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Chapter Text

Tom hated the last month of the school year. The weather was warmer, and no number of open windows could keep the Defense Against The Dark Arts classroom adequately ventilated. The sun shone right on his desk at mid-morning, all of the students had one foot on the Hogwarts Express, and even the professors were looking forward to their post-term plans. 

So was he, truth be told. Summer offered him time to travel, usually to France or Spain – wherever the Ministry needed him. He’d dine out on the foreign government’s dime, stay in lavish hotels, and get paid to offer consultations for various Dark Magic cases or give presentations on Dark Artifacts. In five weeks, he’d be staying in Amsterdam for several days, meeting with government officials about some cursed necklace that had turned up on some Muggle farm. Amsterdam was lovely in July. 

Hogwarts was lovely, too, if he didn’t think too hard about it. In his youth, Tom had hated everything about the institution, from its outdated dormitories to the senile professors. Now, as one of those professors, he found the space needed to appreciate the Gothic grace of the castle and its manicured grounds. 

“Professor Riddle?”

Tom pulled his eyes from the view of the Black Lake just beyond his classroom window to the student standing in the doorway, both hands wrapped around the strap of his messenger bag. 

“Oh, Draco, come in,” Tom smiled, pulling himself to his feet. “Care for some tea?”

Draco Malfoy was the spitting image of his father, Lucius, one of Tom’s fellow classmates. They’d never quite been friends, though Lucius enjoyed the notoriety that came from knowing someone like Tom. If it weren’t for his son, Tom might’ve removed the Malfoys from his Christmas card list years ago. 

Beneath the Malfoy-blond hair and the perfectly tailored uniform was something much less aristocratic than Lucius would have wanted. He rode Draco hard, impressing upon him the same duties and responsibilities that Abraxas had forced onto him. Where Lucius was carved from the same ice, Draco had inherited the Black Family’s tenacity. The war between honor and will played out in the way Draco didn’t let his hair grow long like his father’s, but refused to keep it short, and how he would rather be expelled than tuck in his shirt. 

“I won’t be staying long,” Draco said, chewing on his bottom lip and watching with uncertain eyes as Tom poured a cup for himself from the tray on his desk. “I only wanted to tell you that I got in.”

Pride bloomed in Tom’s chest. He’d helped Draco fill out an application for a Potion’s Mastery in secret, paying the fee so Lucius wouldn’t see the charge to his vault and overriding the application’s need for a guardian’s address. 

“Draco, that's wonderful!” Tom couldn’t help but smile, warmth and congratulations spilling out of him for the young man standing several feet away. “When does it start?”

Blush crept onto Draco’s cheeks, and Tom couldn’t feel happier. He’d tried his best not to have favorites over the years, having hated those professors, especially as a student. But one couldn’t have a boy like Draco Malfoy in his tutelage and not grow partial to him. Tom knew the kind of childhood he’d had – one that looked very similar to his own, though in an almost-empty manor rather than an overcrowded orphanage. Yet, they both bore the mark of boys who didn’t have fathers. At least not in the way that it mattered. 

That was why, along with not having favorites, Tom had never felt the need to settle down and start a family of his own. He wouldn’t know where to begin. 

“September.” Sunlight caught the side of Draco’s face, lighting up his typically storm cloud-riddled eyes. “I want to go.”

His words hung between them for a moment, hovering in the sunbeam with the dust that filtered down from the ceiling. 

“And you should,” Tom said, leaning against the side of his desk. “I’ve never met someone more deserving of a Mastery than you.”

While Potions had been one of Tom’s least favorite subjects, Draco excelled, earning nothing but praise from Professor Snape. In fact, he earned top marks in all of his classes. Tom would suggest him for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement if that was what he wanted. 

“I would.” Draco sighed, the sparkle in his eyes dimming as clouds moved in over the sun. “If my father would ever let me.”

Tom had heard that complaint before when he first suggested Draco apply anyway. He’d heard it several times in the interim, too, while they waited for the University’s response. 

He wanted to argue. Everything in Tom’s heart and soul screamed for him to say that Lucius Malfoy was an idiot and unfit for the task of raising a boy like Draco. Draco deserved to learn, to go where his mind took him, and to live out the dreams that got him through the day. An arranged marriage and a seat on the Wizengamot would destroy him. 

“Well, I’m proud of you nonetheless,” Tom said instead, clearing his throat to rid himself of everything else he wanted to say. “You’ll be great at whatever it is–”

Draco was in his arms then, hitting his chest with enough force that Tom stumbled as he tried to keep his balance. Naturally, he hugged Draco back, too overwhelmed by the smell of his earthy shampoo to do much else. They’d hugged before – earlier that year, on the first day of winter break. Tom had been nursing a bottle of spiced wine in his office, and Draco had wanted to say goodbye before taking the train home. 

“I appreciate it,” Draco mumbled into Tom’s shoulder, his hair tickling Tom’s nose as he inhaled. 

For a moment, nothing else mattered. There was only the feel of Draco holding onto Tom’s shirt and the way he filled Tom’s embrace. They weren’t just a professor and a student – they became a young man and the person who believed in him, wanted the best for him. 

Then, Draco pulled away, rocking back on his heels for a moment as they studied each other. Tom blinked, and Draco turned toward the door. 

“I’m late for practice,” he said, offering Tom a shy smile, blush still lingering on his cheeks. “I’ll see you in class.”

“Don’t forget your essay,” Tom called after him, not because he thought Draco would forget, but because he didn’t want him to leave. He chewed on his bottom lip, hands flexing at his sides in Draco’s absence. “And remember–”

Draco laughed, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. 

“Thanks, Dad,” he said with a wink before ducking out of sight. 

Chapter Text

Dad.

The word rang through Tom’s mind for the rest of the week, banging around and unsettling even the thickest bits of dust. It plagued him as he graded papers and haunted him through classes, echoing every time Draco answered a question. During meals, he found it impossible to look away from the Slytherin table, Snape’s complaints about the Third Years falling on deaf ears. 

He’d never given much thought to the word dad. His own father abandoned him rather than claim the title, and Tom would never have considered himself the nurturing type as a result. Not to mention the complete absence of a romantic life. His schedule was too packed, women were always looking to build a home, and he’d rather be cursed than see a smaller, more helpless version of his eyes looking back at him. 

Yet, he remembered the way Draco had smiled at him when he’d first come to Hogwarts, barely up to Tom’s waist and holding his hand out after their first class. It was Tom that Draco ran to when he scraped a knee during Flying Lessons, and in Tom’s office, where he’d study when he got a particularly disappointing letter from home. He’d been there when Draco cast his first Patronus and succeeded in his first nonverbal spell. Tom went to every Quidditch game in his house colors, fighting to stop himself from cheering too loudly when Draco caught the Snitch. 

Even now, as he watched Draco perfectly execute the wand movement for a Reducto , Tom couldn’t stop his heart from beating faster. They laughed and cried together. Celebrated wins and suffered losses. There was a small box tucked away in Tom’s desk that very moment, a birthday gift for Draco. He was eighteen now, toeing the line between adolescence and adulthood better than Tom had. And he belonged to Tom in every possible way, just like a son. 

Well, almost every way. Both of the hugs they’d shared had been professional, well above board. No one had lingered, and hands hadn’t wandered. 

“Reducto!” 

Tom’s eyes caught on the flick of Draco’s wand as a pillow exploded, white goose feathers raining down from the ceiling as their gazes locked and Draco’s smile widened. Something hovered in the corner of his mercurial eyes, almost hopeful. 

Did you see that? Draco’s eyes asked. Are you proud of me?

“Excellent wand work, Mr. Malfoy!” Tom clapped, and most of the students followed suit, except for a handful of Gryffindor students who had no hope of mastering the spell themselves. “Did everyone see how–”

But the bell was ringing, and the entire class broke out in a flurry of activity, all of his pupils falling over themselves in an effort to make it to the door. Fridays, Tom thought as he sat down behind his desk, were the absolute worst. And a Friday a month before the end of term was a thing of nightmares. Not even Draco wasted time as he shoved his things into his messenger bag, one of his friends hanging off his arm and attempting to yank him toward the door, toward freedom. 

“Hurry up!” Theodore Nott groaned, tugging harder. 

“You go ahead,” Draco said, sliding out of Theodore’s grasp with a good-natured chuckle. “I’ll catch up so fast you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Theodore’s eyes caught Tom’s for a moment, and Tom wondered if he knew. Knew what, exactly, Tom wasn’t sure. He just knew that something in Theodore’s eyes said that he’d been found out. 

“Fine,” Theodore shrugged, turning back to Draco with a smile. “Have fun.”

Tom busied himself with organizing the stack of essays on his desk and tucking his quills back into the mug sitting beside a preserved Cornish Pixie. Draco had bought it for him several years back when the Malfoys went on an impromptu trip to America, the words World’s Best Teacher scrawled across the side. He hated how special the damn thing made him feel. 

“Nostalgia is the worst.” 

Draco’s voice brought Tom back to the present – back to Draco now standing on the other side of Tom’s desk, smiling like he’d won the lottery. 

“What could you possibly know about nostalgia?” Tom asked, drumming his hands on top of the desk to keep from lunging for the gift box in his drawer. 

“I am eighteen now,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow. Tom didn’t know if he was drooling or if his mouth was dry, and he didn’t know how to feel about that, either. “I can be nostalgic.”

“For what?”

Draco’s skin flushed, and Tom thought he rather liked it when that happened. This time next year, it would be one of the dozens of things about the past seven years that he’d miss. Draco’s flushed skin, Draco’s laugh echoing around the DADA classroom, Draco’s – well, everything. 

Shit.

“The first night back at Hogwarts,” Draco replied, dropping his gaze from Tom’s as he let a fingertip run along the edge of the desk. “Winter Break ending. Hearing you cheer me on during Quidditch games.”

Tom ignored the way his heart raced at the idea of Draco missing those things in favor of finally reaching for his drawer, Draco’s admission the perfect segue into his gift. 

“Speaking of Quidditch,” Tom said, clearing his throat as he set the box down on top of the essays. “Happy birthday.”

Draco’s eyes lit up as he slid his bag off his shoulders to the floor and reached for the box. Inside, he found a Snitch – charmed to glow in the dark and never fly so far away that Draco couldn’t catch it. Their eyes met, and Tom knew that he’d chosen well. 

“I–” Draco chewed on his bottom lip, shifting his gaze back and forth between Tom and the Snitch so many times that Tom worried he’d go blind. 

“I believe the proper response is thank you,” Tom laughed. “Even if you hate it, you’re supposed to–”

On a broom, Draco was fast. On his feet, he seemed to Apparate everywhere he went, going from the other side of the desk to Tom’s side faster than Tom could blink. This hug was just as warm as the last, with Draco practically falling on top of Tom in his effort to wrap his arms around him. When Tom went to hug him back, something in Draco’s body gave way, and the boy somehow ended up in Tom’s lap. 

He knew he should end the hug the moment it happened. Tom should put some space between them, avert his gaze, and pretend it never happened – pretend it didn’t feel right to have this boy, his boy, held so tightly in his arms that there wasn’t a single place where their bodies didn’t touch. 

But Draco felt so good in his embrace. It felt warm and right, and his head fit right on Tom’s shoulder like he’d been made to rest there. His hands gripped the back of Tom’s shirt as Tom’s began to slide down Draco’s back to his waist, where they stopped, content with this new position even as his mind tried and failed to tell his body to do literally anything else. 

“Thank you,” Draco whispered, his lips brushing against Tom’s ear lobe from their proximity. “It’s the best gift anyone’s ever gotten me.”

Tom’s cock twitched in his trousers from the overload of sensations now rippling through his body: pleasure at the feeling of Draco on top of him, pride for the kind of man Draco was growing into, a want so primal that he knew he’d be up half the night trying to name it, and an urge to do something that would no doubt get him fired. 

“You’re welcome,” Tom said, all too aware of the way his voice sounded, almost like he was in pain. “Just promise you won’t forget that you can catch any Snitch you want if you put your mind to it.”

Draco pulled back to look Tom in the eyes, the movement pressing Draco’s arse further into Tom’s now all-too-pleased erection. Tom prayed to whatever god might be listening that Draco couldn’t feel it through his school robes. 

“Do you mean it?”

Yes.

No.

If you wanted the moon, I’d find a way to make sure you got it.

“Of course I do.” Tom’s voice was hardly a whisper, which he assumed was a good thing. “There’s not a single thing you could ever want that you wouldn’t be smart enough to get.”

What Tom meant was that Draco could accomplish anything that he put his mind to. But when Draco’s eyes fell to his lips, Tom realized that part of him meant that, too. And he shouldn’t be as okay with it as he was, but Tom assumed that had more to do with the way Draco was looking at him than anything else. 

For one dangerous, life-defining moment, Tom thought that one of them might make some sort of move. Then, the gods he’d prayed to answered in the form of a girl giggling in the hallway as she ran, chased by Merlin knew who, and the reminder that the door to the classroom was still open had Draco pulling himself from Tom’s arms and going in search of his bag. 

“Thank you again, Professor,” Draco said, averting his gaze as he put the lid back on the box and slid it into his pocket. “For the gift, I mean. It means a lot to me.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tom replied, shifting in his seat as his cock lamented the lack of pressure in Draco’s absence. “Now go make sure Mr. Nott isn’t getting into too much trouble.”

“He’s setting up some surprise for me in the Common Room,” Draco laughed as he rolled his eyes. “If it’s a half-naked Pansy, I’ll–”

“Nope, nope, nope!” Tom covered his ears as Draco smirked, both thankful for the shift in atmosphere and fighting back the urge to be jealous. “Professors don’t need to know those things!”

Something almost dark settled in Draco’s eyes, a playful sparkle undermining the way Tom’s body reacted to such a look. His entire body felt like it was on fire, and he very much wanted to go back to how things had felt before Draco ended up on his lap. 

“But you’re not just my professor, are you?” Draco raised an eyebrow. Tom heard the unspoken word as if Draco had shouted it. 

Dad. 

Draco was gone before Tom could give a reaction that wasn’t an embarrassing amount of coughing and choking on his own spit, his laughter and footsteps bouncing off the walls of the classroom as he left. 

In the moments that followed, Tom knew that he was fucked. Truly, utterly, and blissfully fucked. He tried not to think about the repercussions of his actions as he closed the door to his office and then the door to his chambers, locking both in an effort to get as far away from his desk and the memory as possible. 

But you’re not just my professor, are you?

The words rattled around in Tom’s mind as he stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower, his body tensing as the cold water assaulted his chest and face. Rather than ease the ache in his cock, the water only made the difference in temperature more pronounced, drawing out the almost-pain of it until Tom could do nothing but wrap his fist around himself and stroke. 

Once. 

Twice.

Dad. 

“Fuck me,” Tom mumbled, planting his free hand on the wall of his shower as he fisted himself faster, harder, chasing the way it had felt to wait for the moment Draco’s lips found his. 

Tom knew they’d be soft. Draco had an affection for chapstick, cherry in particular, and the drag of them against Tom’s perpetually chapped lips would feel as good as the drag of Tom’s calloused hands against Draco’s skin. And the weight of Draco’s body on top of him had been the right amount of grounding, reminding him that he was a man who did have the occasional urge to take care of the things that were his. His hands could smooth the worry from Draco’s face as easily as they could dig into Draco’s hips, and it didn’t matter where Draco was – on Tom’s lap, on his knees, on Tom’s desk – it’d be right where he belonged. 

Precum leaked from the tip of his cock, and Tom didn’t bother to stifle the moan that slipped from his mouth and echoed off the tile walls.

This is fine, he told himself. Everything is fine. 

But it wasn’t fine. In fact, Tom had a suspicion that nothing in his life would be fine until he had his precious boy underneath him, next to him, on top of him, literally anywhere close enough to touch. Feeling the crest of the wave rising from low in his stomach, Tom gave himself one brief moment of fantasy, letting his mind do what it wanted while it had the chance. Never one to disappoint, it rose to the challenge, conjuring up a clear image of Draco Malfoy seated happily on his lap, whispering in his ear. 

“Please, Daddy.”

Tom came with a growl so low he was shocked it didn’t rattle the very foundations of his bathroom, thick ropes of his depravity painting the white tile instead of Draco’s perfect lips. He tried not to think too much about it as he sagged against the wall, welcoming the chill in contrast to the now steaming water bearing down on his body. He wouldn’t think about this. Couldn’t think about this. 

Even though he very much wanted to.

Chapter Text

Draco wasn’t in the Great Hall for dinner that evening or breakfast Saturday morning. Tom nodded while Snape carried on, this time about some Gryffindor named Harry Potter who had an alleged attitude problem, sighing and humming when it seemed appropriate, though he found it hard to fully focus on the triviality of Snape’s life. 

“I’m telling you, Riddle, he’s a little twat who knows exactly what he’s doing,” Snape grumbled into his morning tea. “But there’s no way for me to prove it.”

That part Tom could relate to. He couldn’t prove it, but in the hours after he’d gotten off to the idea of a student – his favorite student – he’d come to the conclusion that Draco was doing it on purpose. Nothing else, except complete delusion, could explain the way in which Tom bent to Draco’s will so easily. What he’d mistaken for paternal affection turned out to be the end result of seven years of Draco Malfoy batting his eyelashes and pouting. As a child, it had been adorable. Now, it was something else entirely. 

Now, Draco was all limbs, with a Seeker’s build and the kind of jaw that his family name could be proud of. He was soft, yes, but cunning, always two steps ahead of everyone else, even if it left him feeling misunderstood. 

But Tom understood him. And he hated watching Draco be any less than happy. 

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Potter stealing from my personal stores–”

“Some Second Years are brewing Polyjuice Potion in the girls’ bathroom,” Tom said, shoving his plate away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”

He left Snape to choke on his tea as he made a beeline for the hallway, and then the courtyard, breathing a sigh of relief as the mid-May sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Where some found solace in running, Tom had been five when he discovered his love for a good walk. Sometimes, if he tried hard enough, he could unlock the front door to the orphanage and slip out into the night, unseen and unheard. It started with a trip to the end of the street and back again, until he tried to circumvent the block. One time around became two, then three, and then he was fourteen and walking until he didn’t think he could carry on. 

Today, he’d settle for one spin around the Black Lake, his hands in his pockets and the breeze in his hair. Where the London of Tom’s youth had been all chipped brick and overflowing bins, the landscape in which Hogwarts rested offered a million and one places to let one’s eyes wander. The Whomping Willow in all her newly bloomed beauty, for example, or the bluebells growing alongside the lake by the boathouse. Sparrows chased each other across the rolling hills and between the towers above the Quidditch Pitch. 

And Draco Malfoy sat alone in the grass, leaning back on his forearms and enjoying the sun in a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. 

Tom knew he shouldn’t stop; shouldn’t stand in the open and blatantly admire the way the sunlight fell across Draco’s face and neck, turning the skin slightly pink. He could remember the way it had felt as a boy to take a walk before breakfast and get lost exploring each dip of the valley and twist in the forest. Here, just behind the boathouse, was one of the best places to sit and be alone: hidden from view with the feeling that the grounds had swallowed you up whole. 

“You can join me if you want,” Draco said, lifting a hand to block the sun from his eyes. “Unless you’d rather stand there all day.”

“You seemed tired,” Tom said. His traitorous feet began to move, beckoned by the want to see Draco’s eyes in the late-morning haze. “Late night?”

He sat down beside Draco, facing the lake, careful to keep a respectable amount of space between them. 

“Early morning,” Draco corrected, his gaze now focused on the water’s edge, like he was searching for something.

A better man – a better professor – would have left it at that and changed the subject. But Tom had spent the entire night thinking about what Theodore Nott had planned and how many school rules it had broken. 

“Did your dorm get too crowded?”

It was a stupid question and an inappropriate suggestion. No professor in their right mind would ever inquire about a student’s love life. And they certainly wouldn’t have asked in a choked, almost-guttural tone with their jaw tensed. Tom felt it the moment Draco whipped his head around to face him, eyes wide. 

“No,” Draco said. Then, he paused to chew on his bottom lip while Tom held his breath. “Not in the way I would have wanted, anyway.”

Tom willed himself to get up and leave. He begged his hand to release the grass it was presently ripping out of the ground, so that he could stand and walk back to the castle, back to his room, where he could lock himself in his chambers until the end of term. 

“Ah.”

He wanted to throw up, but he didn’t know why.

“I just mean that Pansy is wonderful and all, but she's not… You know.”

An entire fistful of grass and dirt ended up in Tom’s palm. 

“Oh?”

Somewhere along the way, Tom knew he’d learned how to speak. There had been a point in time when he’d been able to form complete and coherent sentences, some so complicated they required footnote explanations when they went to print. Now that he’d met Draco’s gaze and discovered a thin ring of blue surrounding ice-cap grey, the entirety of the English language failed him. 

“Are you going to make me say it?”

The most Tom could give him was a nod, his mind and body too focused on the fact that Draco was telling him something important. Something that was going to change everything. And he was doing it with this open, trusting look on his face, like he was handing Tom something fragile and begging him not to break it. 

“Okay.” Draco closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened again, his gaze fell to Tom’s lips. “Pansy’s not a man.”

Man. 

A man, not a boy.

Tom was a man. In fact, the proof of his manhood suddenly felt the need to make itself known, twitching to life before he could do anything about it that wouldn’t lead to a bad decision.

“That’s alright, you know?” Tom tried to swallow past the lump in his throat, but his mouth had gone dry. “Anyone who tells you otherwise is–”

“It’s not alright,” Draco cut him off with a frustrated huff before running a hand through his hair, the Malfoy signet ring glinting in the sun. “Not when I want the one man I can’t–”

Tom blinked, and his finger was pressed against Draco’s lips, silencing him. They were as soft as he imagined they would be. It did things to his train of thought, ripping up entire sections of track and making it difficult to breathe. 

“Don’t say that,” he managed to get out. “You can’t say that.”

He knew what Draco meant: he wanted the one man he couldn’t have. The only trouble was, he already had Tom wrapped around his finger, bending to his will almost entirely without more than a look and the lingering feeling of Draco sitting in his lap. That memory was quickly dispatched in favor of replaying the image of Draco grabbing his wrist and pulling, dragging Tom’s finger along his lips until it came to rest on his jaw. 

“Why not?” Draco’s voice came out as a whisper, a plea – and everything within Tom screamed for him to give in. “You want me too, I know you do.”

Fire lapped at Tom’s skin, and his heart squeezed as he forced himself to shake his head and try to pull back his hand. 

“Draco, we can’t–”

Draco’s grip on his wrist tightened, and a moan threatened to sneak its way past Tom’s clenched teeth. He wanted to close that distance between them and find out what Draco tasted like. He wanted to pin Draco down in the grass and keep him there until his knees and shirt were stained green. He wanted his hands in Draco’s hair, around his throat, his fingers in Draco’s mouth – Tom wanted everything so badly it was a miracle he remained rooted in place. 

“Tell me you don’t want me.” Draco was closer now, both of them leaning in, drawn to one another by the heat filling up their little corner of the grounds. “ Tell me. ”

Tom’s mouth opened, but words failed him, so he snapped it shut again. He repeated this movement several times, his vision going blurry with the want pumping through his veins in tune with his magic. Draco waited until he couldn’t anymore, hurt flashing across his features as he pushed Tom’s hand away. 

“Never mind, Professor.” 

There was no missing the pain in Draco’s voice as he pulled himself to his feet.

Tom didn’t reply. He didn’t have the time, not when Draco immediately turned on his heels and made a beeline for the castle. Someone else, someone younger and foolish, might have chased after him. But, Tom stayed right there, eyes closed and willing the sun to burn away the ghost of Draco’s hand around his wrist. 

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t speak once in class the following Monday or Tuesday. On Wednesday, he skipped class, making Theo hand-deliver a clearly forged note from Madam Pomfrey. Thursday also came and went with a note about some sort of cold. When Draco came to class on Friday, Tom knew he had to say something. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Tom said in his usual professor voice as the students packed their bags. “Would you mind staying for a moment?”

It felt as if a decade had passed between Draco dropping back into his seat with a huff and the classroom emptying out completely, even though the clock told him it had only taken a mere two minutes. The door swung shut once the last student left, and Tom was entirely too aware of the distance separating their respective desks. He drummed his fingers on the desktop as he struggled to say the words he’d practiced all week in the shower. 

“Should we go into my office?”

At no point had he said that in the shower. Not without his monologue falling away to choked-back moans and his cock in his hand. Tom was off to an excellent start. Draco gave him little more than an eye roll as he stood up and crossed the room as if there weren’t a million and one unspoken words and unanswered questions floating in the air between them, making it difficult to breathe. 

Tom didn’t mean to close the door to his office. Two sealed barriers cutting him and Draco off from the world could only end poorly. Especially with Draco looking at him like that . 

“I think we need to–”

“My father found out about the Potions Mastery.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against Tom’s desk. “He says he’ll disown me if I go.”

Tom’s hands flexed at his sides, an ungodly mix of anger and anticipation swirling in his stomach. There were a few times in his youth when Tom had imagined punching Lucius Malfoy in the face. Now, he thought of other things – crueler things. Draco deserved much more than the chance to pursue his dreams. He deserved someone who would help him realize them. 

“He also said he’d disown me if anyone discovered I’d rather die than stick my head beneath Pansy’s skirt.” The ice caps in Draco’s eyes had melted, giving way to a stormy arctic sea that promised to swallow anything that came too close. “If you won’t tell me you want me, then tell me what the bloody fuck I’m supposed to do, Professor.”

The words slipped from Tom’s lips before he could stop them.

“Don’t call me that.”

Gone were the days when Tom loved his job. The title of Professor had once been a point of pride for him, a marker that he’d done something with his life when most had counted him out. Now, the sound of that word made his blood boil. Draco had been right, as always. There was more to him, more to them, than such a superficial relationship. 

Draco scoffed as he pushed away from the desk, dropping his hands to his sides. 

“What about Father, then, since the two of you–”

One moment, Tom was composed and standing as far away from Draco as was physically possible in his office. Then, he blinked, and he’d not only crossed the room but managed to pin Draco between himself and the desk. 

“Don’t.” The word came out quiet, resigned, like Tom had already accepted the things that hadn’t happened yet. 

Draco fit perfectly between his arms, half-sitting on top of the ancient mahogany with his hands on either side of Tom’s. In this position, he had to tilt his head back to look Tom in the eyes, and it would be oh-so fucking easy to close the distance between them and chase after the things that had been haunting him all week. The arctic storm had passed, giving way to something much more dangerous: simmering, melted mercury, promising to drive Tom mad. 

Mad with frustration. Mad with desire. Mad with an all-consuming need to kiss and lick away the pain etched into the corners of Draco’s mouth and eyes. Other places, too, though Tom tried to keep those thoughts shoved as far down as possible. 

When he swallowed, he found it difficult – found that that urge had climbed to the back of his throat where it waited for his self-control to snap. 

“What can I call you, then?” Draco’s eyelashes were wonderful this close, casting long shadows along his cheeks in the sunlight pouring in through the window. How had Tom never noticed them before? “Not professor, not the man I want, not dad–”

Tom felt his body tense as his mind exploded, a kaleidoscope of color and want so vibrant that it nearly made him go blind. Draco noticed, his eyes blowing wide for a moment before the corner of his lips tilted up in the kind of smile that told Tom he’d never be able to walk them back from this, even if he wanted to. 

“Draco.”

It was a warning. The last one he’d be able to give before crumbling like the fool that he was. Two weeks had been enough to undo seven years of carefully crafted mentorship and propriety. 

Rather than back away from the danger etched into those two syllables, Draco had the nerve to shift ever so slightly closer, tilting his chin back the way he did when he wanted something and was debating how to ask for it; how to bat his eyes or wring his fingers until Tom was writing a letter personally informing the Potions Master that he was going to give Draco a spot in the program or the Ministry would pull their collaborative funding and give it to someone else. 

“Daddy.” 

Somehow, Tom’s forehead found itself pressed against Draco’s, heat and magic swirling between them in an oakmoss and vetiver mix overlaid with every bad decision Tom wanted to make. 

“It suits you.” 

Draco licked his bottom lip, and Tom pulled back just enough to track the movement, the proof of how much he liked those two syllables slipping off Draco’s tongue hard in between them. 

“Does it?” Tom asked instead of begging for Draco to say it again. 

They studied each other for several moments, unmoving and holding their breath as time and space stretched out around them, endless and finite at the same time. That was the trouble with wanting something so badly you’d be willing to chase it. Once you’ve caught it, you have to keep it, or let it go, and, in the thick of it all, both options scare you shitless. 

“Please, Daddy.” Draco inched closer, their noses bumping as he tilted his chin up, his lips tantalizingly within Tom’s grasp. “I want you so badly it hurts.”

Tom’s body burned. It burned with the want to press their lips together and consume Draco from the inside out, gathering up as much of the boy’s pain and fear of the future as he could and leaving nothing but a smiling, happy man in its place. He also needed to mark every inch of this boy, his boy, with his teeth, his hands, his cock – he needed the world to know that it would have to go through him to get to Draco. That Draco belonged to him completely. 

He was, above everything else, possessive of the things he liked. And he very much liked the way Draco was looking at him right then, with stars in his eyes and parted lips that were begging to be kissed. 

“Fuck, baby.” The word slipped out on its own accord, and the whine that left Draco’s mouth went straight down Tom’s spine. He shot a quick glance at the clock, heart racing. “I– Can you do something for me?”

Draco nodded in earnest, the movement pressing them closer together until Draco had to grab onto Tom’s shirt to keep himself upright. It would take no effort at all to press him all the way down onto the desk, tilt his head to the side, and leave the first of many marks on his neck. 

His collarbones. 

Everywhere Tom’s lips could reach. 

“Yes,” Draco answered without hesitation. Tom didn’t just like Draco’s willingness to please him; he lived for it if he was being honest. And he loved rewarding his good behavior. 

“Go and get ready for dinner.” Draco opened his mouth to protest, and Tom’s finger once again found his lips to silence him, the heat in the room now an inferno. “Come back tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Which one?” The movement allowed for Tom’s finger to slip into Draco’s mouth, and both of them moaned at the feeling of it. 

“To my room.” His finger slid out of Draco’s mouth, and he forced his hand to move to the back of Draco’s neck, a safer place given the fact that they’d be late for dinner if Tom didn’t sort them out soon. “If anyone asks, tell them I have you helping me get ready for my trip.”

“When Professor Snape asks, you mean?”

“Leave Snape to me.” Goosebumps appeared on Draco’s skin at Tom’s words, and he wanted to figure out what else would earn him that same reaction. “Now, hurry up before I make us both–”

He was cut off by Draco yanking him down by his shirt, their lips meeting in a chaste sort of kiss that had Tom seeing stars. It was delicate, cautious, and over almost as quickly as it began. 

“– late,” Tom finished in a whisper. He watched, dumbfounded, as Draco gingerly pushed him backward so that he could slide from the desk and slip out from between Tom’s arms. 

“I’ll see you later,” Draco said, walking backward to the door as he ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Daddy.”

Much like that afternoon a few weeks prior, Draco turned and slipped from the room before Tom could do more than blink. He stood there for a few more moments, running an idle finger over his lips and staring at the threshold, knowing that he wouldn’t have a moment of peace until Draco came walking back across it.