With a groan and a flick of his wand, Blaise sets the last box down at the end of the disassembled bed and wipes an arm across his damp forehead. “You really couldn’t have had the Floo set up beforehand?”
“Something to do with Muggle fireplaces--they couldn’t send anyone out until tomorrow,” Draco says absently, elbow-deep in an open box of neatly folded sheets and pillowcases. The faint scent of lavender wafts from them: the Manor elves had packed them well enough, he supposes, particularly in comparison with the box he’d just sorted through. Harry’s method of packing appears to be throwing whatever comes to hand first into whichever battered box or dusty satchel happens to be closest at the moment, with no consideration for cleanliness or wrinkling. He frowns as Blaise drapes himself across the white brocade bench he’d nicked from Mummy’s dressing room. “Don’t you dare sweat on that; it’s Jacobean.”
That earns him two flipped fingers, but Blaise does sit up, his elbows on his spread knees. “Potter could have pulled strings, I'm sure.”
Draco pulls out a set of crisp white sheets. He’d prefer the darker ones, but he knows Harry hates the way they feel on his skin and he’d rather not spend their first night in a new house listening to Harry’s whinging. “He could have.” He purses his mouth, annoyed. He and Harry’d already had one row about this very topic. “But Harry prefers not to.”
“Of course he doesn't.” Blaise rolls his eyes. “Remind me again why you’re moving in with a Gryffindor?”
Blaise looks sceptical. “You said Theo’s was better.”
Draco glares at him and tosses the sheets onto the mattress lying on the floor. “Can’t you make yourself useful?” He can hear muffled laughter down the hall. Said Theo and his admittedly excellent cock are still in the sitting room with Harry and whatever Weasleys are still floating about, most likely drinking Harry’s beer.
A flush from the loo distracts Blaise. He’s already on his feet when Pansy comes out, one hand supporting her back, the other resting on her enormously swollen stomach. “I want my bladder back,” she snaps, waving Blaise away. She scowls at him. “This is entirely your fault, you realise. Bastard.”
Blaise rolls his eyes. “That’s not what you were saying at the time.”
His wife pushes past him and drops onto the bench with a heavy sigh. “If I’d known I was going to turn into the human equivalent of a Hippogriff, I’d never have let your prick near me. Father always said you’d bring me grief.” She pushes a lock of her dark bob back behind one ear and glances around the room, her brows drawn together. She rubs her belly gently, smoothing her soft jersey shirt over the swell that will be her squalling daughter in another month. “You’re certain about this, darling?” She fixes her dark gaze on Draco.
He hesitates. He’s never entirely certain of anything, particularly not in regards to Harry. It can be…complicated at times between the two of them. Or at least that’s what Greg'd always said, every time he’d had to deal with a seething Draco after yet another furious row. It annoys Draco that a Goyle’s more emotionally astute than a Malfoy, but he blames Millicent for that evolutionary leap forward. The bitch. He twists a pillowcase between his hands. He’s been with Harry for three years now, most of them spent going between his flat with Greg in Chelsea and Harry’s hovel in Islington, shared first with the Weasel, then with Longbottom once Granger had put her foot down and forced Dear Ronald into proper heterosexual Gryffindor cohabitation. Draco’d been content enough, at least until Greg had come home one night and informed him calmly that he’d finally given Millie his mother’s ring and he’d be moving out come June. Draco had responded by throwing a plate at his head and storming, coatless, out of the flat into a late winter rainstorm.
It’d only been later, sprawled naked and sweaty across the sagging, lumpy atrocity Harry called a bed and listening through the wall to the muffled shriek of the Muggle telly Longbottom had turned on the moment Harry’d dragged a shivering and bedraggled Draco straight into the bedroom after sizing him up at the door, that Draco had finally calmed down enough to not flinch when Harry pressed his mouth to Draco’s shoulder and murmured that perhaps they ought to actually move in together like their friends had been not at all subtly hinting for the past year.
Draco still has no idea why he’d agreed. He’d been happy going on as they were, and the very thought of openly living with a boyfriend--particularly a boyfriend who Saved The WorldTM--makes his stomach tighten. In a bad, nervous-making way. He doesn’t care for the notoriety that comes with being a poster boy for the homosexual wizarding community—which can’t bloody well be avoided as Harry Fucking Potter’s partner. They’ve managed to keep the Prophet out of their lives so far through a few well-placed connections of Pansy’s who’ve been paid quite nicely to believe their ridiculous claim to just be friends, despite everyone being fully aware that’s a load of bollocks. Even Severus had deigned to roll his eyes at Draco’s protest, and his godfather very much prefers to be as ignorant about Draco’s sex life as possible.
And, of course, there are Father and Mummy.
His parents have only just become used to an occasional dinner at the Manor with Harry in attendance, and even then Father and Harry still spend most of the evening eyeing each other warily over the soup, neither of them entirely certain until the charlotte russe is served that the other isn’t going to whip out a wand and start throwing hexes about the room. The vein in Father’s temple had pulsed in a rather frightening manner when Draco had told them Harry was, for all intents and purposes, about to come out as their son-in-law. Draco’s only consolation had been that Arthur Weasley had exploded a window in the Burrow when Harry’d informed the Weasleys. At least Father hadn’t been that crass.
“Darling?” Pansy’s peering at him, her concern evident. “Are you quite all right?”
Draco blinks. The pillowcase is tight around his hands, digging red welts into his skin. “Oh.” He drops it; it falls into a wrinkled heap on top of the sheets. “I’m fine.” Pansy doesn’t seem convinced, and he shakes his head. “Really.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Pansy says quietly. She pushes herself off the bench and reaches for him, drawing him up against the hard lump of her belly. Draco’s quite certain he feels his future goddaughter give him a sharp kick in the side. Definitely her mother’s child. He wraps his arms around Pansy and holds her tight. She smells like roses, the soft white antique ones that fill the Manor gardens in May.
“I want to.” Draco knows it’s the truth, even if it scares the hell out of him.
Pansy huffs against his throat. “Just say the word. Blaise will move your boxes back—“
Her husband snorts. “Like hell Blaise will.” Blaise pulls Pansy away, sliding his arm around her. “It’ll do Draco good to actually make a commitment.” Blaise raises an eyebrow at Draco. “Won’t it?”
“Probably.” Draco shifts from foot to foot. He wants to throw himself back into Pansy’s arms and have her stroke his hair and tell him not to do this. Pansy’s always been good at running his life for him. She’d been the one to tell him halfway through seventh year that she was breaking things off with him because he was obviously far more interested in Theo’s arse than he was in her tits and that she was fairly certain, given the fact that her tits were the best at Hogwarts bar none, that he was obviously far more bent than anyone had suspected, especially given his ridiculous obsession with Potter.
She’d reminded him of that particular obsession frequently since the night he’d found himself in bed with Harry after getting pissed out of his mind at (of all people) Luna Lovegood’s twenty-sixth birthday party. To this day Draco maintains his flighty bitch of a cousin spiked the punch with some sort of hippy shit, and Luna’s never denied it, choosing instead to smile gently at Draco and tell him things all worked out for the best, didn’t they, and isn’t that what birthday wishes are supposed to do?
Draco takes a deep breath and smiles at Pansy. “I’m nearly thirty. It’s time I settled, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” Pansy bites her bottom lip. “But I suppose I always thought it’d be with someone less…” She hesitates. “…heroic.”
Draco isn’t certain whether or not to be insulted. Instead, he just looks at her, and she sighs and touches his cheek.
“We should go,” Blaise says quietly. “Unless you need help unpacking?”
Draco shakes his head. “No. God only knows what of Harry’s I’ll need to throw away. No sense in making you both suffer through that.”
“You’ll firecall me tomorrow once the Floo is set?” Pansy asks. He can tell by her worried eyes that she’s just as uncertain about leaving him here as he is about letting her go.
He kisses her cheek. “Yes, and I’ll even let you take me for tea when Harry starts driving me mad.”
“That shouldn’t take long,” she says with a faint smile.
Draco leans against the doorframe, watching them move slowly down the hall, hands entwined. He can hear their murmured goodbyes on the stairs and a shout from some random Weasley, and he tries to ignore the flare of panic that coils through his belly when he turns back to the bedroom.
It’s a beautiful room, large and light and airy, with long paned windows overlooking the tiny patch of green garden below, walls painted slate blue, and white moulding edging the ceiling. They’d compromised on location: Draco had given up his insistence on Mayfair, and Harry had agreed to leave Islington. After looking at flats in Hampstead and Primrose Hill, they’d finally settled on a townhouse in Notting Hill Gate, just off Pembridge on a curving street lined with trees and narrow three-storey grey brick buildings with bowed white bay windows and shiny black doors.
They’d both put money into it, Harry pulling from his Gringotts account and Draco appealing to his parents for extra funds. He was quite aware his father had reluctantly handed over the twenty thousand Galleons he’d needed to supplement the meagre savings he’d managed to tuck away from his salary as a researcher in pharmapotions only because his mother had put her foot down. Mummy has an oddly soft spot for Harry. Draco's certain she's the only person other than Greg who actually thinks Harry's good for him.
Harry’s boxes lean against one wall, the stack listing slightly to the left. They’re held together with Spellotape and a prayer, and scraps of clothing and book edges peek out through the gaps in cardboard. Draco sighs. His own boxes are neat and impeccable, stacked neatly alongside the window, their contents written on them in spiky black elvish script.
He reaches for the next box and, with a flick of his wand, rips it open.
Draco looks up from the garishly orange poster of the Cannons, his face still flushed from the flirtatious kiss their Seeker had just tossed his way. Harry’s leaning against the door, arms crossed, hair rumpled as usual and his nearly too-tight t-shirt patched with dirt and sweat and stretched over solid shoulders. Draco snorts, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.
“Over my dead body, Potter. I’m a bit tired of having the whole team cheer you on when you bugger me. “
Harry’s mouth twitches. “You've never complained before.”
“Yes, I have.” Draco rolls the poster up tightly and shoves it back into its tube. “You just ignored me in favour of shagging me raw.” He tosses the tube into the ever-growing Waiting To Be Banished To Unknown Regions And Never Seen Again pile--which contains most of Harry’s possessions.
Harry grabs the tube and tucks it under his arm. “I can put it in the sitting room.” At Draco’s sharp glare, he sighs. “Or give it to Ron.”
Draco sniffs and shifts, the muscles of his neck tight. The still-bare mattress creaks beneath him. “I highly doubt Granger would want that wretched thing hanging in her house either. She at least has a modicum of taste, unlike the two of you.”
“You’ve a point.” Harry drops down next to him, leaning the tube against the mattress. His feet are bare, and the hem of his jeans is ragged and frayed. Draco would object to him wearing such horrifically Muggle clothes, but they look ridiculously good on Harry’s delicious arse, so he keeps his tongue. He’s at least grateful Harry has the common sense to wear proper wizarding attire at the Manor. No matter how much he complains before and after.
“As usual.” Draco rolls his shoulders and stretches. “Have they all gone?”
Harry’s hand slides over the small of his back. “Yes. Hermione and Ron needed to pick Rose up from the Burrow.”
“So Theo said when he came up to say goodbye.” Draco leans back into Harry’s touch. “And that awful George?”
“I kept him out of your books, never fear.” Harry’s fingers are firm against Draco’s spine. Draco stifles a groan as Harry rubs along the knobs, bunching Draco’s shirt up over his skin and raising gooseflesh all over his body.
Draco leans forward, letting Harry’s other hand slide up under his shirt. The mattress dips as Harry moves behind him, his knees pressing into the soft springs. “And the stemware?”
“Intact. Not a shard.” Harry’s palms flatten against Draco’s back, pressing hard. “You’re tight.”
“Don’t we usually have to be naked for you to say that?” Draco closes his eyes, enjoying the stroke of Harry’s fingertips across his skin, over his shoulder blades. Harry laughs softly and Draco smiles, letting Harry pull him back against him.
They sit silently for a moment, Harry’s arms wrapped around Draco, his breath warm against Draco’s neck. Harry finally sighs, and his fingers move lightly across Draco’s stomach. “We really did it,” he says. “You. Me. This place…”
Draco’s throat tightens. “I suppose.”
Harry pulls back, leaning around Draco to peer at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Draco shakes his head and tries to relax back against Harry. He hates the way Harry looks at him, as if he can see straight through Draco, deep into the cracks and crevices in which Draco prefers to hide. It discomfits him.
“Bollocks.” Harry twists again, and somehow Draco ends up sprawled across Harry’s lap, legs cocked, bare feet splayed on the floor, looking up at him. Harry’s eyes narrow, and Draco glances away. “You’ve been thinking, haven’t you? You know that’s always the wrong thing for you to do.”
Draco scowls at his pile of boxes still against the window, stacked up beside the headboard and bed slats. “You might try it every once in a while.” He pulls away and pushes himself up off the mattress, disentangling his legs from Harry’s. He walks to the window and stares out of it. They haven’t put the curtains up yet and he can see across the garden into the neighbour’s bedroom. It’s a rare mid-June day with no clouds in a blue sky and late afternoon sun gleams gold over the rooftops. The leaves of the lilac in the garden below ripple gold-green in a breeze. He wonders how Greg and Millie are enjoying their honeymoon in the warmth of Greece.
He can hear Harry move behind him. “Draco.”
“Don’t.” Draco tenses when Harry’s knuckles brush his hip and he steps away. He reaches for a box on top of his stack and pulls a flap open. He stares down at a stack of folded winter jumpers; his fingers smooth across soft cashmere.
Harry sighs. “You wanted to buy the house, Draco. We talked about it.” He pauses. “A lot.”
Draco knows he’s right. He just can’t help being skittish. He’s never done this, never lived with someone. Any time a relationship’s come close, he’s walked away. He thinks he should have done that with Harry, but it’s too late now. Stupid Gryffindor that Harry is, he’s got under Draco’s skin now, driving him utterly mad in the process, and sometimes Draco wonders if Father isn’t right about Harry. He’s dangerous. A threat to his carefully reconstructed world.
“Stop thinking,” Harry whispers. His hands are on Draco’s shoulders, heavy and warm, and Draco wants to turn around, wants to press his mouth against Harry’s, wants Harry to kiss him until he’s breathless and it doesn’t matter what his head is saying because what his heart is shouting drowns it out.
“Harry,” Draco starts to say, but Harry’s already turning him, pressing him back against the stack of boxes and he cuts Draco off with a kiss, long and slow, as his hands slide down Draco’s sides, stopping to grip Draco’s hips so tightly they’ll leave a mark.
Draco loves kissing Harry, has loved kissing him since their first drunken night together. It doesn’t matter that Harry’s not the most adventurous sex he’s ever had (that title surprisingly enough goes to a rather spectacularly rough shag with Blaise—pre-Pansy days, of course—in the MCC pavilion loo at Lord’s during the seven months the former Mrs Zabini had been Lady Rice—a quite brilliant solution to their boredom in following the crack of Muggles’ Beater bats and the bounce of dull little red balls against the green lawn; really, in Draco’s opinion, sport just isn’t as interesting without a broomstick involved) nor does it matter Harry isn’t the biggest cock Draco’s had (it had nearly killed Draco to stop fucking Theo even when he’d found him buried to the balls in Marcus Flint’s arse, but one has to draw the line somewhere, and Flint had been Draco’s).
But Harry is the best kisser Draco’s known. No one else has ever taken Draco’s breath away with the faintest brush of lips and lips. No one else has ever made Draco’s toes curl with one flick of tongue against the corner of his mouth. Harry takes his time kissing, his teeth scraping across Draco’s bottom lip, his tongue sliding deeper into Draco’s mouth, swallowing Draco’s soft moan.
Harry tastes warm and musky and wet, and he pushes against Draco, his lean body strong and lithe from hours spent in the DMLE gym sparring with whomever’s fool enough to take him on as a practice duel.
Draco’s hands slide up Harry’s chest, palms flat against firm muscle. He ought to push him away. Instead his fingers twist in the soft, thin cotton of Harry’s t-shirt, pulling him closer, his thumb rubbing fabric against one taut nipple until Harry groans into Draco’s mouth and they stumble backwards against the boxes, Draco’s back tilted at an impossible angle.
The battered cardboard shifts beneath them, sliding to one side, and Harry pulls away just enough to flick a hand at them, the spell lost in his gasp, but still strong enough to freeze the cardboard beneath Draco’s arse. He looks down at Draco. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but Draco doesn’t care. He pushes away from the boxes, and Harry falls back onto the mattress with a grunt followed quickly by another when Draco lands on him, his hands already reaching for the hem of Harry’s t-shirt.
“You,” Draco says breathlessly, shoving the shirt up Harry’s chest and pressing his mouth to soft, golden skin, “you bastard, you know what wandless magic does to me—“ He breaks off when Harry kisses him again, his fingers tangling in Draco’s pale hair, holding Draco still.
Harry’s tongue traces the narrow curve of Draco’s swollen bottom lip. “Sometimes, you talk too damned much,” he says, voice low and rough, and Draco’s cock throbs against the tight wool of his trousers. He squirms slightly, and at Harry’s sharp hiss, he laughs, shifting against him again.
“Problems?” Draco looks down at Harry, feeling quite pleased with himself. Harry’s sprawled beneath him, hair more mussed than before, his shirt ruched beneath his armpits and revealing a fuzz of dark hair across his chest and trailing faintly down to the loose waistband of his faded jeans, his glasses slightly askew, his mouth pink and soft and wet, and, really, Draco doesn't care if it's completely gauche to shag his boyfriend on a bare mattress on the floor of their new bedroom. He wants Harry. Right now.
Harry grins. His hands, so wide and heavy and gentle, settle on Draco’s arms, stroking lightly. “None that you can’t fix.” His eyes are soft and warmly green behind those stupid thick glasses he refuses to get rid of, no matter how many times Draco tells him there are healing charms to correct his eyesight. Draco will never admit that he actually likes the damned things, that Harry’s face looks odd to him without them when he comes out of the shower dripping wet and towelless, groping blindly for them. No need to give the smug prat the satisfaction, he thinks.
Draco catches Harry’s wrists, pulling them up above his head and holding them in place with one strong hand as he reaches down with the other to fumble at the button and zip of Harry’s jeans. Harry watches him, and Draco doesn’t point out that his glasses are smudged and spotted. Instead he keeps his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, on the way his mouth opens just enough when Draco’s fingers slip beneath the elastic of his y-fronts, barely brushing over sparse, coarse curls. He notices the way Harry’s shoulders relax, the slight bob of his throat as he swallows, the way he licks his bottom lip as Draco leans closer, the flutter of his eyelids as they close when Draco brushes his mouth over Harry’s. Sometimes Draco thinks he should be granted a D.Phil. in Harry Potter Studies because no one--not even Dear Ronald or Granger herself--knows Harry as well as he does. No one ever has.
Draco’s been watching Harry since they were eleven. Even after all this time it still amazes him that Harry watches back.
“Hey,” Harry says softly as Draco pulls away from the kiss. Draco can still feel the warmth of Harry’s skin beneath his palm, the steady thrum of Harry’s pulse against his fingertips. Draco shakes his head and Harry falls silent again, just looking up at him. Harry’s fingernails are clean and buffed and neatly trimmed, and Draco almost wants to laugh because he knows damn well that, gay or not, Harry never saw a manicurist before they started sleeping together. Proper nail care only came after Draco’d spent a year complaining about how filthy Harry’s hands were--and after one fateful night when Harry’s ragged nail had painfully caught on Draco’s scrotum and Draco’d sworn never to let Harry touch him again. Harry’d gone out the next day and discovered the joy of a nail file.
Draco lets his thumb smooth over one of Harry’s fingers.
Sunlight from the window spills over the bed, warming Harry’s golden skin as it casts a lattice of windowpane shadows across the white sheets, and Harry’s breath catches when Draco’s other hand slides further into his pants, curling around his already stiffening cock. Harry looks beautiful stretched out like this, Draco thinks, his thick messy black curls spilling across his forearm, his tanned stomach flat and firm, his hipbones sharp above the loosened waistband of his jeans. Draco loves Harry’s body: he’s been fascinated with it since school, with its lean length and smooth muscles. Watching Harry play Quidditch had been mesmerising; watching Harry shower afterwards had been enlightening. His fingers slide along the underside of Harry’s prick, and as Harry moans softly, Draco wonders if Harry’s ever realised that it’d been Potter-watching that had convinced Draco that Pansy was right about his sexuality. Draco will never tell him, and even if Pans is fool enough to imply the fact, Harry would never let him know. They need a few secrets between them, he thinks. He doesn’t want Harry knowing everything about him. That thought’s too terrifying.
Harry shifts beneath him, pushing his hips up, and Draco rolls against him. They kiss, but it’s not slow and careful this time. Teeth scrape over lips in a breathless claim; tongues slide together then flick away.
Draco loves Harry like this. Loves having Harry bloody Potter, Savior of the Entire Sodding Wizarding World, spread out beneath him, soft and supple and waiting for him. Draco’s fingertips smooth over the damp head of Harry’s cock, and Harry stretches, his hands clenching beneath Draco’s warm palm, and he breathes out heavily, looking up at Draco in that way that sees through Draco, that makes it clear that Harry knows him. A shudder goes through Draco, a tremor of fear, that makes him sit back, his hands sliding away from Harry’s body.
“You’re thinking again,” Harry says softly.
“It’s what most normal human beings do.” Draco hides his wince at his sharp tone. He looks everywhere but at Harry’s body and the swollen red prick peeking out over his y-fronts.
Harry sits up. He pulls his t-shirt over his head and tosses it on the floor next to the bed. Draco fights his natural urge to reach over and pick it up. Harry’s a slob; he always has been and always will be, and it annoys him when Draco points the fact out. “Are we going to talk about this?” Harry asks after a moment.
Draco sits back against the headboard and sighs. “No.”
For a moment he thinks Harry’s going to say something, but Harry just sighs himself and looks away. Draco doesn’t stop Harry when he pushes himself up off the mattress and disappears into the bath. He sits silently for a moment, looking over the piles of half-unpacked boxes against the wall. This was a horrible idea, he thinks. They’ll never fit together. Not like this. And it’d all been going so well up until now.
Fuck Greg. And Millie, for that matter.
With a growl of frustration, Draco slides off the bed and picks up Harry’s t-shirt. He folds it, then carries it over to the hamper and drops it inside. Harry always laughs at him for being so neat even with dirty clothes; Draco’s never known how to explain that he needs to be, that it gives him at least the pretense of having some sort of control. Even when he was a child, he’d been tidy, going into a hysterical rage if one of his toys was even a fraction of an inch out of place. He’d grown out of that habit; Pansy had gone out of her way to break him of it when they'd started Hogwarts, although it had been Severus who’d helped him to see that his loss of control at such moments was a detriment to his authority over the rest of the first years.
He's bent over another box when the bathroom door opens behind him, and Draco doesn't look around. Instead he settles another layer of trousers into it, smoothing them flat, before reaching for the stack of jumpers he'd just taken out an hour ago.
"What are you doing?" Harry asks. He's stopped a few feet behind Draco.
"Repacking," Draco says curtly. "This was a ridiculous idea--"
And then arms slide around him, and he's pulled back against a warm, bare chest. He closes his eyes, smelling the faint scent of sweat and the handmilled olive soap from France that he'd put beside the sink earlier in the afternoon. "You reek," Draco starts to say, but Harry's hands smooth across his shirt, fingers tugging at the buttons. The jumpers slip from Draco's grasp, tumbling across boxes and the floor, and Draco almost protests--until Harry's warm palms slip under the crisp cotton of his shirt. He shivers instead and he half-turns towards Harry.
"Hush," Harry says, and a slow kiss stops Draco from saying anything. Harry steps backward, pulling Draco with him, and it's only then Draco realises Harry's stripped. He looks down at Harry's swollen prick bobbing between them.
"I'm not that easy." But he knows he is. He always has been for Harry. He reaches up and drags Harry's glasses down, pulling them slowly from his face.
Harry smiles. "I am."
"Let me alert the Prophet," Draco says wryly. He sets the glasses on top of a box, and then his fingers return to Harry's cheek, tracing lightly across the rough scruff on Harry's jaw. It scratches his fingertips. His breath catches when Harry turns his head, brushes his lips against one knuckle.
"Is that what worries you?"
Draco lets Harry pull him down on the mattress. It squeaks and bounces slightly beneath their weight. "The Prophet?" His eyes flutter closed for the briefest moment as Harry pushes his shirt off one shoulder, his mouth hot against Draco's skin. "No."
Harry frees one of Draco's arms, shifting over him so he can tug the shirt off the other. It lands somewhere on the floor; Draco will worry about it later. "Then what?"
All Draco can do is shake his head, a tightness in his throat. "Nothing," he manages finally. Harry's pressed against him, chest to chest, one leg between Draco's, his fingers tracing delicate trails across Draco's side.
"Baby," Harry says, and Draco hates that term of endearment, hates it with a passion because of how utterly condescending and ridiculously Gryffindor it is, but before he can pull away in irritation, Harry's fingers dip down into the curve of his back, beneath the waistband of his trousers, through the very top of the cleft of his arse. His prick swells, the traitorous bastard, and Draco knows damn well Harry did that on purpose.
"You arse," he snaps, but Harry's already kissing him again, and he rolls over Draco, pressing him into the mattress.
Harry's mouth skims Draco's throat. "Tell me."
Draco stares up at the ceiling, willing his body to stop moving against Harry's. It doesn't work. Instead his legs spread wider and his hands settle on Harry's waist. He loves the silken feel of Harry's heated skin beneath his palms, and he can't keep his fingers from stroking lower, slipping over the swell of Harry's arse. "It's nothing." It's everything.
There's a sharp nip of teeth on his jaw. "I know when you're lying, Malfoy," Harry whispers into his ear, and Draco can barely breathe. Harry's tongue flicks lightly at his earlobe.
Fuck that. Draco growls, deep in his throat, and he pushes at Harry, rolling them both over until he leans over Harry. He can feel the warmth of the sun on the nape of his neck, almost unbearable in its glass-enhanced heat.
Harry reaches up and touches Draco’s hair, twisting a lock of it around his fingertip.
“Silver-gold,” he says, and Draco snorts.
“You’re not a poet, Potter.” Draco’s mouth brushes over Harry’s jaw. “Believe me.”
Harry just laughs and raises his chin so that Draco can bite down on the curve of his throat. His eyes close, and Draco knows the exact moment Harry gives in. His body softens; his breathing shifts; his legs fall wider beneath Draco.
Draco reaches between them, letting his knuckles brush lightly over Harry's heavy prick as he tugs at the buckle of his belt. Harry groans softly, and his eyes flutter open. He gives Draco a slow, lazy smile. "Already ready for you," he whispers, and he shifts his hips, bumping his arse against the back of Draco's hand. Draco feels the dampness there, the slickness that spreads across Harry's skin, catching in the creases of his thighs.
"Merlin." Draco can't get the buttons on his trousers open fast enough.
Harry's hands slide up Draco's sides, smooth across his chest. "Thought you might need this." The smirk he gives Draco is almost unbearable. Still, Draco has to admit, he'd definitely thought right. Somehow Draco keeps himself upright on one hand, his other pushing his trousers and pants down his hips. Harry helps with the heel of his foot. The fabric bunches across his thighs, but Draco doesn't care.
"Do you need..." Draco slides a finger through Harry's slick crease, circling lightly across his hole.
"No." Harry shakes his head, and, Christ, he spreads his legs even wider. "Had three inside of me in the loo--"
Draco cuts him off with rough kiss at the same moment his hips press forward and the head of his cock slides into Harry's arse. Harry tenses and groans against Draco's mouth, his hands gripping Draco's sides.
It's not going to take long, Draco realises, his body trembling. The mattress creaks against his knees as he pushes deeper into Harry, and Harry arches up against him, his shoulders pressing against tufted white damask ticking.
"Fuck," Harry breathes into Draco's shoulder, his teeth scraping Draco's skin, and then he pushes up with his hips, and Draco's balls-deep into a wide-eyed Harry. "More."
Draco shifts above him, his hands pressed down against the mattress, and there's a ticking-covered button that's going to leave a dent in his palm. He doesn't care, because Harry's moving against him, one foot on the floor, the other digging into the edge of the mattress, and there's nothing in this world Draco loves more than Harry Fucking Potter beneath him, desperate and needy.
Harry's fingernails bite into the skin over Draco's ribs. It stings slightly, and the slight buzz of pain makes Draco gasp as his hips press forward to meet Harry's arse. Harry's hand slides up, tangles in Draco's hair. He pulls him into a kiss, and it's all teeth and tongue. Draco's trousers catch against his bent knee with the next thrust, and the belt buckle hits his thigh. Harry's face is flushed, his brow damp. A lock of dark hair sticks to his skin, and his eyes are bright and unfocused. Draco kisses him again.
"You terrify me," he whispers against Harry's mouth, and then he grabs Harry's legs, hefting them up over his arms as he fucks him in quick, rough strokes. He can't stop himself; he comes a moment later with a shudder and a soft cry, falling forward before catching himself with one hand. Harry's legs slide off his arms, and it takes a moment before Draco realises that Harry's quiet, keening gasps are in rhythm with his fingers twisting around his cock. He knocks Harry's hand away, grabbing Harry's thick prick himself as he leans down to catch Harry's mouth with his own. "This terrifies me." He hesitates, and then the words come out in a rush. "We terrify me."
Harry's hips press upwards, off the mattress, and he tangles a hand in Draco's hair, kissing him eagerly, desperately. Draco's barely aware when hot spunk spatters across his hand; Harry rolls against him, hips jerking, smearing come across both of them--and the mattress.
They lie silently for a long moment, their breaths heavy and ragged. Draco closes his eyes, his heart a near staccato thud. Sweat cools on his limbs. Somehow he manages to kick his trousers and pants off; he can hear the soft clank of his belt buckle when they hit the floor. Harry curls around him, his face against Draco's throat, his leg draped over Draco's hip.
Outside Draco can hear the laughter of passersby and the cheerful honk of a Muggle car horn. Sunlight is warm against his face; behind his closed eyelids he can see floating orange-red spots. The mattress shifts, Harry's warm breath disappears from his skin, and then strong, thick fingers slide through his hair, tugging it slightly. He opens his eyes; Harry's leaning over him.
"Hey," Harry says softly.
Draco looks up at him. His cock is sticky; there's a wet smear across his flat stomach that'll itch like fuck if it dries. He swallows; his throat's thick and raw. "Hey," he manages. He reaches up and smoothes Harry's hair back from his forehead. He swallows again. "That was utterly unfair."
Harry smiles down at him. "Completely." He kisses the tip of Draco's nose and then laughs softly when Draco scowls and bats him away. "Better though?"
Draco hesitates. "A little," he admits finally. He turns his head and watches as Harry threads his fingers through his. "Although, as usual, I'm not responsible for anything I might have said in the throes of sexual pleasure."
"Of course." Harry's mouth quirks to one side. He strokes a thumb along the curve of Draco's palm before lifting it up to kiss it lightly. The pressure of his mouth against Draco's skin makes Draco shiver. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to how much he wants Harry. He's never felt this way before. Never felt so out of control. Never felt so damned right in his skin.
"If you leave me, I'll kill you," Draco says impetuously, and then he feels his face heat at the admission of weakness. Of need. He tenses, waiting for Harry's laugh.
It doesn't come. "I know," Harry says, and his gaze is fixed on Draco. It's all he says, but somehow it's comforting.
Draco nods. He turns and twists until he's lying alongside Harry, his arse pressed into Harry's groin. He has a moment of sharp panic, but Harry's hand slips over his chest, his arm a heavy, oddly assuring weight on Draco's ribs. Draco hesitates, then his fingers slide through Harry's, curling around them lightly. "You need to confirm the appointment with the Floo Network in the morning," he says after a moment. His thumb rubs across the back of Harry's hand.
"I know," Harry says again, this time against the nape of Draco's neck.
Draco shifts and looks back over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. "Harry. If the Floo is not accessible tomorrow, Pansy will be annoyed. And I will be more than happy to send her your way--"
Harry cuts him off with a kiss, and Draco feels his body softening and relaxing against Harry's. "Stop fretting." Harry's lips brush his before he pulls back. "It's in my diary. Justin penciled it in on Friday." His fingers flex against Draco's chest. "You know, we should probably put the bed together. I don't want you complaining to either Zabini that I forced you to sleep on the floor."
"You mean you should." Draco sits up at that, pulling away from Harry's reluctant-to-let-go hands, and his heel hits the floor. He looks down at Harry. Sunlight stretches across Harry's hipbones, and all Draco wants to do is lean over and drag his tongue across Harry's warm, golden skin.
Harry's fingertips brush the side of Draco's thigh. "You could help." There's a glint in Harry's eyes that makes Draco smile.
"We'd never make it off the mattress," Draco says drily. He reaches for his shirt and pulls it on again, buttoning a few of the lower buttons as he stands up. He glances over at the stack of bed parts, then back at Harry, who's eyeing the slight swell of Draco's cock beneath his loose shirt. Draco rolls his eyes, then snaps his fingers. "Up here, Potter."
Harry rolls onto his back and stretches out, his hands sliding above his head. "What?"
"Compromise," Draco says firmly, fully aware of how quickly and easily Harry can distract him. "You build the bed. I'll go downstairs and consider dinner."
"You mean you'll order from Paya." Harry grins up at him. "Do you want my mobile?"
Draco sniffs. His disdain for Harry's interest in Muggle technology has been voiced more than once. "They do accept owl orders still, you heathen." He picks his trousers up from the floor. "Ho Fan noodles with prawn?"
"And the crispy seaweed." Harry rolls up onto his knees. He reaches for Draco's hips, pulling him closer.
"You're vile," Draco says, but his breath catches as Harry presses his face against the fabric of his shirt, his teeth nipping the skin beneath. His hand settles on Harry's shoulder, holding him back. "Harry."
An amused smile curves Harry's mouth. "You can't blame me for trying."
"Bed." Draco steps away, his trousers wrinkling in his tight grip. He tries not to smile back and utterly fails. "Build it, and then we'll see about further activities."
At the doorway, he glances back. Harry's slid off the mattress and is crouched, utterly naked still, in front of the stack of burnished wood, frowning down at it as he rolls his wand between his fingertips. A warmth spreads through Draco, easing the tenseness in his shoulders. Perhaps they can do this, he thinks. Perhaps it won't be the worst cock-up of his life. Perhaps, despite his father's sour disapproval, his loving a Gryffindor might actually make sense. This particular Gryffindor at least.
Harry's hair gleams in the sunlight. Draco wants to walk back over and run his hands through its thick tangle. Wants to push Harry back onto the mattress and kiss him, their bodies moving together again.
This is love, he thinks, his fingers tightening on the door frame. Brilliant. Ridiculous. Terrifying.
Harry swears under his breath, and Draco smiles, stepping into the hall. He wouldn't trade this, he realises. No matter how unsettling it may be. There's nothing in the world he wants more than this maddening, annoying, perfect man and the life they'll have together--however long it might be.
Draco walks down the hall, his bare footsteps light against the polished wood floor, his heart suddenly soaring. This moment is what he'd been waiting for, as utterly terrifying as it might be.
Sunlight falls across the floor before him, and he steps into its warmth, happy, frightened, and anxiously, cautiously beginning to fall in love with his life.