It was a Friday night a few weeks into the term and Draco was ensconced in his bedroom, reading a book by the fire. He was quite content, all things considered. The eighth year dormitory was being housed in the Room of Requirement and, being what it was, the Room had provided each occupant with their preferred accommodations. Those who were more comfortable sharing a room had been given doubles, while those who sought solitude were given their own rooms. Draco’s private room was his solace, his sanctuary. He spent, arguably, far too much time there, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.
Draco had just turned the page when someone knocked on the door.
“Come in, Pansy!” he said, raising his voice to be heard through the door. It was funny—Pansy usually didn’t bother knocking, even as a courtesy.
There was a pause in which Pansy did not enter the room. Then, “It’s not Pansy.”
Draco froze. That voice sounded like…
Draco rose and walked the three steps to the door, yanked it open.
“Oh, hello,” said Potter, looking rather more taken aback than someone ought to when they had just knocked on a door.
“Hello...” Draco said, drawing the word out into a question.
Potter adjusted his glasses. “Can I come in?”
Draco paused, then nodded. He turned back into the room and returned to his armchair. Potter hovered in the doorway.
“What can I do for you?” Draco asked.
“Everyone’s out in the common room. We’re about to start Truth or Dare.”
“How lovely for everyone.”
“You should come play.”
Draco cocked an eyebrow. “And why is that? No one wants me there.”
Potter stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him. Draco took a deep breath, feeling his pulse quicken at the click of the door.
“I think you’re punishing yourself,” Potter said. “And I don’t believe in punishment after forgiveness, no matter who’s doing the punishing.”
Draco flushed. “What makes you think I’m punishing myself?”
Potter gestured at the room. “You’ve been isolating yourself all term. You only talk to Pansy and Blaise.”
“Just because I haven’t become a social butterfly like the rest of you lot doesn’t mean I’m punishing myself.” Draco’s voice sounded prickly even to his own ears.
“I s’pose” Potter allowed, “but you don’t need to keep yourself apart from everyone. You might actually get on with… some of us.”
DRaco took a moment to ponder this, and to stare at Potter. He was dressed in faded dark blue jeans belted low on his hips but seemed to fit him better than most of what Draco had seen him wear over the last eight years, as though he’d finally filled out enough to fit into his own clothes. He wore a black hoodie over what looked like a soft white t-shirt poking out the bottom. His dense curls stuck up the back, like always, and his expression was somewhere between nervous and determined as he stared back at Draco. He looked more attractive than he had any right to, dressed like a slouchy muggle teenager.
“You really want me to join this game of Truth or Dare?” Draco said at last.
“Yeah,” said Potter. “I do.”
Later, Draco would blame the shock, the element of surprise. It was the only explanation for why he found himself marking his page and setting his book aside. For why he said, “Alright then,” and stood up to follow Potter back out to the common room.
It was worth it just for the look on Potter’s face. Despite his determination, he had clearly not expected to succeed. But he didn’t look displeased. If anything, Draco thought he detected a warmth to Potter’s brown cheeks. “Oh—great,” he said. “Come on, then.”
The chatter in the common room quieted when Draco appeared, but didn’t dissipate entirely. Potter took his vacated spot in the circle. After a sharp look to Seamus, who was next to him, Seamus scooted over to make space next to Potter. Looking back at Draco, Potter placed his hand on the spot to indicate Draco should sit there. Feeling almost like he was under an Imperius, Draco moved forward and sat down. Their knees touched.
“Okay,” said Pansy. Of course this was her idea. She never passed up an opportunity to extract secrets from people. “I guess we’re all here now, so we can get started.”
There were a few whoops from around the circle. Just as Draco was noticing the couple open firewhisky bottles sitting at various points around their circle, a cool glass was pressed into his hand. He accepted it automatically, feeling his fingers brush with whoever handed it to him. Glancing up, he found himself looking into Potter’s face, which was much closer than Draco had anticipated. Their eyes locked. Draco swallowed, turning quickly back to Pansy. He took a gulp of firewhisky.
“As agreed,” Pansy continued, “everyone will take a shot of Veritaserum before we begin.” She took the first swig herself, then passed the flask of clear potion to the person sitting to her left.
Draco’s stomach twisted. How could he have forgotten that there was nothing playful about the way Pansy played Truth or Dare? But he couldn’t refuse the Veritaserum or it would look like he had something to hide. So when the flask reached him, he dutifully took a swig, feeling every eye in the circle watching him. It burned going down, far more than the firewhisky. After passing it to Potter, he took another deep sip of his drink to wash it down and felt the combination immediately go to his head. He felt tingly and warm and ever-so lightheaded.
They were all quiet while the Veritaseum made its way around the circle back to Pansy.
“I’ll start,” she said, when she had capped the flask and tucked it back into her robes. She looked around the circle, appraising everyone. “Granger,” she said at last. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” said Granger. She was sitting across the circle from Draco, with Weasley’s arm resting on her waist.
Pansy smirked. “I think we’re all curious… you, Potter, and Weasley have always been awfully close. We know you’re with Weasley now, but have you ever hooked up with the Chosen One?”
Draco felt Potter tense beside him. It was a dirty question, even for Pansy. “No,” Granger said firmly. “I’ve only been with Ron.”
Beside her, Weasley tightened his grip around her waist and pressed a kiss to her hair. He looked proud, indignant, and—to Draco’s eye—just a little relieved.
Ron was next. “Seamus,” he called out, “Truth or dare?”
Seamus picked dare and was asked to moon the group. Judging from his cackling, he was delighted by the opportunity.
Longbottom divulged that he’d had more nightmares about Snape than Voldemort, and Hannah Abbott admitted to having a crush on Longbottom, which caused him to blush fiercely. Anthony Goldstein was dared to eat a Puking Pastille from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and projectile vomited spectacularly into the fireplace, which flared purple.
Draco had a knot in his stomach, waiting for his turn. It was Granger who finally called on him. Out of self-preservation, he chose dare. She merely challenged him to chug two shots of firewhisky without using his hands. Draco was only too happy to levitate his glass and tilt his head back, relieved to have gotten by so easily, even as his head swam from the alcohol.
A couple turns later, Lavender Brown called on Potter.
“Truth,” he chose, shifting in his seat.
“Who was the last person you kissed?”
A jolt hit Draco’s bloodstream. There were several moments of silence as Potter delayed answering. Their arms were fully touching now and Draco could almost feel him fighting the Veritaserum. Surely it was a softball of a question—he was with the Weasley girl, last Draco knew. Intrigued, he turned to peer at Potter, along with everyone else.
“Charlie Weasley,” he spat out at last.
The circle went dead quiet. There was a roaring in Draco’s head.
Suddenly, with a loud crash, both windows in the common room blew open at once and an angry gust of wind rushed into the room, putting out several floating candles. The clamor seemed to rouse everyone from the stunned silence.
“ What?” Weasley exclaimed, almost laughing in incredulity. Granger closed and latched the windows again with a flick of her wand, frowning at them before turning her attention back to Potter.
Draco’s pulse was beating heavily in his temples, his neck, his arms. His chest was tight.
“It was… over the summer,” said Potter, not looking at his friend. He was fiddling with his glass. “I… mentioned to Charlie that I might be, er,” Potter swallowed and his voice was quieter when he next spoke, “might be attracted to guys. He offered to help me… figure it out.”
“ And?” pressed Weasley, face heated. “What did you figure out? Does Ginny know? Does this mean you’re gay now?”
“No—I don’t know, Ron,” snapped Potter, now looking at Weasley—glaring at him, really. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now, okay? Leave it.”
They moved on, but the energy in the room had shifted. People were tense, tentative. The spirit had gone out of the game. A few rounds later, they called it quits and people started trickling back to bed. Draco was only half-aware of any of it. His thoughts felt muddled, his cheeks hot. He was grateful to slip back to his room, where he could clear his head in private. He needed sober-up potion, or a good night’s sleep. That was all.
The next morning at breakfast, the trio appeared to be on speaking terms, but even Draco could tell they were being careful with one another. He caught snatches of polite conversation drifting down toward his end of the table.
Across from him, Pansy leaned over the table. “Can you believe it?” she asked in a low voice. Pansy could be discrete...when she wanted to be. “You always expect something big to come out when you play with Veritaserum but blimey, I was not expecting that.”
Draco made a noncommittal noise.
“But hey,” she said, lowering her voice even further and smirking at him, “maybe it’s good news for you, huh?”
Pansy had this theory she’d nursed for years that Draco’s antagonistic obsession with Potter was misplaced attraction—a theory that had only gained traction in fourth year when Pansy kissed him after the Yule Ball and Draco was forced to explain that he was attracted exclusively to people with penises. Her excitement at discovering she’d had a gay best friend all along completely eclisped any disappointment she might’ve felt at being rejected. Draco was almost offended.
She was right, though he’d never admitted it to her. Only it wasn’t misplaced—it was intentionally redirected. Being attracted to Potter was hopeless, dangerous, pointless, pathetic, and terrifying, so Draco shoved it so far down that it sublimated into rivalry and derision. Nevermind that he still couldn’t leave Potter alone or get him out of his mind.
“Pansy,” Draco sighed, setting down a letter from his mother that he’d been reading. “I don’t know how to convince you that it is not a thing and therefore nothing is going to happen.”
Draco glanced down the table and caught Potter staring at him, eyes bright behind those dumb round glasses he’d never replaced, even though as far as Draco had heard he was every bit as wealthy as the Malfoys. The jagged white scar still stood out against his smooth brown skin, cutting through his right eyebrow. Caught, Draco held Potter’s gaze for a suspended moment until Potter nodded, a quick dip of his chin acknowledging Draco, acknowledging—something. A fizz of electricity zipped down Draco’s spine.
“Whatever you say, Draco,” Pansy sing-songed, lifting her teacup to her lips.
There was surprisingly little gossip about Potter in the following days. Draco wasn’t sure if it was a testament to people’s acceptance, to the fact that far more scandalous things had been said of Potter over the years, or simply that it just didn’t seem all that important anymore, in the grand scheme of things.
That changed on Friday morning.
Draco was minding his own business, absentmindedly eating his eggs on toast with Potion Master’s Weekly propped up in front of him, lazily flipping the pages with nonverbal magic so as to avoid setting down his toast. All of a sudden, he felt a change in the atmosphere sweep through the Great Hall as the noisy hum of indistinct chatter and the clinking of silverware gave way to hushed murmurs.
Draco looked up, scanning the room for the source of the disturbance. His eyes fell on Potter, who was at that moment crossing the Great Hall with Oliver Rivers, a nondescript Ravenclaw eighth year Draco couldn’t remember having met until this year. Just before turning back to his magazine, Draco’s eyes flicked downward, drawn by some magnetic impulse. Rivers and Potter were holding hands.
They were holding. fucking. hands.
Heat crawled up Draco’s neck at the same time that the enchanted ceiling, calm and sunny just moments before, crackled with several errant bolts of lightning that caused hair to singe on the heads of several members of the eighth year table—not that anyone noticed. The whispers and murmurs were getting louder the closer Potter and Rivers got to the eighth year table.
He glanced at Pansy. She mouthed, “Sorry, babe,” and gave him a pitying look.
Draco dropped his toast. He was suddenly nauseous, and felt sure he would vomit if he ate another bite.
“Mate,” said Blaise, who was sitting beside him. “Are you okay? You look really grey.”
“Don’t feel good,” Draco muttered. He pushed back from the table and strode away, passing Potter and Rivers without another look. He walked quickly from the Great Hall, heading back to the dormitory. A lie down before class and perhaps a quick shower to revive himself, he thought. He would be fine.
The first Hogsmeade visit took place on a chilly Saturday in late October. Eighth years were allowed to walk to Hogsmeade whenever they pleased, but the designated weekend made it something of an event and so every last one of them went.
Draco was walking with Pansy and Blaise. They were several paces behind Potter and Rivers, who were once again holding hands. Pansy wouldn’t stop casting him sympathetic looks that were, in Draco’s opinion, both highly conspicuous and highly irritating. He was relieved when they reached the village and everyone split off to go their separate ways.
Pansy dragged them to the new offshoot of Madam Malkin’s that had just opened up before term. She wanted to order new dress robes for an event she was attending with her parents in a few weeks. Browsing to entertain himself, Draco wound up buying a new scarf. It was a deep, midnight blue in a cashmere-alpaca blend that was irresistibly soft and warm to the touch. He wrapped it around his neck as he was leaving the shop.
“Well, don’t you look handsome,” said Pansy when she saw him. “That color makes you look very dramatic.”
They took their time meandering through the streets, dipping into stores here and there. Blaise had an incorrigible sweet tooth, so they had to spend 20 minutes in Honeydukes sampling everything that was new. After an hour of wandering, Pansy announced that she was desperate for a beverage, “something spicy and alcoholic that will warm me up, I can’t feel my bloody hands.” And so they found themselves at the Three Broomsticks.
The pub was full of students, warming the room with laughter and raucous conversation. Blaise was called over by Theodore Nott as soon as they walked in. “I’ll catch up with you guys later,” he said in parting.
“Oh, look,” said Pansy. “Granger’s just over there—I have a question for her about our Muggle Studies project. Come on, it’ll just take a moment.”
Pansy grabbed Draco’s sleeve and tugged him in the direction of Granger’s table before he could even process what was happening. Of course, she wasn’t there alone or even on a date with Weasley. Potter and Rivers were sitting with her too, the four of them looking awfully cozy.
When they reached the table, Pansy promptly sat down next to Granger and the two put their heads together and all but disappeared into conversation. Pansy’s burgeoning friendship with Granger was one of the more surprising things that had happened that term.
Draco was left hovering by the table until Weasley nudged the empty chair next to him so it bumped Draco’s leg.
“Quit hovering like a spook and sit down, Malfoy,” he said, sounding equal parts exasperated and resigned.
MadamRosmerta approached their table, putting coasters in front of Pansy and Draco. “What’ll you be drinking?” she asked.
“Ooh,” said Pansy, “I’ll take a mulled wine, please.”
Draco aimed a swift kick at her shin under the table to remind her that it was just going to take a moment .
“Draco, darling, don’t be rude,” she muttered through gritted teeth, hidden behind a pleasant smile.
Rosmerta raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.
“Firewhisky, neat.” If they were sticking around, he needed something strong.
“What have you done so far?” Granger asked when Rosmerta left.
“Stopped in Malkin’s for new robes,” said Pansy. “Draco got that gorgeous new scarf he’s wearing. Doesn’t it just make him look edible?”
Draco glared at her. Ron looked like he was trying to hold in a rude comment or perhaps trying not to spill his mouth vomit on the table. And Potter—he caught Potter just looking away as he turned his head, responding to something Rivers said to him.
Pansy launched into a full description of her new robes, which Draco frankly couldn’t imagine much interested Granger, but she was listening intently and asking questions, so what did he know? Beside him, Weasley, Potter, and Rivers were discussing the Canon’s prospects for the season.
Draco just listened, alternating between the two conversations he was stuck between, idly circling his fingertip around the rim of his glass.
After a while, Granger and Weasley got up to go settle their bill at the bar before walking back up to the castle for some study group Granger was hosting for first and second years. Rivers excused himself to say hello to some Ravenclaw seventh years. And Pansy, minx that she was, took one look at who remained and promptly announced she needed the loo. Draco doubted he would see her again for at least half an hour. He shot her an imploring look before she left but she just winked at him. He would get her back for this.
He and Potter were alone.
They sat in silence for a moment. And then Potter got up and scooted two chairs to the right so he was seated in front of Draco.
His pint glass was two-thirds empty, and judging by the glassware on the table and the warmth in his cheeks, it wasn’t his first. He looked relaxed and happy—two things Draco wasn’t used to Potter being in his presence. He felt off-kilter, unsure how to proceed.
“Love being able to have a proper drink at the weekend,” Potter said. “I know the novelty will wear off but damn, for now it feels good.”
“I suppose you Gyffindors are too noble to sneak spirits into school when it’s against the rules.”
“I wouldn’t say we have any particular respect for the rules,” Potter said, “but no, we never broke that one. I suppose it was open bar in the Slytherin common room? First years taking shots?”
Draco shrugged. “Most of us grew up having wine or sherry at formal dinners. It’s not much of a stretch to start swiping bottles from our parents’ cellars and transfiguring them to look like a hair potion. We’d never waste it on first years, though,” he added dryly.
Rosmerta appeared with another round for each of them. “Thanks,” said Potter, swallowing what remained in his glass before handing her the empty.
“I’m surprised you haven’t had anything to say about what happened in Truth or Dare.” Draco’s eyes jumped to Potter’s. He froze, unsure what to say. “The part where I confessed to kissing Charlie Weasley,” Potter clarified needlessly. “That I’m attracted to men.”
Draco swallowed a gulp of firewhiskey. “Why would I have anything to say about that?”
“You usually have something to say about most things I do.”
“Well,” stalled Draco. “I guess it feels a bit petty, after everything.” He paused. “And, frankly, it’s none of my business.”
“You’ve literally made fun of my dead parents,” Potter said. “I didn’t think anything was off limits.”
Draco watched to see if Potter seemed angry, but, amazingly, he almost seemed to be teasing.
“I’m trying to turn over a new leaf,” said Draco. “Maybe you haven’t noticed.”
Potter looked him straight in the eye. “I’ve noticed.”
Draco broke the eye contact and looked down into his drink. “Honestly,” he heard himself say— he blamed the firewhiskey, he really should have switched to beer, “I was surprised. I assumed you’d get married and become an official Weasley and have a litter of ginger babies.”
“Yeah, so did I,” said Potter.
“You’re not telling me she dumped you ?”
“But… if you’re gay, I mean..?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m not gay.” Potter cleared his throat. “I’m bisexual. And for another thing, this came before that.”
Draco was fairly burning with curiosity. He wanted to know how Potter went from picturing life and babies with Ginny to having a gay—no, bisexual—awakening. He wanted to know how Potter figured it out. If he’d kissed anyone besides Charlie Weasley and Rivers. If he’d shagged anyone.
Consumed by these thoughts, Draco forgot to respond. Perhaps misreading Draco’s silence, Potter continued, “It took me by surprise but it shouldn’t have done. In fairness to Ginny I was basically just going through the motions without realizing it. It was so comfortable, you know? The Weasleys are the closest thing I have to family, and Ginny felt like an extension of that. Anyway,” a dry laugh, “you don’t care about all this.”
“No...I do,” Draco said. “That must have been hard.”
“Oh,” said Potter. His eyes were wide.
There was silence between them again, but it wasn’t, for once, a tense one. A moment later, Draco heard himself say, unprompted, “I’m gay.”
Potter whipped his head up to look at Draco. “ Really?”
“Since when? I had no idea.”
“Well forever, obviously. You gotta work on that gaydar if you’re going to be queer, Potter. I don’t think I’m very subtle.”
“But what about Parkinson?” Potter glanced around the room as if she would appear when called, but Pansy had thoroughly disappeared herself.
“Just friends. I think she enjoys making it look like more. I don’t mind. I’m not exactly broadcasting it.”
“What does your father think about it? I can’t imagine he’s thrilled.”
“About me and Pansy?”
“No. About you being gay.”
“Ah. He doesn’t know. It was pretty easy to hide when there was a war on. Voldemort was good for that, at least.” Draco laughed, an empty sound. “You’re right, he wouldn’t approve. It’s mainly a lineage thing. You can’t pass on the Malfoy name if you’re not with a woman. Not going to worry about it now, since he’ll likely die in Azkaban.”
“And your mother?”
“I don’t think she’ll mind much, all things considered.”
“She doesn’t know?”
“I haven’t had a good reason to tell her.” Draco looked at Potter over the rim of his glass as he took a sip. He was staring at Draco, watching and listening intently. It was something to be the center of Potter’s focused attention. Intoxicating. It was making Draco chatty. Anything to keep Potter here, interested in him.
“I didn’t have to worry about that part,” he said. “You know, coming out to parents. The Weasleys already have Charlie out so I knew they wouldn’t care.”
“You hadn’t told Granger and Weasley yet,” Draco pointed out, “at the start of term.”
“Yeah. Well, it was fresh. I only kissed Charlie a couple days before school. I hadn’t really processed it all yet.”
“You were outed.” Despite his other feelings about the Truth or Dare revelation and what had followed, this simple fact burned under Draco’s skin. Everyone should be able to control how they revealed their identity.
“By myself, technically.”
“Under force of Veritaserum, technically.”
Potter smiled at Draco. “You’re right,” he said. “Wankers, all of them.”
“You’re not mad?”
Potter shrugged. “I was, at first. But I’m not ashamed about it and I was going to tell people eventually. So I’m not going to hold a grudge about it. I’ve dealt with worse. Oh—hey.”
Rivers rested his hands in the chair back next to Draco, leaning into Potter’s orbit. “You ready?” he asked.
Potter glanced at Draco. “Oh,” he said, “sure. Lemme just—” He took one last deep pull from his unfinished pint, then stood up to go.
“Um, see you round, Malfoy.”
Draco lifted his glass in acknowledgement.
What the fuck was that? Opening up to Potter about his sexuality? In public? With Potter’s boyfriend just tables away? Draco was losing his mind.
He waited for fifteen minutes for Pansy to reappear but eventually, growing impatient, decided to walk up to the castle by himself. He left a handful of coins on the table and exited the Three Broomsticks.
Wherever Potter and Rivers had intended to go, they hadn’t made it very far. When Draco rounded the corner to take a less-trafficked detour out of Hogsmeade, there they were, snogging against the side of a building. Rivers had Potter backed up against the bricks. He was slightly taller than Potter and using it to his advantage. Potter’s arms hung down by his sides, one hand lightly gripping Rivers’ cloak. He was loose and pliant, almost lazily accepting the lingering kisses Rivers was pressing to his mouth.
Draco felt a surge of emotion sweep through him as he watched Potter open for Rivers’ tongue, a potent mixture of jealousy and longing, so powerful he felt lightheaded with it.
Suddenly, though it was a cloudless day, a downpour opened up over the alleyway. Within seconds Draco was soaked. Potter and Rivers fared no different. The rain poured down on them and they separated, startled. Draco darted back around the corner before they could see him, leaning back against the building and taking deep breaths. Seconds later Potter and Rivers emerged from the alley with their robes pulled over their heads—idiots, clearly neither of them thought to do an impervius charm—and ran for cover, laughing and falling into each other. Draco burned.
They disappeared down a side street and Draco stood still, letting the rain soak him to the bone, not bothering with impervius for himself. After a few minutes, Draco’s emotions leveled out and he could think clearly again. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started.
Draco had caused the rain. He knew he had. It wasn’t the first time it had happened—that his emotions had caused minor magical weather events. It was a new thing, however. It had first happened over the summer.
He had been reading the Prophet in the garden at the Manor. There was a front page article about his father’s sentencing, accompanied by a photo in which Lucius—dressed in Azkaban’s finest—scowled and shrunk away from the camera. The article was a scathing diatribe against the Malfoy family. And all the worse because Draco could no longer refute most of it.
His anger had built as he read the article, until he was reading the final paragraph and hail started falling from what had been a sparsely clouded sky. He had run inside to escape the painful stings of hail hitting his skin and bouncing off the flagstones, leaving the paper on the table to get pelted.
There were other instances. Doors blowing open suddenly. Thunder claps with no sign of a storm. The sky over the Manor darkening with ominous clouds that weren’t reported elsewhere in Wiltshire.
Draco knew the sudden rainstorm that drenched Potter and Rivers was his fault. He just didn’t know why, or how. He didn’t know why these freak meteorological events had started happening around him, apparently triggered by his emotions. He didn’t know how to control them, and he certainly didn’t know how to stop them.
After the Hogsmeade trip, Potter and Rivers became a fixture in the eighth year common room. They were open about their relationship around the castle, but the common room was where they seemed to feel the most comfortable expressing it. They spent most evenings cuddled up on one of the couches, doing homework or chatting with Granger, Weasley, and the other assorted eighth years with whom they had become friendly.
Draco started spending even more time in his room. He had no desire to watch Potter and Rivers be cute with each other, especially since any time he did find himself trapped in the same space as them for an extended period of time, something funny would happen with the weather. Too many more incidents and someone was bound to notice.
There was already the time when Draco had been studying with Pansy when Potter and Rivers has shown up. He didn’t want to be conspicuous by excusing himself right away—Pansy was far too shrewd for him to get away with that—so he tried to ignore them and focus on his essay. But he couldn’t help glancing over at them intermittently.
Rivers sprawled out on one of the couches and nestled his head in Potter’s lap, gazing up at him with a fond expression that curdled in Draco’s stomach. While Draco fumed from across the room, a sudden strong gust of wind swooped down the chimney and extinguished the fire around which multiple students were lounging. As others rushed to the fireplace to investigate, Draco quickly packed up his bag and high-tailed it to his room.
Nothing good came of him spending time in the common room. But outside the dormitory wasn’t safe either.
In mid-November, they woke up to find the first snowfall of the season had delivered six inches of gleaming powder to the Hogwarts grounds. It was a Saturday, so there were no classes to hold them back and therefore no hope of anyone doing anything productive.
The eighth years had gathered in the common room that morning by unspoken consensus, lounging around and enjoying the pastries and tea the Room had kindly provided.
Seamus was the one to instigate the snowball fight, sometime late morning when the tea and sugar was starting to wake people up. Draco still isn’t sure how he got roped into participating, but he knows Blaise was somehow responsible.
Seamus, Dean, Blaise, Pansy, and Malfoy teamed up against Potter, Rivers, Longbottom, Granger, and Weasley. The fight went on for almost an hour and heated up after someone—Draco suspected Granger, she had an inventive nasty streak that no one ever noticed because she was so brainy—started charming the snowballs to fly on their own. The charmed snowballs had much greater accuracy and gave new stakes to the fight.
The fight didn’t come to an end as much as it petered out. People got tired and started wandering off to build snowmen and slide gracelessly around on the frozen lake. Brushing snow off his coat and pointing a charm down his back to dry the snow that had slipped in and melted there, Draco noticed Potter and Rivers wander off together.
They dropped into the snow side by side and started making snow angels. Forgetting that he was standing out in the open, with no pretence to be staring, Draco watched as Rivers rolled over toward Potter. He playfully pretended to stuff snow down Potter’s coat front, but eventually stilled to hover over him and then Potter was pulling him down and they were kissing.
Draco felt his face heating and turned away, trying to distract himself. He looked for Pansy, but his mind was still replaying the image of Potter snogging Rivers in the snow. He wasn’t really seeing anything in front of him.
Suddenly, there were shouts behind him, coming from where Potter and Rivers were. He turned around slowly, knowing even as he did so that he’d caused something to happen. Rivers had stood up and was being pelted with snowballs, one after the other, rising up out of the snow just a few feet away from him. There was no visible assailant.
“Who’s doing this?” Rivers yelled.
Potter was sitting up in the snow, cracking up as one snowball hit Rivers square in the face and exploded, snow covering his hair, his shoulders, his entire face.
Rivers rounded on Potter. “It’s not funny, Harry! That hurt.”
Potter didn’t seem to be able to control himself. Their predicament was attracting the attention of the other eighth years now, and Potter wasn’t the only one laughing. Finnegan and Thomas were also exchanging sniggers, and Weasley looked delighted.
“The snowball fight is over,” said Rivers. “Whoever’s doing this, cut it out!” He started jogging in circles trying to dodge the snowballs, but they followed him with the persistence of a rogue bludger.
“Maybe you have to surrender!” called Finnegan. “Got a hankie on you?”
And still the snowballs kept coming. Draco was forcing himself to take slow, measured breaths, trying to calm down without drawing attention to himself, but as more and more people got involved it was harder to do.
“Alright, that’s enough,” said Granger, who had initially looked equal parts impressed and amused by the snowball siege, but now had a disapproving, prissy air. “You’ve had your fun now, whoever you are.”
Potter rose and brushed the snow off him, extending his arm toward Rivers as though to help. Rivers jerked away from his touch.
The mood among the eighth years was turning. They were starting to get annoyed. Draco felt desperate. He didn’t know how to stop the onslaught, and he wasn’t getting any calmer. He could feel his breath picking up, and his face was flushed from the stress.
And then Potter looked right at him, stared at him with those intense green eyes. And though there was no way he could, Draco felt convinced in that moment that Potter knew. Knew everything. Knew Draco was behind the snowballs. Knew Draco was jealous. Knew Draco was the reason for every strange magical mishap that had befallen him and Rivers in the past few weeks.
There was nothing else for it. Draco fled.
He ran toward the castle, hoping sheer distance alone would cause whatever emotion-driven magic was responsible for the snowball siege to break. Indoors, he went straight to the dormitory. It was lunch soon, so he assumed he could safely hide out for at least an hour. He took along, hot shower, changed into his softest joggers, and locked himself in his room.
A couple hours later, Pansy let herself in. Quietly, for once. She hopped up onto Draco’s mattress and sat cross-legged, facing Draco with her chin her hands.
“So. What the hell was that about?” she asked.
Draco thought briefly about playing dumb, but knew it would only forestall the inevitable.
He sighed. “I think I’m… causing little weather events. Accidentally.”
Pansy’s brow furrowed. “But that kind of thing stops happening once you learn to control your magic.”
“I’ve never heard of it happening to someone of age.”
“I know! Pansy, believe me, I know. But there have been too many coincidences. There’s no other explanation. And it’s always happened when I’ve been… emotional.”
“Always happened?” she repeated.
“It’s been happening since the summer.” Draco sighed again. He’d been hoping he could avoid ever having this conversation, hoped the incidents would just… stop.
“Hm.” Pansy looked thoughtful. She slid off the bed and walked over to Draco’s mirror, leaning in to inspect her face carefully. She smoothed her eyebrows with her fingertips. She always insisted that gazing at her reflection helped her think, that it was meditative. Draco had long since learned not to argue this point with her.
“Maybe you’re repressing something,” she said at last, turning back to Draco and leaning against his dresser, arms crossed. “And this is your magic’s way of trying to get out.”
Draco swallowed. “We just survived a war, Pansy. We’re all repressing things.”
“Yeah.” Pansy shrugged. “Doesn’t mean you’re not processing in your own way. Or maybe it’s not something to do with the war. What else are you hiding, Draco?” she asked, raising her eyebrows suggestively.
Draco thought about the hot jealousy that bubbled up in his stomach and licked through his veins every time he saw Potter and Rivers together.
“I,” he cleared his throat. “I might fancy Potter.”
Pansy’s concerned expression transformed to jubilant in a split second. “Aha!” she exclaimed. “What have I been telling you for years?”
Draco rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t argue.
“Well there you go. There’s your connection. You’re repressing your feelings about Potter, and he’s with somebody else, and your magic is acting out.”
Draco thought about how the incidents had started over the summer. How many hours he had spent reading articles about Potter during his self-imposed exile in the Manor, under the guise of “staying informed.” How he hadn’t felt the same about Potter since the prick had saved him from the fiendfyre, the heat of the roaring flames making Draco’s skin tight and raw but the solid form of Potter’s body beneath Draco’s arms as he held on for dear life somehow reassuring, grounding. How Potter had attended his mother’s and his trials. How he’d spoken of their bravery in pivotal moments, explaining that his defeat of the Dark Lord would not have been possible without their assistance. Describing someone Draco didn’t recognize as himself.
“I think the solution should be obvious,” Pansy interrupted his thoughts.
“You have to tell him how you feel.”
Draco’s stomach twisted and his face heated. “I can’t do that,” he snapped.
“He’s taken, for one.”
Pansy scoffed. “That milquetoast Rivers? He won’t keep Potter interested for five more minutes. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long.”
“It’s only been a couple of weeks.”
“Exactly. D’you know I barely recognized him when he showed up this year? And supposedly we’ve gone to school together for seven years. No fucking way he keeps a hothead like Potter’s attention for long. You, on the other hand…”
Draco’s heart thudded in his chest. This was all hypothetical, and yet Pansy had always been uncannily good at reading people. Draco put a lot of stock in her judgment.
“You’ve always gotten under his skin,” she finished. “And he under yours. I’ve been saying it for years,” she added, as though Draco were spectacularly dim to be just now catching on. Maybe he was.
The next day, Draco was walking back from the library, taking a circuitous route as he often did to avoid the more highly trafficked passages, when he came across Potter sitting against the wall in an empty corridor. His legs were pulled up and had a textbook open across his knees.
Draco stopped short. He was just about to turn and sneak off when Potter suddenly looked up and pinned Draco in place with his gaze.
“Malfoy,” he said, with a faint tone of surprise. He ruffled a hand through the back of his hair.
“What are you doing?”
Draco walked a few steps closer. “Walking back to the dorm,” he said.
“Bit of a backwards way to go,” Potter pointed out.
“I prefer to avoid the crowds.”
“Ah,” Potter said, as though this were something he could relate to.
“Where’s your other half?”
“Who?” Potter looked confused.
“Oh.” Potter laughed, a sarcastic sound. He looked down and ran a restless hand through his hair. “Not sure. We’re…” he trailed off. And though Draco was desperate to hear the end of that sentence, he didn’t want to appear interested, so he let it go without comment.
Draco just looked at Potter for a moment, aware that it was strange behavior for him, but feeling somehow detached from the actuality of it. Potter gazed calmly back, seeming curious but patient, as though waiting for Draco’s next move.
“What do you even see in him?” Draco heard himself say.
This got Potter’s attention. He stared at Draco for a long moment. “What do you care?” he said finally, rising to his feet.
“I don’t,” said DRaco, making his voice as distant as possible but falling far short. Pansy’s comments were ringing in his ears. “He just seems a bit…bland, for you.”
“Given a lot of thought to my type, have you Malfoy?”
“Hardly. But since you insist on parading around, one is forced to form opinions.”
“Parading around?” Potter, laughed. His eyes never left Draco’s face and a prickling heat was gathering under Draco’s skin, spreading through his veins. “Is that what you call it?”
“I believe I just did.”
“What’s your problem with Oliver, anyway?”
Draco stepped closer. He felt drawn in by some magnetic field that emanated from Potter, a gravitational pull he’d never been able to resist, that had kept him in Potter’s orbit for years, circling ever closer on an inevitable path toward collision.
“I don’t have a problem with Rivers,” he said in a low voice. “I have a problem with you.”
Potter swallowed. This close, his eyes looked slightly magnified by the ends of his glasses.
Draco stepped fully into Potter’s space, crowding him back against the wall. He pushed his palm against the stone above Potter’s head and leaned in to speak into Potter’s ear. He felt possessed.
“Does he push your buttons, Potter?” His breath brushed across Potter’s neck. Their bodies were flush together, just robes between them, and yet Potter wasn’t pushing him away. “Does he make your blood boil? Can you honestly tell me he arouses…strong feelings?”
Draco heard a small sound that could be a gasp. The flats of Potter’s hands came to rest on Draco’s chest as though he were going to push him away, but then they twisted into the fabric, gripping tight enough to pull his robes taught.
Potter’s hair smelled good, Draco discovered. Clean and light like fresh air. He turned to get a better whiff and his lips brushed across the skin of Potter’s ear. He was close enough that he felt a small shiver go through Potter’s body. It sent the hairs on his own skin standing on end.
“Hermione thinks you’re behind all these strange weather events,” Potter said, a non sequitur. His voice was low, quiet and husky, which Draco’s body processed with enthusiasm. He felt his prick—which had been semi-hard since the moment his hand hit the wall behind Potter’s head—fatten in interest, mercifully hidden by layers of robes and trousers. But the words themselves woke him up as if out of stupor. He stepped back abruptly.
“What?” his voice was biting.
Potter’s head was still tipped back against the wall, his throat bared. The white of his scar stood out even in the low lighting of the corridor.
“She’s perceptive, you know. She’s noticed you’re always around when they happen, and you always seem…worked up.”
Draco sneered. “And what am I supposed to be worked up about, if she has it all figured out?”
“You tell me, Malfoy.” Potter’s gaze was challenging.
Draco’s mouth flattened into a line. “You’re out of luck. I have nothing to tell.”
“If you say so.”
Draco felt a small breeze blowing around his ankles and decided it was time to leave.
“Whatever, Potter,” he said, turning on his heel and striding back the way he came. “Waste your time if you want, it’s nothing to me,” he added without looking back. He felt the breeze die out behind him, before it could grow into anything else.
Draco wasn’t avoiding Potter after their encounter in the corridor. It just so happened that his usual habits kept him conveniently out of Potter’s path. He attended meals, he attended classes, and otherwise he kept to himself, mostly in his room.
On a Wednesday evening, two weeks after their encounter, Draco was exiting the Great Hall after lunch when someone came up behind him and spoke in an undertone into his ear.
“Meet me on the West Tower. 9 o’clock.”
As quick as Draco could turn to look at the speaker, Potter was already striding away, hurrying to catch up with Granger and Weasley.
Draco couldn’t concentrate in any of his afternoon classes and spent them cursing Potter for distracting him even when he wasn’t present. He couldn’t help obsessively wondering why Potter wanted to meet him on top of a tower so late at night, wondering what he was planning to do, what trick he would play. Draco spent the afternoon listening to the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears. The sounds of professors and fellow students talking were muffled, impossibly distant compared to the turmoil of anticipation and trepidation swirling around inside him.
He ate early that evening, slipping back to the dormitory before Pansy and Blaise had even shown up. He found himself fixing his hair in his mirror before sneaking out, cursing himself all the while for being a bloody fool.
Draco arrived first to the tower. He leaned against the ramparts, gazing out at the dark grounds. The forest line was just discernible in the distance, the lights of Hogsmeade twinkling invitingly off to the right.
“Malfoy.” Potter’s greeting was quiet but rang through the night. Draco spun around.
“What do you want, Potter?”
Potter approached him, stopping two feet away. “I have a hypothesis and I want to test it.”
“And what’s that?” Draco already felt wrong-footed.
Potter peered at him through the dark, his face unreadable and mostly in shadow. “Do you want to know how Oliver and I got together?” he asked, ignoring Draco’s question.
Again, Potter ignored him. “He found me alone two days after Truth or Dare,” Potter said. “Told me he came out to his family over the summer, but had never had a boyfriend. He offered that we could…practice, with each other.”
Draco’s mouth twisted into a grimace. He didn’t want to hear this. His pulse was picking up in an angry drumbeat.
“So you’re a romantic opportunist,” Draco said in a tone of forced dismissiveness, “charming.”
Potter carried on. “We hooked up behind the dragon tapestry on the fourth floor. He’d never given head before—that was obvious—but he got the job done.”
A cold wind was blowing across the ramparts, whipping Draco’s cloak around him. Tendrils of black hair were being pulled into Potter’s eyes.
“We hooked up a few more times after that, and eventually he asked me to go public, to be boyfriends.” Potter paused. “I said yes. Why not?”
Draco couldn’t think of a reasonable answer.
Potter stepped closer, so close now Draco could almost feel his body heat on the chilly tower. “A couple weeks ago,” he said in a low tone, “I let him fuck me.”
The harsh wind gave way to cold sleet, pouring down on them at a sharp angle, piercing their skin like icy pellets. It was horrible weather. Yet far from being disgruntled by getting soaked to the skin by frigid rain, Potter looked strangely triumphant.
“Why are you telling me this, Potter?” Draco spat. His voice shook.
“It was a test, Malfoy. I wanted to get you worked up to prove you’re behind all these strange weather events. You know what else Hermione noticed?”
“They always happen when Oliver and I are present.”
“And so what?”
Draco pulled his cloak tight around his body. Potter’s unruly hair was plastered to his face and water was dripping from his glasses, pooling in the crease between his lips. Draco shook his head. He shouldn’t be staring at Potter’s lips.
“What do you want from me?” Draco’s voice came out hoarse, raw.
“I want you do admit that this,” Harry gestured around them, “is your doing. And I want you to tell me why Oliver and I bother you so much.”
“It’s not my fault!” Draco shouted. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was more controlled. “I’m not doing it on purpose—I don’t know how to control it.”
Potter nodded. “Your emotions are getting the better of you.”
“What emotions?” Draco scoffed. “Do you presume to think you and Rivers matter enough to me to make me emotional? ”
“All the evidence suggests so.”
Draco didn’t speak, just looked at his feet and shook his head.
“I think it bothers you, seeing us together,” said Potter. “Or is it seeing me with him that bothers you?”
Draco’s heart tensed in his chest. His breathing was shallow. When did Potter become so fucking observant?
“You didn’t seem to mind much when I was dating Ginny, or Cho. So it’s Rivers specifically you don’t like seeing me with, isn’t it?” Potter pressed. “You don’t like seeing me with another man. You don’t like the idea of us fucking—of him fucking me.”
Potter was relentless. Draco closed his eyes, bit his lip, tried to keep himself under control.
“Why is that, Malfoy?”
He was too close, his voice too low and rough, suggestive.
“What do you want me to say? That I fancy you? Is that what you want to hear? Fine. I fucking fancy you, okay, Potter!” Draco’s voice came out like a strangled shout. But, instantly, the sleet stopped. The wind died down.
“Fuck,” Draco muttered, looking at the ground to avoid seeing the expression on Potter’s face. He waited for the triumphant laugh, for the mocking to start.
Instead, Potter said, “Then you should know something else. I broke up with him.”
Draco looked up, at that. Potter was gazing at him with a carefully neutral expression, head tilted.
“What?” Draco asked, stupidly. “When? Why?”
“It’s like you said,” Potter shrugged. “He didn’t get under my skin.”
Draco’s heartbeat picked up, like it knew something he didn’t. “What are you saying, Potter?”
“I’m saying you were right. I should be with someone who riles me up.” Potter’s eyes dropped to Draco’s mouth. “Someone who makes me actually fucking feel something.”
“And,” Draco licked his lips, “you think you’ve found someone like that?”
“Don’t play the idiot.” Potter was moving even closer, leaning up on his toes. “It doesn’t suit you.”
With that, Potter pressed a kiss to Draco’s lips that was as shocking in its softness as it was in the fact that it was actually happening.
Draco heard himself make a surprised, pleased sound, and then he was gripping Potter by the neck and deepening the kiss.
Potter’s hands came around the small of his back and held him close. Draco could feel the lean lines of Potter’s wiry body, the solidness of him, the lanky muscles under his skin.
Potter was a good kisser. Fuck, he was a great kisser. He kissed like he actually cared about you, like you were an object of admiration as well as desire, something to be cherished and devoured. Even Draco. Gently, giving Draco plenty of opportunity to stop him, Potter slid his tongue against the seam of Draco’s lips and pressed into his mouth. It was heady, it was unlike any kiss Draco had ever experienced, it made his head spin.
Eventually, Potter broke free of Draco’s mouth and moved south, his lips leaving a damp trail against Draco’s skin, pressing kisses haphazardly down his jaw and onto his neck until Potter was nuzzling behind his ear. Draco panted over Potter’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath.
“We should go inside,” he said.
Potter stilled. “You want to stop?”
“ No ,” swore Draco. “Merlin, no. It’s just a bit wet out here. I thought we might be more comfortable somewhere drier.”
Draco could feel Potter’s smile against his neck. It gave him butterflies.
“You could…come to my room. I have a fireplace.”
Potter nipped Draco’s earlobe. Draco inhaled sharply. “Okay,” Potter said. “You go down first and I’ll follow in a bit.”
Draco could only nod. He sunk his hands into Potter’s hair and tilted his head back, pressing one last kiss to his soft pink mouth, lips shiny with their spit. His prick may have twitched at that. Fuck. If he thought pining after Potter was bad, getting involved with him was going to be a whole new kind of torture.
This time when Potter knocked on his door, Draco was ready for him. He’d been lounging in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, bouncing impatiently. He jumped up when Potter knocked and opened it with a flick of his wand. Potter stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Draco heard the click of the lock.
For a moment, they stood at opposite ends of the room, just staring at each other. And then, as if they’d been released from a full-body bind at the same time, they lunged forward and crashed into each other.
Draco’s hands cupped behind Potter’s head, sprawled out across his neck. Potter’s skin felt hot, almost feverish, as their lips met again and Potter opened for Draco’s tongue. Potter’s hands slid down Draco’s back. He yanked Draco’s shirt out of his trousers and snuck his hands under the hem, finding bare skin. Draco shivered, though Potter’s hands were warm and gentle. Potter tugged Draco’s hips forward so their hips were flushed together and fuck , there it was, incontrovertible proof that Potter was aroused, pressing against Draco’s hipbone.
With a growling sound Draco had never heard himself make before, he spun Potter around walked them toward the bed. When Potter’s legs bumped against it, Draco pushed him backward so he fell onto the mattress, and then Draco climbed up after him, propped up on his arms and hovering over Potter’s body.
What a sight it was. Draco’s breath caught his throat just looking at him. Potter’s green eyes were hazy, pupils blown wide and dark. His mouth gaped slightly open, lips plump and inviting. There was a flush reddening his cheeks. He looked debauched and they hadn’t even touched each other yet.
“Fuck, Potter,” Draco muttered. “When did you get so fucking fit?”
Potter smiled and lifted his hips up to grind against Draco’s, reminding him that they had better things to do than for Draco to stare at Potter like some hopeless twat.
Draco grabbed Potter’s wrists and moved them above his head, restraining him as he bent down to suck on the skin of Potter’s neck. He moved along the underside of Potter’s jaw, relishing the soft panting he could feel puffing against his hair and cheek.
He trailed down to Potter’s collarbone, and then his shirt was in the way, so he let go of Potter’s wrists to start unbuttoning it. He got impatient with several buttons left and yanked it the rest of the way, absently hearing a couple buttons pop of the shirt and go flying. He spread the shirt open and sat back on his heels, staring at Potter’s naked chest.
He’d seen it before in the Quidditch locker room of course, but never like this. Never for his eyes only. Never for him to admire and to—touch, if he wanted to. Potter’s stomach was flat, leanly muscled, the brown skin smooth and soft with a dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband that made Draco feel dizzy. His nipples were a dusty rose color. Draco leaned down to flick one of them with his tongue, feeling it harden in response. He sucked on it, gently.
Potter seemed to remember then that he had autonomy. He sat up, Draco sliding into his lap. “You’re wearing too much,” he said, staring at Draco expectantly, waiting for him to do something about it.
Draco stripped his shirt off.
“Better,” said Potter, planting a kiss to Draco’s breastbone. Draco slid his hands into Potter’s thick hair, clutching the strands between his fingers. The firm bulge of Potter’s cock was pressed against Draco’s and he couldn’t help but start mindlessly grinding against it. Potter caught his lips in a hot kiss, all open mouths and slick tongues. And then he tipped them over, muscles in his shoulders tensing under Draco’s hands, so Draco was on his back against the pillows.
Potter slid a hand down from Draco’s chest to palm his cock and Draco bucked into it. “Fuck, Potter.”
Potter ghosted his palm along the length of Draco’s cock, teasing him until he reached the waistband of Draco’s trousers.
“Take them off,” demanded Draco.
With one hand, Potter popped the button and slid the zipper down. He started trying to pull them off but got stuck on the curve of Draco’s arse so Draco’s hands joined him and together they pulled his trousers down and then off, chucking them to the floor. Draco’s freed cock bobbed against his stomach, leaking precome onto his skin.
Potter stared at it, licking his lips. And for a moment, Draco felt paralyzed by the weight in that look, felt it fill his bones with a desire that made him go weak against the sheets. Potter detached his gaze from Draco’s cock and looked him in the eyes. “Can I suck you?” he asked.
“Fuck, yes, of course, yes,” Draco babbled.
Potter slid down his body until his mouth hovered over Draco’s cock. Draco could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin and the sensation made him harden even more, his cock twitching. Potter pressed an open-mouthed kiss to each of his balls, and then licked a long stripe up Draco’s cock to the head. He traced the lip with the tip of his tongue and then sucked it into his mouth. Draco’s eyes fell shut and he gripped Potter’s hair as his cock slipped into the damp heat of Potter’s mouth.
Potter sucked at the head while his fingers nimbly played with Draco’s balls, and then he gripped Draco’s cock by the base and took more of Draco into his mouth, sliding down to meet his hand. He fell into a rhythm then, bobbing up and down on Draco’s cock, his tongue pressed flat to the sensitive vein on the underside. Pleasure tingled in the arches of Draco’s feet, under his scalp, through his bloodstream. He felt his fingers going numb, as though all his blood supply was being redirected to his cock.
“Stop,” he said, when he knew he had only seconds left. Potter pulled off his cock with a wet pop that might’ve made Draco come from that sound alone. His lips were swollen and red and Draco couldn’t help but kiss him messily, using it as leverage to flip Potter over on the bed. He tugged at Potter’s waistband and Potter complied, pulling his trousers off and dropping them on the floor next to Draco’s.
Draco slid a hand down Potter’s stomach, savoring the way the muscles clenched and fluttered under his fingers. He gripped Potter’s cock loosely in his fist and wanked him slowly, feeling him stiffen further under his fingers. Then he slid up Potter’s body until his cock bumped Potter’s, the rough glide of skin against skin causing a maddening friction. He conjured lube and used it to slick them both up, and then he took both their cocks in his hand and began to wank them in earnest, fist sliding over the slick lube. Potter was moaning, a rough drawn out sound that was making Draco lightheaded. Draco pressed a kiss to Potter’s open mouth and felt the moans vibrate against his lips. Moments later he was coming with a groan, splurting across his fist and Potter’s chest.
“Fuck, that was hot,” whispered Potter, eyes wide.
Draco panted into Potter’s neck. When he caught his breath, he released their cocks and slid a finger down to Potter’s perineum and beyond, to the hot, tight hole hiding between Potter’s arse cheeks. He massaged around it and then pressed gently inside. Potter arched at the sensation, gasping appreciatively.
“I want to fuck you, Potter,” he said. “Not today, but soon.”
Potter’s voice was breathy but he fired back, “You can’t stand that Rivers has that claim on me, can you? You need to take it for yourself.”
Draco used his free hand to yank Potter’s head back by the hair, forcing him to look up at Draco.
“I never want to hear you say that name again when we’re in bed together,” he growled. “Do you understand me?”
Potter nodded, and Draco saw the tendons in his neck contract as he swallowed.
Draco continued to fuck his finger slowly in and out of Potter’s hole while he lowered his mouth to Potter’s cock. He gripped the base with one hand and guided the tip into his mouth, sucking on the head until he could feel tremors running through Potter’s body, wanking up and down the shaft. Then in one smooth motion he took Potter’s whole cock down his throat.
“Fuck, Malfoy, I’m close, I’m—”
Instead of removing his mouth from Potter’s cock, Draco hollowed his cheeks and sucked. Potter came with a shout, shooting come down Draco’s throat. Draco let it fill his mouth, swallowing what he could while some escaped his lips and smeared on Potter’s cock. He licked it off before propping himself up on his hands to crawl back up Potter’s body.
Potter’s eyes were half-lidded and drowsy as Draco collapsed next to him. He curled up next to Potter’s warmth, letting his leg fall into the space between Potter’s thighs, arm resting on his chest—and Potter allowed it . Draco was so comfortable and sated that he felt himself drifting off. But just as he was on the brink of sleep, Potter gently pushed him off and sat up. He reached for his trousers and pulled them back on before starting to do up the buttons of his shirt, which had never made it fully off his body.
“You don’t have to go,” Draco said, his voice quiet. “You can sleep here, if you want.”
Potter gave him warm, cheeky grin, hair mussed from Draco’s hands and a love bite blooming just above his collarbone. “We’ll work up to it.”