Can't Keep A Good Man Down
"Don't," Draco whispered, and even to his own ears it sounded like begging.
"Don't, what?" Harry demanded silkily. "Don't do this?" His hand slid up Draco's thigh. Draco turned his gasp into a cough and stared down at his agenda, hoping no one could see him blush. He hated staff meetings almost as much as he hated Harry. Harry, who was under the table wrapped in his invisibility cloak, doing his best to bring Draco off. It was a game to him; he was Harry Potter and he hardly needed the job. Draco rather liked being respectable, and he definitely liked being in a position of authority.
He liked the way Harry's breath felt on his dick, too. Harry was a wanker, yes, but a wanker with a certain amount of skill, even class. His fingers were rough with callus, the inevitable result of clutching a broomstick for long periods of time, and suddenly everything Draco thought of had turned sexy. He closed his eyes for a moment, to concentrate on breathing. It was a mistake, for two reasons: first, because it allowed him to picture what Harry was doing under there, and second, because it drew Dumbledore's attention to him.
"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began, and Draco forgot about breathing altogether, "I don't suppose you'd care to act as secretary, since you seem to be having trouble staying awake?"
Under the table Harry's hands worked frantically to stuff Draco back into his trousers, pull up the zip—nearly eliminating any chance of Malfoy generations to come—and smooth Draco's robes. At length Draco stood, a trifle stiffly, and limped to the board. He refused to look down; he was all too aware that the front of his robes tented sharply. Nevertheless, he had his pride.