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It's odd how it started – this thing with Potter. He's waiting for me to call him Harry, I know he is – he says he's thought of me as Draco since he took possession of my wand. I'm laughing now – my brain and double entendres – I'm witty, sue me.

I'm thinking back. It was in the Quidditch changing room when I first noticed him. I mean, I've noticed Potter a lot over the years, mostly because he was always outshining me without even trying. I admit it – I like to be the centre of attention, and when we first got to school and I found out that the scrawny speccy boy I'd first talked to in Madam Malkin's was Harry Potter; I was intrigued. He was so unassuming. I wondered how a boy that looked so shabby – so thrown together – could be famous. After he insulted me in front of our peers – well, I never could let that go. I was a spoiled brat, all right? I know it. Then, though, he'd stamped on my feelings. Malfoys aren't supposed to have hurt feelings. I'd grown up thinking I was bred to be above such mundane things.

So I hated Harry Potter; he hated me; the world made sense. He'd started following me sixth year. It is true I'd spent the previous years following him around, trying to get him into trouble wherever possible, but that is what enemies are supposed to do. That sixth year though – it was horrible. I've never been so afraid before in my life. I didn't know fear like that existed. It's no surprise I stopped paying attention to Potter. But of course, the git had to rise up to his end of the enemy spectrum – I stop following him, and he starts following me. If I hadn't been so fucking scared for my life that year, I may have been flattered.

Anyway, my point is – I do have a point – Potter and I have been circling each other pretty much since the day we met. You can't fake a magnetism like that. I'm not sure how or when I came to start to … all right, I'm lying. I wouldn't ever admit this out loud, but as I'm the only one here, I suppose I can be honest. Potter saved my life. Not only once either. He came back for me, faced fucking Fiendfyre to rescue me from a certain death. Enemies don't do that. Or perhaps Potter still considered me an enemy at that point, but he's such a fucking noble saint, he couldn't help it. Whatever the case, I couldn't quite wrap my head around him after that. Fuck; he fucking slashed me open our sixth year, then saved my life the next.

I don't think I really even had time to process how my feelings toward him altered because it was only a couple hours later when he faced down my true enemy, my real tormenter, my master. When he faced the Dark Lord that night, Potter and I were on the same side. He killed that demon and rescued me again. Rescued not only my body from certain death, but rescued my soul and my life from slavery. How can I not be grateful? I'd have to be a fucking idiot to not see that Harry Potter is a hero. I don't care what anybody says. I'm not an idiot. I am still a proud person, so I'm not fawning all over Potter like the rest of the wizarding sheep and, for some reason, he seems to like me for that.

I'm stuffing my pillow over my face now. I've gone as red as one of Lovegood's radish earrings, I'm certain of it. Well, that's not the only reason I'm nearly suffocating myself. I'm hiding the smile I can't seem to get off my face. It's been stuck on for more than a day. Potter left – I move my pillow and glance at my wrist watch – two hours and fourteen minutes ago, not that I'm really paying attention. He said he'd be back after he told his friends, umm … I'm getting ahead of myself. He's not going to be back for a while, that's what counts. That's why I'm reminiscing. I don't often get to indulge in self-recollection.

I've known I'm gay since I was a small thing. I didn't quite grasp what it meant as far as being different than most other people until I came to school and developed my first crush. And no – it wasn't Potter – I've already said I hated him and thought he was a poor excuse for a hero – before he proved himself. It was actually Severus Snape, my Potions professor and Head of House. Shut up. Don't laugh. It's not funny. I know, I know, where the hell did all the good taste that was bred into me go? Snape was far from attractive in a physical sense; well, I found him attractive, but he was far from what most people would. His hair was greasy, his nose was pretty damn big and hooked, but his voice got me. It crept up under my skin and just tickled me from the inside with its velvety darkness. And his robes. He had a style all his own. I tried to master his manner of robe swishing, but I never quite got it right.

I'm not stupid, as I've already said, but I knew the age difference, the student and teacher dynamic, and possibly, our orientations meant I was shit out of luck when it came to lustful thoughts becoming reality. Still, I had a great many sweet dreams about him. It did become clear that living the gay life wasn't an option when my father sat me down after third year and flat out told me that part of the Tri-Wizard Tournament involved taking a girl to the Yule Ball. He gave me the talk, and basically I shut my mouth and listened. I got it. I was a Malfoy stud and a prize, and he was counting on me to marry and make babies when I reached manhood. The Yule Ball was a test, the first rung on the social ladder I'd have to climb to prove my worth and begin securing the interest of pure-blood girls. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I did it.

Anyway. The years passed. The Dark Lord rose and fell and Potter finished him off using my wand. He said he chose it of the three he'd taken because it felt the friendliest in his hand. *smirks*

Where was I going with this? Oh yes, the Quidditch changing room. Potter had talked to my mother when he returned my wand. He pretended not to notice my father and I think my father showed him the same courtesy. What can I say? I was indebted to him, to Potter. I wasn't happy about it, but a Malfoy does not carry debt. I returned to Hogwarts because of him to repeat my final year. Eighth-years, they're calling us. We're not allowed to play on the house Quidditch teams, but there are enough of us who like to play to make a team of our own – mixed houses – and we like to play against the others for practice – to have a good time and sort of celebrate the fact that we're still alive. House animosity doesn't seem such a big deal anymore when you look at the big picture. We're housed in the retrofitted Astronomy tower, Potter and I share a dormitory with five other boys.

So we'd just finished a game against Gryffindor. Wiped the field with them. Er … I'm exaggerating. It was a close call. Potter got the Snitch and we won by ten points. That Weasley girl is a fucking harpy as a chaser – total man-eater. Fortunately for me, the man she's chosen to eat isn't Potter any longer. I guess he turned her down at the beginning of the year. As well he should, in my opinion. That relationship was bordering on incestuous, if you ask me. I think she seemed to realise it too. There was a period of about a couple of weeks where the tension between her and Potter was thick enough to stick a knife in. But they've mellowed out.

I twitch my toes against my rumpled sheets. They're my personal sheets I brought from home – elf-woven cotton, soft as kneazle's belly, and feel divine against my skin. I've never told anybody about my er … fetish. It's too embarrassing. Hell, I was a virgin until last night. It's not like there was anybody to tell. Damn it. I'm blushing again. Where's my pillow?

Searches, finds it – decides not to hide as nobody's in the room – hugs it instead.

It smells like him. Ugh. I'm so pathetically over the moon it isn't funny. Anyway. I've never seen Potter without shoes on before. Trust me, I'd recall if I had. His feet are fucking perfect. It doesn't make any sense. He's short, but fit, and his feet are like a dancer's feet. They're actually quite similar to mine. Pale, long narrow toes, arched just right. I don't know how it ended up just the two of us, but I think I lost track of time after he took off his socks.

Nobody uses the showers in the changing room anymore. They're grimy and I think Filch ran out of Mrs Skower's cleaning up after the Battle. So most people go into the changing room for a back slapping session and then queue up for the Prefects' bathroom, or return to the dormitory showers.

I know it seems strange that I could be so enraptured by a pair of feet as to not notice the room full of students had dispersed, but he was taking care of them – his feet, I mean. He'd taken off his socks, talking and laughing with Weasley, and then pulled out a jar of cream and a towel. He fucking sat there on the bench, conjured soapy water in a basin and washed his feet right where anybody could see, as if it was no big deal!

Tell that to my cock. After he washed, he dried them, taking care to get between each toe and then popped the top off the jar of cream. I just about 'creamed' my pants watching him lather it over his toes. Fucking exhibitionist!

I couldn't help myself – watching such a pornographic scene play out before my eyes – I'm half-convinced he did it on purpose, but I have no idea how he would have known how to get me going. I stood there like a twit, my cock growing more obvious in my trousers. I'd moved right next to him, probably so I could watch the show closer up. When a man gets hard and his trousers get tight, it's important to adjust oneself. It isn't my fault it took a lot of adjusting, to the point I had my hands down my pants before I found a comfortable position.

Smug bastard finally called me out. "Did you want something, Draco?"

See what I'm talking about? Using my given name, speaking in a sultry voice, slathering his feet in thick white cream! He's a devil. But thank Merlin he's also a saint. Saint Potter. I'm sure I've called him that once or twice over the years. I don't know what I did to deserve what happened next, but I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat. One minute his hands were on his left foot – he'd propped it up on his right knee – and the next they pulled me over by my belt loops, opened my trousers, skated right over the waistband of my underwear, palmed my bulge and cupped my arse.

I'm not even sure how we got to the floor, but before I knew what'd hit me, Potter had us both stripped of all our clothing, laid it out on top of a cushioning charm and we were snogging on top, tangled together, and I couldn't keep my hands off his feet.

He's ticklish. I fucking love that he's ticklish. His cock is fine, too. Thick, slightly shorter than mine, the head is purple when it peeks out from his foreskin, aroused and dripping, whereas mine is closer to red. They look brilliant side by side, slick with precome and cream.

"You have a thing for my feet." He'd said it so matter of factly, I did what was natural after sharing such a confidence and wrestled him into position where he was on his back with his knees pulled up, feet together and my cock between them. I didn't last even a minute before shooting my load between his toes. The relief was so huge, so intense – his eyes got dark. I don't mean dark in an angry sense, but rather so aroused his pupils eclipsed the green of his eyes. "Fuck," he'd panted, then grabbed my hips, flipped us the other way round and got me half-hard again using my feet to get himself off.

We lay panting on our makeshift bed, minds blown wide, everything on display, so fucking naked I swear our souls were touching.

I sound like a soppy love-sick dunderhead, I know. But I think that's likely exactly what I am. And, as I lie here smelling him on my pillow, I think I'm okay with that.

I glance at my watch again. I'm ready for another fuck and it's only been three hours since the last one. I love being seventeen.

*~*~*

I've just had a shower. Showers are wonderful things, but nothing feels quite as good as lying under clean sheets, naked as the day I was born and just feeling the cotton kiss my skin.

Our dorm mates have all left for the Christmas break. Potter's seeing his friends off at the station and then coming back. He's not telling them about what we've been up to … at least I don't think he is … he better not be …

"Draco?"

Fuck! I've been caught in the act of … well … snuggling with my own fucking sheets isn't a crime. I peer out from the top and stare down at where he's smirking at me. He's standing by the side of the bed. I narrow my eyes. Smirking is my thing. But then I realise the edge of the mattress comes right up to the top of his thighs. I'm in the perfect position to take control of this situation, to bring him to his knees, so to speak.

I snake my bare foot from under the side of the sheet and find his crotch. He hadn't see it coming. Well, it wipes the smirk off his face, and that's what's important.

I rub my foot up and down his fly, then point my toes and insinuate myself under his bollocks, pushing the side of my foot upwards, toes curled and following the crack of his arse. He's breathing heavily now, face flushing and lips parting, reddening.

"Mmm. Feels like you may be up for another go."

Potter shifts his hips, but doesn't try to escape my exploring foot. His hand follows the front of his shirt down to his fly. He unfastens it and adjusts himself, hand slipping inside his underwear, his eyes growing half-lidded behind his stupid glasses. Actually, I kind of like his stupid glasses, but I'm not going to tell him that.

I move my foot back to his front, rubbing it up and down his quickly growing erection. It feels amazing under my arch.

"Not sure my arse is ready to go again." He grabs my foot so fast I didn't even see it coming. I'm forced to scoot my bum closer a few inches as he brings my foot up to his face, kisses it, rests the sole against his stubbly cheek. "You need to trim your toenails." Then he sucks my second and middle toes into his mouth.

I can't help the gasp from coming out with my words. "Didn't … ah … hurt you, did I?"

He fucking smirks at me again, with my toes in his mouth! How does he even do that? But then I'm lost because his tongue is working between them, licking right along the join. My cock's so hard it's smearing against my fresh sheets. He pulls back but doesn't release my foot. Instead, rubs his prickly face up and down my sole. "I'll be fine but …" pauses "… perhaps toes shouldn't go …"

"Anywhere fingers can go, Harry, toes can go, too."

He stops rubbing, blinks at me. What the hell is his problem? He needs to get back to laving my foot. "Did you just … call me Harry?"

Damn it! My face is red again; I'm certain of it. Before I can think up an excuse, he drops my foot and jumps on top of me, tackling me in my sheet.

 

I'm trapped and Potter knows it. He's taking full advantage of me, even forcing me to kiss him. But … his tongue feels nice against mine. Maybe this isn't so bad. Still, I can get back on top if I just relax, wait for him to relax in turn and then I'll work my arms free. Got them. I grab the back of his shirt, even as he tries to suffocate me by shoving his tongue down my throat. A quick tug pulls his shirt tails free, another wriggling manoeuvre and I've got his shirt up and under his armpits. He has to release me to breathe and get the damn thing off his big head. I take the opportunity to grip his hips with my knees, poking out from the bunched up sheet and flip him onto his side, following so we're side by side, face to face.

He's got his shirt off now, distracts me by fiddling with one of his nipples. Then he grabs my hand and brings it to his face, fellating the space between my index and middle finger and making me forget what I was going to say. He stops, stares straight at me, eyes fixing me with a dangerous light. "Say my name again, and I'll show you what my toes can do."

I don't know what's got into me, but I roll onto my back and spread my legs, holding onto the backs of my knees. My cock's leaking onto my stomach, but the speed at which he moves to get a better look is satisfying to watch. He's staring at me, waiting for something.

"Scared, Potter?" I see his eyes narrow and before I can think that I don't owe him an explanation, I'm correcting myself. "I mean, Harry?"

All right. Mischievous grins look good on him. "You wish," he says, and pulls a small jar from his trousers pocket.

Soft as a sigh I melt underneath the soothing smear of cream and Harry's talented toes.

The End