I’d pick out a wine that you might like.”

“You picked the wine?” Both eyebrows go up this time. “I didn’t know you knew wine.”

“Barely,” Potter admits. “I’ve started going to that shop where Pansy works. She’s been helping me.”

“Does she know about—?” Draco motions between them.

Potter shakes his head. “God, no. This is like… it’s like fancying someone when I was thirteen, when I didn’t know if I wanted to kiss you or hit you. Or maybe both. And if someone else figured it out, I might die of embarrassment. Worse, if you were to say no.”

Draco’s gaze narrows. “Are you saying you fancied me when you were thirteen?”

“Looking back, I’d have to say yes. Are you saying you didn’t fancy me?” Potter raises an eyebrow and while it certainly isn’t intimidating, it’s strangely endearing.

“Here.” Longbottom touches his shoulder, places a dried flower bud in his hand when Draco raises it. “Crush that up between your fingers, place it under your tongue.”

Draco does so, while they do the same. He feels sobriety wash over him, deadening the easy, lax feeling that suffused his bones.

However, Potter’s attempt at intimidation is still strangely endearing.

Bloody hell.

“Fine,” Draco mutters. “It is indeed possible that I may have fancied you at times. However, you’re still Potter. And Longbottom. And in case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t friends.”

“You said that before, but I think you’re wrong.” Longbottom sits on the edge of the ottoman, facing them both. “We’ve had positive interactions before; we’re far from enemies. We just enjoyed a meal. You’re dead sober, yeah? Maybe we could talk about this.”

Longbottom’s sitting close enough that his knee almost brushes Draco’s. He can feel the heat of his body, warm and solid and too close. Draco inhales, lets it out slowly. “Fine, yes, go on Potter. What else was going to happen on this first date?”

Potter’s smile flickers, and he licks his lips. “Well, that’s the thing. It’s a first date, right? So I thought we’d have dinner and talk, and you’d compliment Neville on the food.”

“Which I did.”

“Which you did.” Potter reaches out, takes Longbottom’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Then I thought we’d come in here, squeeze in together on the sofa and maybe watch a little something on the telly. Hoped to have a first kiss before you go.”

“That’s it.” Somehow Draco is vaguely disappointed.

“We told you it wasn’t about some fantasy,” Longbottom murmurs.

“If I’m being honest, that is kind of a fantasy,” Potter admits, cheeks flushed. “The idea of the three of us being all squeezed in together, maybe a few kisses. Hearing you call me by my given name, same for Neville. It makes me feel….” He trails off, gestures from his chest to his crotch, and Draco can’t help the way he looks at him.

“You’re aroused by the idea of me calling you Harry,” he says dryly, and the flush on Potter’s cheeks intensifies.

“And using Neville’s name, too,” Potter reminds him. “And it’s not just arousal. It’s… it’s… an all over kind of thing.”

“Luna thinks he’s heartsick,” Longbottom says easily. “Might be right. It’s not just some kind of a sexual fantasy. He’s fancied you for a bloody long time, Malfoy.”

“What about you?” Draco asks, because there are two of them here, and they are already together, and he has no idea how to handle this situation.

“It’s not just about the sex,” Longbottom says. “It’s about seeing Harry happy. It’s about knowing who you are now, being attracted to that man. But I’ll admit, in my description of the first date, it ended with more than a kiss.” He grins, and Draco finds himself grinning back, Longbottom’s open expression engaging and drawing him in.

It’s a heady thought, and his smile falls away as he considers it.

“What are you thinking?” Potter asks, and Draco’s gaze shifts to him. He can see the way Potter holds each breath for a moment, his fingers flexing with nerves.

Draco slides towards Potter, takes space in the middle, and leaves space at the other end. He touches the empty space, looks to Longbottom, “One hour,” he says. “Whatever that thing does, whatever else you’d like to discuss. I’ll stay for one more hour, and then I’ll leave.”

Longbottom drops into the empty space, nudging Draco a bit closer to Potter. Draco ends up wedged between them, his thighs pressed against them both. Longbottom’s arm is heavy behind his shoulders, and Potter’s hand rests near his leg. It’s warm and Draco’s body is quickly heated and aching, just a bit, as Longbottom trails his fingers across the back of Draco’s neck.

Potter picks up the thick wand—a remote, he says—and the telly blinks to life, full of noise and images. It’s distracting, but then, so are the men sandwiched tight around Draco. He could get used to this.

#

Draco has lunch with Potter and Longbottom on Monday, as Longbottom insists Draco help extract Potter from his office long enough to eat. They both show up in Draco’s lab with dinner late Thursday evening, while Draco is embroiled in monitoring a potion that will require his attention until after midnight. When Draco is again buried in work over the weekend, it’s Longbottom alone in his lab as they chat about the secret assignment that’s taken Harry out of the country.

Harry.

And Neville.

The names trip from Draco’s lips more easily after the first week, the familiarity easier to bear. When Neville leaves before Draco’s work is done, he feels the loss in the silence of his lab, the only sound the flick and stir of his wand over the cauldron.

Monday morning he sends an interoffice memo to each of them, requesting a formal meeting in Harry’s office at noon. He places an owl order for lunch to be delivered to Harry at just before noon, and at the appropriate time, he stalks through the corridors of the Ministry, head high, robes snapping about his legs.

He smiles thinly when Harry’s assistant looks up at him, her eyes wide. “Mister Malfoy,” she says.

“I have an appointment.” Draco’s tone is curt. Professional.

“Door’s open,” Harry calls out, the door creaking as it nudges open a shade further. “Sarah, make sure we’re not disturbed. Malfoy, Longbottom, and I have a case to discuss.”

“Of course, Head Auror Potter.” Her smile eases, more polite than concerned. “Go in, Mister Malfoy. I believe lunch has already been delivered.”

“I expect it will be a long, grueling session,” Draco murmurs, and he swears he hears a snort from inside the office.

The door clicks closed behind him, as soon as he steps through, and Draco feels the swirl of magic around him as privacy spells engage.

It reminds him of the last time he stood here, with Harry behind the desk, nerves vibrating through him, and Neville lounging comfortably in one chair.

Draco undoes the top two buttons of his robes, and Harry eases, sinks into his chair. Draco continues to pick apart the buttons one by one until his robes fall open and he shrugs out of them, tossing them to land on a hook on one wall. He smoothes his hands down over the soft wool of his jumper, and the perfect pleat of his trousers. “There’s no need to stand on formality,” he says quietly.

Harry gestures, and his robes and Neville’s are simply gone, vanished to Merlin knows where. Harry’s in the same ripped and worn jeans, his t-shirt proclaiming the supremacy of Puddlemere. Neville’s jumper has thumbholes, the sleeves long enough to cover Neville’s large hands.

Neville raises an eyebrow. “You bought us lunch.”

“Well, you’ve been attempting to seduce me with food at every turn,” Draco says, still standing. “I thought perhaps that I ought to return the favour. If you are amenable to being seduced, that is.”

“We started it,” Harry says plainly. “Pretty sure we are still very interested in seduction. Do you want to come over after work? I can try to be out of here by six.”

Draco’s breath is tight in his chest. His fingers flex, curl into fists by his side. “Harry,” he says quietly, watching the way Harry inhales on the sound of his name. “Neville. I….” He trails off, swallows. “I can hardly trust you to be on time, Harry.” He raises one eyebrow, amused at the way Harry flushes at the gentle accusation. “So I thought I’d ensure that we all know exactly what’s happening. And perhaps offer a taste of what’s to come.”

“What’s happening,” Neville echoes, voice thick and low. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “And what do you think’s happening?”

Draco exhales. “I think that we,” he gestures between the three of them, “are going to attempt something resembling a relationship. You say that you are both interested in me, and I’ve found your companionship tolerable this past week and more.” He raises an eyebrow when Harry snorts, chin tilting as Harry walks around the desk to approach more closely. “There is, of course, the question what this would mean.”

“You understand that this isn’t fantasy fulfillment,” Harry says quietly. He’s right in front of Draco, his breath a warm wash of air across Draco’s skin. Harry reaches out, fingers skimming along Draco’s cheek. “This isn’t about the sex.”

“It’s at least partly about the sex,” Neville murmurs. “But Harry’s right, that’s not all it is.”

Draco swallows, shivering. “You want me to be a part of what you have, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “All of it. The dinners, the time snuggling on the couch with the telly, the time just spent together, doing things.”

“And the sex.” Neville spreads his hands when they both look at him. “All of that,” he clarifies. “But I’m attracted to you. I want to make sure you know it.”

“Fuck.” Draco’s eyes close as he lets breath slip loose. His heart thunders, and Harry presses a hand against his chest, as if he might hold Draco’s heart in place.

“Don’t be scared,” Harry murmurs, nose brushing against Draco’s cheek.

“I’m not,” Draco lies. “Why, are you?”

“Yes.” The word is a whisper, pressed against the pulse behind Draco’s ear. Harry nips at the skin, fingers sliding under the hem of Draco’s jumper. “I’m terrified.”

A rustle of movement, then heat against Draco’s back as Neville presses in close, hands on Draco’s hips. Draco tilts his head back, lets it fall against Neville’s shoulder, baring his throat to both of them.

“Fine,” Draco mutters. “I might be a bit scared.”

“We’ve got you,” Neville murmurs, sucking at the spot where Draco’s neck meets shoulder. “I’ve got you both.”

Harry pulls back, tugging the edge of Draco’s jumper up a bit. “Can I?” he asks softly. Draco nods, lifting his arms to help Harry pull the jumper over his head. Harry makes quick work of the button-up Draco wears beneath that, then spreads it open, baring Draco’s pale chest. Harry fingers contrast darkly, skimming over Draco’s skin.

Draco’s legs feel loose, and he leans back, whining softly when Neville takes his weight.

“Got you,” Neville murmurs, nipping at Draco’s ear.

Draco isn’t sure where to touch. Harry skims his own t-shirt off, and Draco reaches out, draws a finger along the line from collarbone to nipple. He’s gratified to feel the rapidfire thud of Harry’s heart under his touch. Draco lets his fingers slide out slowly, until his palm presses against Harry’s skin and Harry covers his hand with his own.

Draco manages to catch a breath, despite the way Neville’s hands are at his waist, fingers spread warm across his skin. “So,” Draco says.

“So,” Neville whispers into his throat. “How much of yourself are you willing to let us have?”

Draco knows what he means. How far will this go, right now? Should he drop to his knees, will he let someone fuck him? How much of his body is he willing to bring to this, in this moment? And yet… even after less than two weeks, he knows that this is something more than physical. His eyes flutter closed again, and he breathes the word out. “Everything.”

“Perfect.” Neville turns them both, leans behind Draco to place Draco’s hands on Harry’s desk. Harry slides to the floor, kneeling in front of him while Draco looks down at him. Draco licks his lips, and Harry smirks slightly, deftly unbuttoning Draco’s flies.

Between them, Harry and Neville quickly strip away Draco’s trousers and pants. At the rustling behind him, Draco assumes Neville strips off as well, but he won’t look. Not when Harry still kneels in front of him, mouth slowly sliding over the tip of Draco’s prick. Harry’s fingers clutch at Draco’s thighs, holding himself in place as he bobs along Draco’s quickly hardening length.

Neville fits neatly behind Draco, his prick resting between the cheeks of Draco’s arse. “I was right,” Neville murmurs. “You do have a perfect bum.” Neville traces his thumb down the crack, spreading Draco’s cheeks so he can fit his prick between them. Draco has no idea where the lubricant has come from, but there’s something slick that lets Neville stroke easily, the tip of his prick catching on the rim of Draco’s hole as he slips by.

Neville presses his thumb lightly to Draco’s hole, and Draco whines, hips shifting to fuck more deeply into Harry’s mouth. Bright green eyes water slightly, but Harry makes a muffled noise of assent and tries to swallow more of Draco.

“Isn’t he good?” Neville asks. “Go on then, Draco. Tell him how good his mouth is. Our Harry likes to hear it.”

Draco shudders at that. Our Harry, as if this truly can be something more. “You’re perfect, Harry,” Draco manages to say, voice hoarse and rough over the words. His fingers curl against the desk, hips swaying as Neville strokes over his arse. “Fuck. Your mouth, Harry. Your tongue.”

Harry whines softly, vibrating around Draco. It almost undoes him, and Harry pulls back, lets Draco slide out of his mouth with a wet pop. Harry’s lips are red and swollen, his cheeks flushed over his dark skin. “Draco,” Harry says.

“What?” Draco feels as if he’s teetering on the edge, with every stroke Neville makes pushing him closer. “What do you want, Harry?”

“Fuck me,” Harry whispers, and Draco’s never heard it sound more beautiful. He nods roughly, and Harry smiles then, licks his lips. Harry presses a kiss to the tip of Draco’s cock, then slides out from between Draco and the desk.

Neville tugs Draco back while Harry comes to his feet, quickly strips out of his jeans and pants and tosses them aside. This time it’s Harry who leans over the desk, his arse pushed back, legs slightly spread. Harry’s cock hangs down, thick and erect, a bead of fluid at the tip. Neville stands next to him, wraps slick fingers around Harry’s prick and starts to stroke.

Harry whimpers loudly, hips rocking.

Neville nods at a tin of lubricant that Draco hadn’t noticed sitting on the desk. “Open him up,” Neville directs.

“Please,” Harry whispers.

It’s the breathy word that undoes him. Draco opens the tin, scoops out more lube than he needs and spreads it down Harry’s crack. He slicks his fingers and gently works one in just past the knuckle, waiting for Harry to relax and let him in. When Harry rocks back, moving between Neville’s hand and Draco’s finger, he pushes in harder. Deeper.

Harry cries out and whispers nonsense sounds, begging for more. He opens so easily for Draco, and Draco manages to get a second finger in alongside the first. He drives deep, fucking into Harry, crooking his fingers and stroking along the inside until Harry cries out again.

“Fuck, Draco, fuck me. Please,” Harry begs. Hips jerk and Neville pulls his hand away, leaving Harry’s prick in the cold air. “Don’t stop.”

“Not quite there yet.” Neville kisses Harry’s forehead, then brushes a light kiss against his lips. “Almost. Let’s get Draco inside you, yeah? You’ve been wanting this for so long.”

Harry’s head drops, shoulders shaking as he struggles to remain still. “Yeah. Please. Come on, Draco. I’m ready. Fuck me.”

Draco twists a third finger into Harry, and bites back a whine as Harry clenches down tight around him. “This isn’t going to last long,” he mutters, and Neville chuckles.

Slick fingers slide along Draco’s hip as Neville fits himself behind. “Can I fuck you, while you fuck our Harry?” Neville whispers, breath hot against Draco’s ear. “I want to feel you come apart for me.”

Draco nods quickly, and when Neville doesn’t move, he lets the words spill out instead. “Merlin, yes, Neville. Fuck me.”

“Then you’re just going to have to do your best not to finish before we get started.” Neville swats Draco’s bum. “Go on then, Harry’s waiting for you.”

Draco exhales in a rush. He works his fingers into Harry again, then slowly slides them out and uses the remaining lube to slick his cock. Harry’s tight, but once Draco pushes past the rim, he slides in easily. “Merlin, you feel good, Harry.”

“So do you, Draco,” Harry whispers. His arms are folded on the table, head resting on them. “You can move.”

No, he truly can’t, not if he wants to wait for Neville. “Just let me get acclimated,” Draco mutters. Neville chuckles softly, and breaches Draco with two thick fingers. “Fuck,” Draco breathes, and struggles not to lose control immediately. Draco drapes himself over Harry, distracts himself by running his hands over Harry’s skin, exploring him. He wraps one hand around Harry’s prick and strokes him slowly, rolling his fingers over the wide head before pushing back to the thick base.

And all the while Neville works him open. Thick fingers, large hands; Neville twists and drives deep, using plenty of lube and leaving Draco sopping, slick, and sticky.

And desperate.

“What do you want?” Neville pauses, the head of his cock pressing against Draco’s rim.

Draco whines, pushes back, which tugs on Harry’s rim. “Fuck. You. Fuck. Me. Now.”

Neville breaches him in one quick stroke, drives deep, pushing Draco deeper into Harry. Harry cries out, and Draco wraps his hand around Harry’s prick, stroking him quickly. “Come on, Harry,” Draco whispers. “Come for me.”

He’s at their mercy, Neville fucking into him, and Harry pushing back against him. Draco rocks helplessly between them, his balls drawn up as he feels endlessly on the edge of falling apart. Harry pants beneath him, fingers scrabbling against the wood before he comes with a sigh, spurting over Draco’s hand and clenching tightly around him.

Neville chooses that moment to drive deep, sliding over Draco’s prostate, and it’s all too much. He cries out, babbles incoherent words mixed with Harry’s and Neville’s names. He begs for release, begs for more, for something, for everything that they’re willing to give. When release comes, it rushes over him, as he cries their names.

In the midst of it, Neville’s orgasm is quiet, a small groan as he buries himself deep inside of Draco.

The room echoes with silence in the aftermath, a rough gasp from Harry breaking the quiet, and a slow murmur from Neville to answer. Neville pulls out, and leaves Draco feeling empty. Draco stays where he is as long as he can, but his softening prick slides from Harry’s arse and Draco needs to pull away.

Harry twists around, following him to capture Draco in a deep kiss. Draco tastes himself on Harry’s tongue and he chases that, kisses him back thoroughly.

As soon as the kiss breaks, Neville is there, his kisses gentle and slow, from forehead, to tip of nose, and finally Draco’s lips. It’s almost chaste, in strange counterpoint to the violent fucking they just had.

“Dinner tonight,” Harry says. “Neville’s cooking.”

“I am?” Neville asks, laughing a little. “Suppose that can be arranged. Be there around seven, Draco. You know Harry’s always late.”

“I’m certain we can find a way to occupy ourselves,” Draco says before he thinks better of it. His skin warms when they look at him, Harry’s eyebrows high and Neville laughing.

“Now that might keep Harry from being as late as he is,” Neville murmurs. “Just think what you’ll be missing.”

“Promise to leave some for me and we’ll be fine.” Harry touches Draco’s mouth, slides a finger in when Draco opens his mouth for him. “We’ll be more than fine,” Harry says.

Draco has no idea what else to say in the aftermath, in these moments where his skin is sticky and cooling. Where he’s just fucked the Head Auror, and placed himself between two men already in a relationship. He licks his lips, blinks when Neville cups the nape of his neck.

“Don’t worry, Draco,” Neville says quietly. “It’s not just about the fantasy.”

“You said you’d give us everything,” Harry adds, pressing the backs of his fingers to Draco’s cheek. “That’s what we want from you. Everything.”

“I will do my best to give you that.” Draco looks between the two of them, needs to touch them both, to connect skin to skin. “But I want everything in return.”

“You’ve already got it,” Harry tells him. “You have our everything, for as long as you want.”