𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

First Day

Pairing: H/D
Rating: R/NC-17
Summary: First day of Auror training, and it isn’t going so well for Harry.

It was Harry’s first day of Auror training, and, to put it mildly, things were not going well.

There had been the embarrassing incident during registration, where he had blanked on his own name out of nervousness and then proceeded to turn a questioning look towards Ron, who appeared just as nonplussed by the question.

Then, of course, the wardrobe malfunction. Hero of the wizarding world cannot figure out semi-complex training uniform, gets stuck in own shirt, suffocates for an excruciatingly pathetic death.

And now this.

The appearance of Draco Malfoy in the first Auror training session of Harry’s graduating class was a complete shock that Harry was utterly unprepared to face. Dementors, sure. Dark Lords, no problem. Blond schoolboy nemesis turned spy for the side of Light… not so much. Even more unwelcome was the fact that Harry wasn’t exactly….upset to see him.

Indeed, upset wouldn’t have been the word for it. Harry and the rest of his group had walked in to a gym with high ceilings where several trainees had already begun to warm up for their first physical session. There, in the middle of the floor, doing an apparently unending set of crunches, was a sweaty, grinning Malfoy.

As Harry took in his disheveled state, he felt his stomach drop. Aside from the fact that this would now cement his position as Preferred Subject of Malfoy Mockery for another three years, he had to grudgingly admit that Malfoy looked….attractive. He was dressed simply: black pair of track pants, ribbed grey tank top…and a black band around his left forearm obscuring the Dark Mark he had had burned into his skin. The light flush of physical exertion and a small glow of sweat made him look healthy and young, and Harry felt a sudden flash of anxiety over his own gawky appearance in comparison.

Malfoy’s eyes locked with his, and he watched as Malfoy stopped, mid-crunch, and let out a huff of laughter.

“Well, well,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet, “if it isn’t the Boy Wonder himself.” That damn smirk. Still in tact, despite the year of danger and fear and…..and…

And then Harry realized that Malfoy had held out his hand. As if…he wanted Harry to take it.

Maybe this was some sort of preliminary test. Maybe the Ministry wanted to see how he’d react under social duress.

Malfoy’s eyes flickered down to his extended hand, still smirking.

“Oh, come now, Potter. Boy Wonder too important to accept the hand of a lowly turncoat?” Why did that sound insinuating? Why did Malfoy look so calm and pleasant? Why did Harry always have to go bright red at the most inopportune moments?

He found himself stepping forward, taking Malfoy’s hand with strong assurance that did not reflect the tight knot of nerves that had settled into his stomach, and saying in a low voice “Two things, Malfoy. One, you’re not just a lowly turncoat.” At that, Malfoy’s eyes went a little wide about the edges, so Harry got a more firm grip on his hand and pulled him in closer. “And two, I’m not a boy anymore.”

Then Malfoy’s eyes went really wide, and there was so much implied, and no taking it back.

“Well,” Malfoy said, apparently trying to regain some composure, “I can see that.” And then he winked. Winked at Harry, a motion so fast it might have been imagined. But it wasn’t.

Later that night Harry surprised himself again by stumbling into his small flat with an armful of sweaty Malfoy tangled in his limbs, pushing an eager tongue in his mouth and allowing his dexterous fingers to climb up the back of Harry’s shirt.

It had been a day full of learning; learning wonderful things like that Malfoy’s reflexes were as honed as his own, that Malfoy could be deadly silent when he needed to be, that Malfoy’s eyes trailed over Harry’s every movement like he was going to be tested on them later.

Very educational. And now Harry was adding even more to his mental notes from the day; Malfoy made the most wonderful sounds when Harry’s fingers gripped his ass, Malfoy could move against Harry’s erection in the most intoxicating way, Malfoy had a penchant for confessing emotions in the midst of heated sexual encounters.

Malfoy was talking now, moonlight reflecting in his light grey eyes as if his irises could glow in the dark. He was talking about being out there, in the war, in the Dark. Knowing where he belonged, but being unable to go.

“I swore,” he was saying, “that once I was out of there, I would never hesitate on happiness again.”

Harry felt his stomach drop again. And then he was kissing Malfoy, one hand supporting his waist and the other tangled in that hair that lit a pale blaze in the midst of Harry’s darkened bedroom.

That same feeling came at intervals throughout that first night. When he ran his fingers over the deep scar on Draco’s chest, remembering horror and worry and guilt. When Draco looked him dead in the face and slowly peeled off that black armband, sucking in a painful breath when Harry looked down at the faded imprint and then pulled him in for a furious kiss.

When he slid into Draco’s slick entrance for the first time, observing Draco’s tortured expression turn completely peaceful, watching the movement of that pale throat, and marveling at how easy and how right and how good this all was….

Perhaps the day hadn’t been that bad after all.