That Which You Speak into Existence

A/N: Heads up--this story contains explicit smut! I've been trying to come up with a way to make it easy for those who would like to skip it without interrupting the flow of the story too much, so I'm trying something new. At the start and end of the smut you will find a ♡. If you want to skip, just scan for the one at the end and jump there. You won't miss any plot.

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"Do you think any of our predecessors have done this?"

Harry looks down to find Draco giving him an angelic smile from between his legs as he tucks his cock back into his trousers for him and does them up.

"What," Harry pants, running a hand through his hair, "like Fudge and Umbridge?"

Draco cackles in delight, throwing his head back to expose the long line of his throat. "I was thinking of Shacklebolt and Weasley, but come to think of it, Fudge and Umbridge definitely were."

Harry blushes furiously. "Do not—"

"Hem hem!" Draco crawls out from under the desk and into his lap, straddling him in his chair and wrapping his arms around his neck with a breathy, high-pitched giggle. "Minister, you are absolutely right, tiny dicks are better."

"Circe," Harry chokes out a horrified laugh, cupping his arse in his hands to hold him in place. "You're awful. Besides, how d'you know he's got a tiny dick?"

Draco tilts his head to one side with a devious little grin. "All that bluster and pompous posturing...you didn't ever get the impression he was compensating for something?"

Harry snorts. "I can't say I've ever thought about it."

"Lucky you," Draco says, nipping at his ear and grinding his hips down.

"I hope you're not expecting me to perform again after that conversation," Harry groans. "I don't think I'll ever get hard again. Thanks for that."

"Now that is a pity, Minister," Draco teases in the same breathy falsetto.

"Stop!" Harry laughs, dropping his head forward onto his shoulder.

A sharp rap on the door has Draco scrambling to his feet, fixing their hair and clothes with a flick of his familiar hawthorn wand. He leans casually against the side of the desk and folds his arms.

Harry waits for Draco to give him a curt nod, then calls out, "Yes?"

His receptionist, Dorothea, pokes her head of iron-grey curls around the door. "You asked me to remind you of your meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister at three. It's two forty-five."

"Right," Harry says. "Thanks, Dora."

"You know how I enjoy being your personal timekeeper, Minister." She closes the door with a roll of her eyes.

"The dragon in Kent?" Draco asks.

"Yeah. Charlie and his team are handling it, but I'd still better go over the case with him and get his help with the cover story." Harry sighs and runs a hand over his face. "I'm not looking forward to it. The man's an absolute bellend. And then I have meetings with two department heads and nine proposals to read by tomorrow."

Draco adjusts his waistcoat and reaches back to place a hand over Harry's on the desk. "Come to mine tonight. I'll help relieve some of this pent up stress."

"I—" Harry glances down at the ring on his fourth finger and swallows hard against the guilt that lodges in his throat. "I'm not sure when I'll be free to leave. It might be very late."

"Just Floo directly into my study whenever you're finished, you know I'll still be up. And I'm meeting the Minister for the Department of Magical Games and Sports this afternoon, so I've got you beat on horrible afternoons, anyway."