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Potter had returned to Hogwarts as a werewolf dilf.
Or so Blaise claimed, anyway. Not that Potter had had a child, no — but apparently he had managed to charm just about every first year in the god-damn train, and somehow the idea of Potter being their protector had wormed its way into their tiny stupid heads. Pansy had said it was adorable to see them crawl all over Potter — who had become stupidly tall and broad shouldered over the summer — whenever they came across him, Draco thought it was just about anything but adorable.
It was filthy attractive, that’s what it was. Dangerously so. Illegal. Bloody damn illegal and if it was not then surely it should be. Who told Potter to be that tall anyways? Hadn’t he been the height and size of a puny 3rd year just last term?
Perhaps being bitten by a werewolf had unexpected benefits. Or perhaps Potter was just stupidly lucky and entirely unconcerned with the ‘cursed’ part of becoming a dangerous mutt. He certainly didn’t seem to shy away from being diagnosed as one, or having the news spread through every wizarding household in Great Britain.
And — that was all good and well. Draco had been ready to shove Potter down a peg, just as he had done every year. He had even thought of a few new insults over the summer.
He was prepared, ready for action.
Alas, nobody had warned him of the buffness of a newly infected werewolf, who clearly had no problems with being one. Rather than looking sickly and exhausted like that Professor in their 3rd year had been, Potter seemed to relish in the wild beast hidden underneath his skin. It was like whatever had stopped Potter from acting like a (beefy, hot, illegally broad shouldered) predator (and he was one, Draco could tell. But Potter was also stupidly ashamed of all sorts of odd things and had an incredible lack of self-confidence that was great material for plenty of taunts) had been wiped from existence now that he was publicly announced to be a vicious beast.
It was all terribly attractive, and Draco had never had a more stubborn erection than when Potter had bared his teeth at him in the train. Very, very attractive.
Stupid Potter.
******
Potter could evidently smell arousal. He could smell the horny. He could smell the horny on Draco, and had probably done so since that fateful (enlightening) event of bared teeth and stubborn hard-on’s on the train. Someone really should have told him. Draco rather thought he deserved a warning. A head’s-up. A ‘danger; you are doomed! Potter can smell your horny!’ howler, perhaps.
“You sure get a lot of hard-ons for a guy you claim to hate.” Stupid Potter, and his stupidly unreasonable dark voice. Had he been smoking Gillyweed too??? Or was this another one of those unfair ‘hot werewolf traits’ that had evidently been on sale when Potter had been infected.
“Those are hate erections, Potter. Don’t flatter yourself. My dick is hard with hate!”
Potter snorted, which Draco thought was rather offensive.
“I can literally smell how horny you are, Malfoy.”
“Your nose is as much of an idiot as you are, Potter! Absolutely delusional!” Draco pointedly did not shift the bulge in his pants that was pressing uncomfortably against the zipper.
He then sniffed, raising his nose high.
“Well, if you are quite done, Potter. I have other things to do than waste my day on you.”
Potter laughed, hand coming up to rub his neck, and good lord did Draco want to be that hand. Anyway, since Draco did possess a certain degree of rationality (and great decision-making abilities!), he turned away with a flourish of his robes.
“Good day, Potter.”
Another snort, “Good luck with that, Malfoy.”
Stupid potter! Blaise was going to hear about this!
Blaise did not hear about it.
All it took was one glance, and Blaise raised his hand to stop him. “Is this about Potter? Of course, it is. Draco, darling, I love you, but even I have a limit of how much information about Potter I want to know. Please, don’t.”
“What sort of best friend are you?!”
“An exhausted one. Now, do you have anything to say that doesn’t have to do with Potter?”
Draco floundered.
“Right,” Blaise said, patting the sofa cushion beside him. “Come here, then, you poor fool of a man.”
******
Draco was (once again, it was a great pastime) high on Gillyweed and Firewhiskey. A bit of both.
A lot of both.
While that was most definitely one of his favourite past-times, for it to occur on the first day of term (and second, and third, and very likely also the fourth if Draco had any say in the matter) was rather much, in Blaise’s words. ‘Pitiful’, according to Pansy, but then again, Pansy wasn’t faced with the illegality that was the existence of saint-dilf-Potter and his stupidly tight pants.
So Draco wasn’t above shunning responsibility when the first thing he said to Potter (and his monster man titties hidden behind the tightest shirt he had ever had the honor of seeing) when he saw him wandering the dungeons was, “Blaise, Blaise, I need to squeeze those man titties, or I’m going to die,” he even flailed a bit, flapping his arms and batting his eyelashes. The Gillyweed smoke had already turned them red and teary, and he looked just about as bullied as a feral kneazle. Potter froze, which was plenty of encouragement. Blaise snorted, shoving him towards Potter, like Draco needed any more encouragement. “Don’t let me die, Potter — help me,” He sniffed loudly, trying and failing to get up on his feet (the world sure was tilting a lot, he wasn’t quite sure when he had ended up on the floor). Blaise laughed noisily in his ear, and Draco showed an elbow in his face when his friend tried to help him up. “Potter I need your man tits, right now. It’s imperu-impera— imper— important.“ Draco had meant to say imperative but the word didn’t seem to want to leave his mouth.
“Is he alright?”
“I’m so alright, Potter. So, so alright. Great — dying, really dying. Your man tits — “ Blaise laughed (straight in Draco’s face, abandoning the mission of picking his flailing best mate off the dusty floor). Draco, meanwhile, had only remembered halfway through the sentence what his mission was, and had thus amended his statement of wellbeing rather late.
“Er — right. I will just —“ And off he went, the juiciest ass that Draco had ever had the honour of witnessing becoming the beacon of misery as it went off around the corner without so much as a by your leave.
Draco sighed, shoving another elbow at Blaise — really, what was he laughing about?
******
Draco wasn't entirely sure how it happened, but Potter’s nose traced his jaw, then trailed slowly down his neck. Draco didn’t dare to breathe. Was he dreaming? He must be. Surely. By Merlin, he thought hysterically, he must be, because those big-ass hands were not squeezing Draco’s ass within an inch of his life.
Draco pinched himself, hard. Potter laughed against his throat.
“What was that?”
“Just — just making sure I’m awake,” Draco had not meant to say that. He had meant to sound cool! Say something cool! Hot! Superior! Anything! But those big hands squeezing his ass rhythmically were awfully distracting and he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath or any wandering thoughts.
Fuck Potter and his — oh, oh. Yes, fuck Potter, Draco had never been more sure of a grand epiphany than in this very moment. Enlightenment had nothing on discovery of the imminent possibility of doing Potter. Being done by Potter. Any, either, both. Draco wasn’t picky.
Of course, that was when Potter let go of him to step back. Draco swayed dangerously, hands on the wall to keep himself upright.
“Wha — Potter,”
“You are drunk,” Potter said.
“I am not drunk!” Probably not true. But so what?! Draco had never claimed to be a Hufflepuff! And he had only had, what?! One bottle?? Firewhiskey wasn’t that strong. And Butterbeer had no right to count with how sickeningly sweet it was.
Potter gave him a dubious look, and Draco had to squint a bit because he didn’t want to miss it.
"Alright, you are going to bed." And like the damn bastard asshat that he was, Potter heaved him up into his arms (hot) and brought him back to the common room entrance, dropping him into Blaise's (exasperatedly, according to him) awaiting arms like he was a parcel out for delivery. While the sight of Potter's backside was always a pleasure (Draco was beyond finding such things shameful, at this point honesty served him better), seeing it retreat after nearly offering Draco a long (!), probably steamy (!!) Tête-à-Tête (!!!) was perhaps the most infuriating thing Potter had ever done to him.
Perhaps Draco needed to lay off the Firewhiskey and Gillyweed if it meant that Potter was going to deny him whatever pole arm Potter had stuffed down his pants. That certainly was an inspiring way to promote sobriety. If only it was less infuriating, Draco lamented.
******
Potter.
There he was, that fucker. That fucker, who could have been a Draco fucker if only he had some damn manners! Actually, no, his damn manners had been the problem! Potter looked windswept, Quidditch uniform ruffled and cheeks flushed with exertion. There was sweat drying on his brow and while Draco should have commented on his lacking sense of cleanliness (there were showers in the changing room for a reason!), he wanted nothing more than to bloody damn lick that sweat off Potter's face. Was that odd? Surely not. Anyone would think the same in the face of dilf Potter. But in any case! Draco was angry! Furious!
“You — “ Draco did not glower. He looked down (up) at Potter with his nose raised as high as he possibly could (thank you very much).
“Miss me?” Potter waved off his friends, though Weasley only left after sending several long glares at Draco and deep, vaguely disappointed sighs at Potter. He leaned towards Draco, torso tilting just so that Draco could get a glimpse of those darn green eyes peeking out between curls in the most delightful amount of distance (not much distance at all, very close, in fact).
“Bah! What’s there to miss — “
“You seemed rather invested last night.”
“If you had bloody damn done your job — ”
“A job now, is it?” Potter’s mouth curled in one of his lazy smiles, eyes squinting against the morning light. He looked like a god. A forest god. A wild beast. A beast god. A — Draco flushed (with anger (!))
“Damn it, Potter, listen to me!”
"I am listening to you," Potter stepped closer, their legs touching, hand curling around Draco's bony elbow.
"You -- "
"I —?"
"You bloody damn better sleep with me today or I swear by all that is magic that I will wear your damn pelt, Potter!" Draco flushed, but his demand stood! Surely even Potter could see how unfair the lost opportunity had been — because of something as stupid as manners.
Potter laughed, but leaned in further, rubbing his nose along Draco's jaw. His breath caught in his throat, Potter's laugh rumbling in his ears.
That sounded very much like a yes.
It was a yes.
It bloody damn was a yes (!)
The trip out of the great hall and into some abandoned classroom had never felt so long before. Once they had finally found a place (and spelled it locked to high heavens (one only sees one ugly bare bum before one decides it is an ugly bare bum too many — and while Draco was confident in his bum, thank you very much, he rather didn't want to share Potter's with anyone. There was no need to give anyone a show, either.)) Draco finally got to make a grab for that pole arm. And he got to bury his head in Potter's illegally big chest, which was always a plus. Finally, when they got around to it — Potter took off his glasses, quite seductively at that. Draco could feel his heart in his throat.
“Wow, you’re fucking blurry.” Potter was terrible at setting the mood.
Thankfully, he was perfectly satisfactory (!!!) in every other way. More than. Draco was the perfectly happy recipient of many a lower back massage after taking that up his bum. There was something truly wonderful to be said about werewolf stamina, but Draco wasn't plebeian enough to kiss and tell. (but if Blaise just so happened to find out, and Pansy just so happened to be around at that time, then really - whose fault was that? Not his!)
In any case, Draco appeared to have a thing for hot werewolf dilfs. Or one, at the very least.