Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You look absolutely ridiculous,” is the first thing Malfoy says when he catches sight of Percy in the bathroom mirror. 

Malfoy himself looks exactly like he always does, except in reverse, his reflected sneer tapering in the wrong direction, everything about him just slightly off normal. He’s wearing his usual long black cloak; in the sick yellow overhead light, his pale, pointy face looks even paler. His hair is pushed back behind his ears, and as he speaks, Percy can see a faint purplish tinge on his teeth, probably from the awful red wine they’re serving at this thing.

“At least I made an effort to abide by the dress code,” Percy says, because really. “What are you even doing here, Malfoy? The special sitting should still be in session.”

Malfoy turns, leaning against the sink. His arms are crossed judgementally. There’s a… man with him, probably, though it’s hard to tell through the fluffy tiger suit. The tiger puts a paw possessively on where Malfoy’s hip must be under his cloak. Malfoy looks irritated. 

“How is the special sitting the thing you’re concerned about?” He looks Percy up and down. “Surely, the question you should be asking is why I’m here, at a Muggle fancy dress night. And more to the point, why aren’t you horrified at me seeing you here, dressed in that affront to human decency you call a costume?”

“I think he looks alright,” the tiger says, muffled. “What’s a… Muggle, did you say?”

“Shut up,” Malfoy says without looking at him. He’s still staring at Percy. “Minister? Did you want to fill me in?”

Percy hadn’t really thought of any of that; hadn’t considered the fact that Malfoy might not have wanted to be seen at a place like this. He hadn’t really been thinking of much of anything other than how dreadful the wine is, and also whether they’d actually get the new Land Act through this time. Clearly not, if Malfoy was already here. 

“What’s wrong with my costume?” he asks Malfoy instead. “I’ve had quite a few compliments on it already, I’ll have you know. One chap at the bar was very interested in my juggling balls.” 

“I’m sure he was, darling,” the tiger says. Its furry face nods at Percy appreciatively. 

“God, what is wrong with you?” Malfoy snaps at the tiger. “No one asked you.”

“I ordered it in specially,” Percy goes on. “It’s authentic Muggle, you know. From a place called Halloween HQ.”

“I know that one,” the tiger says. “Down Holloway Road?”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Malfoy says, and slides his wand smoothly from inside his cloak. The Obliviate is done so quickly and so neatly that Percy can be absolutely sure it’s not his first time. It’s a violation of at least three subclauses in the Statute, if Percy could be bothered to make a point of it. “Go on, then,” Malfoy tells the tiger. “Off you pop.”

Percy’s probably imagining the tiger’s forlorn expression as it wanders off vaguely in the general direction of the bar. When it opens the door to the bathroom, there’s a generous swell of noise; lots of people having lots of fun. Inside the bathroom, Malfoy makes a face at Percy, and the door slams shut again.

“Well, thanks for ruining my evening,” Malfoy says viciously. “I was onto a sure thing there.”

“Him? Even you can do better than someone whose face you haven’t even seen, Malfoy.”

“You would say that.” Malfoy steps closer, fabric swaying menacingly. He’s too close; Percy can smell the wine on his breath. Malfoy is actually a bit pissed, he thinks. “Not leaving much to the imagination, are you?”

“It’s a good costume.” Percy feels like kicking Malfoy’s shin with his shiny-toed red boot. “It’s called a clown—they do tricks for Muggles.” He takes his top hat off, reaches in. The flowers, when he pulls them out, have a wet plasticky gleam under the artificial light; their stems bend sadly sideways in his fist. He holds them out to Malfoy. “Ta-da.”

“I know what clowns are,” Malfoy says angrily. “And it’s not a proper clown costume. It’s… it’s too brief. Are these sequins?” He plucks dismissively at Percy’s little short trousers. “Did you not wonder where the rest of it was?”

The costume had felt somewhat abbreviated when Percy had dressed himself that evening—not much more than boots and the shorts, which were rather more clinging a fit than he was used to. But with the wig and the hat, not to mention the bowtie, he had thought the whole effect rather jaunty. 

“It has hankies,” Percy says, and tugs at the scrap of fabric in the pocket. The first one emerges and then all the others follow in a long line of little flaps of colour, red and blue and yellow, like the hues of a child’s drawing. 

Malfoy stares down at the place where the hankies are emerging. He licks his lips.

“You’re so stupid,” he tells Percy, and yanks at the trailing fabric. “How can someone so clever be so thick? You turn up here with your ridiculous little magic tricks and—”

“It’s not real magic,” Percy says. He knows he sounds severe; it’s important though, that Malfoy understands he’s not breaking any laws here. “The Statute—”

“You couldn’t even take your glasses off,” Malfoy continues. He jabs at Percy’s face with a finger, pressing and dragging so the tip slides through the greasepaint Percy had painted on so carefully, following the picture on the costume packaging. “Clowns don’t wear spectacles, I’m sure of it.”

“I can’t see very well without them.” Percy twists his head away from Malfoy’s hand. “I suppose I could have gone as Harry.”

Malfoy laughs, a loud, startled sound. It’s almost genuine; it’s almost pleasant. 

“No one here knows or cares who Potter is,” he says, sounding satisfied. “You’d spend the whole evening explaining who you’re supposed to be. At least this confection—" he waves a hand down Percy’s body “—is very obvious.” He’s still holding the string of handkerchiefs; the sudden motion drags at Percy’s shorts, the fabric tautening. 

“You still haven’t told me why you’re here and not at the sitting,” Percy reminds him. 

“Old Yarrow blocked the motion.” Malfoy grins. “The Act will have to be rewritten and resubmitted. It’ll take months.” 

“Wonderful.” Percy slaps Malfoy’s hand to get him to let go, but Malfoy just twists his fist tighter in the string of the fabric. “That’s bad form, Malfoy, and you know it. A word in the right ear would have gone a long way; your secretary told me you were lunching with Yarrow only yesterday.”

“You’re such a bore,” Malfoy says, flatly. “You turn up here, dressed like that, looking like, well. But of course you couldn’t possibly manage to just do what everyone else is doing and go and get your dick sucked without subjecting me to unwelcome reminders of the rigours of our tedious workplace and all its deeply uninspiring denizens—”

Percy’s interest in the conversation has stalled at the part about his dick, and remains there as Malfoy continues to complain. He hadn’t actually considered anything of the sort—not about Malfoy, not about anyone, not in any real way. He’d put the costume on, he’d come along here, alone. But he’d meant only to look, perhaps get a feel for the place. Discretion is one thing, but Muggles are quite another. But perhaps Malfoy’s got the right idea.

“Okay, Malfoy,” he says. Malfoy looks bemused — he isn’t used to being interrupted. 

“Okay, what?”

Percy starts to undo the button of his shorts. It’s a little metal thing that pops open in a satisfyingly definitive way; Malfoy’s eyes follow the motion.

“Shall we do it here?” Percy looks around as he fiddles with his zip. “The cubicle is big enough, I should have thought. Though if you’d prefer to retire to somewhere more private?”

“Sorry?” Malfoy swallows audibly. “Do… it?”

“Did you not want me to, as you put it, get my dick sucked?” Percy’s got a thumb against the curving head of his cock where it presses against the leg of the shorts, which are looking a bit misshapen as he starts to get hard, especially without the padding of the layers of handkerchiefs. The string is tight around Malfoy’s hand; his fingers look a bit blue.

“Is this a joke?” Malfoy’s mouth twists; he’s getting ready to flounce out of the bathroom. Percy has seen the same expression from across the Wizengamot benches too many times to care. He grabs Malfoy around the back of the neck and Malfoy leans in, easy as anything, willing to be led. 

“We both value discretion,” Percy tells him, and Malfoy nods, so close in Percy’s grip that his hair bobs distractingly in Percy’s eyeline. “We’re here for the same reason. It’s not that I’m ashamed, of course. But my family wouldn’t understand if this sort of thing was splashed all over the Prophet.”

“Precisely,” Malfoy says sharply, then blushes an angry mottled pink. “Not that our families have anything in common, of course. But now that you mention it, there’s a certain elegance to what you propose. Strictly business, of course.”

“No special favours,” Percy tells him, because he has his limits even in this, and when Malfoy rolls his eyes, Percy kisses him, a quick chastising peck with just a touch of tongue. Malfoy shoves at him, the two of them almost scuffling as they back into the toilet cubicle. Percy’s shorts are beginning to feel uncomfortable. They trip, neatly, over the string of handkerchiefs, Malfoy’s hands on Percy’s hips to steady himself. 

“Take this off, for a start.” Percy tries to yank Malfoy’s cloak off. “What are you even meant to be, anyway?”

“It’s actually an old Dementor costume,” Malfoy says, fiddling with a clasp at his throat. “Brian asked if I was a grim…. reaper, I think he said? And I just told him yes.”

Underneath, he’s naked except for underwear, a flappy striped pair of pants with an old-fashioned vent in the front. His dick is poking out already, the head stretched shiny.

“Who’s Brian?” Percy asks, though even he’d admit he’s distracted, and he gets his hand on Malfoy’s nice straight dick and starts stroking. 

“Brian the, you know.” Malfoy’s head falls back with a thump against the cubicle wall. It’s shiny with condensation; Malfoy’s hair sticks to it like Mum’s embroidery floss, very fine and shiny even in the unflattering overhead light. “The tiger.”

He’s quiet for a bit then, except for his panting breaths, the shuffle of his feet as he tries to fuck up into Percy’s fist, his cloak crumpled on the filthy toilet floor. Percy gets him close-ish and then stops, eases him fully out of his underwear, snaps the elastic of the waistband lightly over his balls, which are high and tight and furred silvery like two pink peaches. 

“Fuck off, Weasley,” Malfoy says, and mouths at Percy’s nose. He snaps his teeth shut around the cheery red globe that had come with the costume, pulls it off and spits it into the corner of the cubicle. 

“Ow,” Percy protests, but it’s much better without it, because he can breathe properly now — can smell Malfoy’s sweetish expensive scent, his fresh sweat.

“That’s better,” Malfoy says, and goes in for a kiss with proper tongue, too eager, a bit messy, though Percy likes his enthusiasm enough to enjoy it anyway. He returns the kiss for a bit, lets Malfoy grope at him through the shorts, gripping and squeezing as he tries to get at him up the inside leg. They’re both breathing heavily by the time they stop kissing. Percy takes his glasses off, rubs at the places on his cheeks where they’d dug in. His head is hot, sweat collecting at his scalp, and he goes to ease the rainbow wig off. 

“No.” Malfoy takes him by the wrist — hard, it’ll probably bruise — and drags his hand back down onto his cock. “Leave it on. It covers the red.”

“Bloody hell, you're hard work,” Percy tells him sternly, because enough is enough, and spins him so he can brace himself on the cistern of the toilet. When Malfoy’s positioned properly, Percy kicks his feet as wide as they can go without taking his underwear off. 

Malfoy makes a disapproving sound. It echoes up at them from the toilet bowl below, an odd little trick of sound. 

“I thought I’d be the one—” he begins, but Percy fumbles himself out of his shorts and rubs the head of his cock along Malfoy’s arse crease, letting it catch over the neat little wink of his hole, and Malfoy shuts up. His head drops, his pale neck curving and tense as he waits. 

Percy doesn’t normally do magic in Muggle places, but he’s not going in completely dry, and spit will only go so far. He spits anyway though, a neat efficient little globule, just to see how Malfoy reacts. He barely flinches, though he turns his face just enough to let Percy see the displeased wrinkle of his nose.

Conjured lube often comes out a weird colour; tonight Percy's hand shimmers like a glitter ball as he strokes himself, sparkles like fairy dust over Malfoy’s arsecheek when Percy pushes it wide so he can watch his cock as he eases in, slower than he’d like just to hear Malfoy make that irritated noise again. 

“Who’d have thought you’d like my costume so much?” Percy says, and his voice barely wavers even as Malfoy squirms and clenches around him, tightening convulsively, clinging and resisting at the same time. 

“It has the benefit of showing off your one good asset,” Malfoy says, and kicks a heel back ineffectually, barely connecting with Percy’s shin. “Which is, in case you didn’t get it, your surprisingly big dick. Come on, Weasley.”

It’s not because Malfoy is practically begging, but it’s true that they don’t have all night, so Percy sets a brisk rhythm, which makes Malfoy pleasantly compliant. Having Malfoy like this wasn't something Percy had ever considered before — now, Malfoy Senior was another story, he could do with a good fucking, in Percy’s opinion — but now that he's here it isn't half-bad, Malfoy making little breathy sounds every time Percy drives him forward over the cistern, his thighs tensing as he tries to keep his balance. He feels very, very good — tight as Percy pushes in, but yieldingly inviting when he’s deep. Quickly — much more quickly than the last time he’d had anonymous sex in a nightclub bathroom, anyway — Percy can feel the relentless driving urge to bury himself, to chase the pooling heart that's tightening his balls and the base of his cock, and let it take him over. 

“Are you almost done?” Malfoy sounds pathetic. “I need to come, Weasley. I— I want—”

It's difficult to stop, agonisingly close as he is, but Percy wills himself still,pulls out and stays out, teasing the tip of his dick around Malfoy’s weakly clenching hole. 

“You were doing so well,” he tells Malfoy, and they're both breathing too heavily now, Percy’s own shuddering belly pressing into Malfoy’s sweaty back as he leans over him. “Now you’ve reminded me that you’re a demanding twat and that I don’t really like giving you what you want.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Malfoy says impatiently, and Percy grabs at the line of hankies that's still trailing loosely behind him from the pocket of his low-slung shorts. It's the perfect length, long enough to wrap around Malfoy’s neck without the tail falling into the toilet bowl. Percy wraps the end around his fist and tugs, and Malfoy chokes slightly then groans and grabs at his own cock, frantically wanking, not bothering with a lube charm, or maybe not able to speak to cast it.

Percy's back inside him in one stuttering shove, grinding and grinding into Malfoy, the fabric damp in his tight fist as he pulls at it, not too hard, but insistently. It's almost better just before he comes, the clarity of his vision bringing Malfoy into sharper focus in the seconds before he closes his eyes, the obliteration of orgasm making him sloppy, pumping mindlessly, making so much noise that he knows he’ll regret it when he remembers it in the morning, but helpless to stop himself.

Malfoy is still wanking himself off, hot little puffs of air clouding the tiled wall as he pants. Percy lets himself thrust a bit more, the dribble of come beginning its slow crawl out of Malfoy as he moves. He straightens up, holding Malfoy’s hips for balance, trying to keep himself inside. There's no tension anymore in the string of fabric; he lets it drop, the twist around Malfoy’s neck loosening. With Percy’s hand at the back of his neck, Malfoy goes where he's directed, face pressed sideways onto the top of the cistern, bending over fully so when Percy slips out of him, he can see the shiny leavings of come and oil glistening around Malfoy’s hole, tufting up the whorls of hair there.

Below him, Malfoy groans, the slapping noise of his hand echoing in the cubicle. 

“Do you need something inside you?” 

“No,” Malfoy says tightly, but he squeezes his eyes shut when Percy eases two hooked fingers back inside him. He’s barely nudging the prostrate when Malfoy sighs, expression smoothing out, cheek squashed against the dripping cistern lid, and starts to come, splattering the toilet bowl so the water swirls and clouds. 

Percy’s hand is gentle at the back of his neck, and he’s still two fingers deep.

“That went quite well,” he says. He doesn’t often give compliments; when he does, he means them. Malfoy twitches, hot and leaking around his fingers. 

“Yes, Minister,” he says.