Harry woke with a slight start to realise he’s being prodded and poked at; cool fingers gently pressed into his right flank and Madam Pomfrey nodded to herself.
“Well, Potter,” she said softly, “looks like your rib has mended and set already – still a little fragile though. You will experience some soreness for another day or two – I’ll give you some pain potions to keep on hand for that, and that bruise will yellow and fade out eventually, but other than that you’re perfectly alright now.”
“Great,” Harry croaked, beginning to sit up and trying to mask the involuntary wince at the throbbing in his side. “I’ll be getting back to the dorms then?”
Pomfrey frowned as she pointedly pushed him back onto the pillows. “Don’t be ridiculous, boy. You’re to stay here and sleep off another dose of this.” She held up a vial of the same sickly yellow potion Harry had downed along with a goblet of pumpkin juice when he’d been brought in earlier that evening with a cracked rib, courtesy a sneaky Bludger to his chest during casual-Quidditch.
“Ugh.” Harry barely had a second to open his mouth before she was unceremoniously dumping the contents of the vial into it. Harry swallowed hurriedly, the potion burning its way down his oesophagus, and spluttered out a series of coughs as he half-sat up and leaned his weight on his left arm – it hurt a little to move his right – and accepted the proffered goblet.
It turned out to be Butterbeer and Harry chugged it gratefully, his throat feeling rough and scratchy. The potion was already taking effect; his eyes felt heavy and the dull throb in his side felt muted as he lay back down with a soft sigh, drawing the covers up and turning onto his uninjured side, curling up as much as his ribs allowed him to, mumbling out a reply to Pomfrey’s whispered goodnight, Potter over his shoulder.
The hospital wing was dark and pleasantly cool and most of the beds seemed empty except for the one beside Harry’s own, its curtains firmly shut all around. Sleep took over effortlessly and Harry sighed again as he let it, blinkingly slowly as he watched the blurred form of Madam Pomfrey bustle over to his neighbour’s bed from the other side. He heard the rustle of the curtains being drawn aside and then Pomfrey spoke softly.
“Are you any better? Don’t need another dose of pain potions, then? Can you flex your fingers for me? That’s it... Good. I’ll be right there in my quarters if you need me. Goodnight.”
Harry’s mind was blissfully blank by the time he heard the curtains being pulled shut again, right before the room faded out and he was fast asleep.
He woke with his mouth, tongue and throat parched so dry that his attempt to swallow through it was painful. The bedside table beside his own bed was strewn with his wand, his glasses and the clothes he’d been wearing before he’d changed into the pyjamas he’d been handed; the nightstand beside his neighbour’s bed however, boasted a blue ceramic jug and a tall glass.
Shoving his glasses on and swinging his legs off the bed (and promptly stumbling as the covers tangled around one ankle), Harry tripped over and lifted the little lid off quietly, suddenly aware of the snuffling breaths being drawn by the occupant of the closed-off bed.
He drank deeply, downing two glassfuls before pouring himself a third. Just as he threw another glance at the gauzy curtains that were drawn, he heard it – a soft, breathy little sound.
He froze, wondering if the student was in pain and too weak to call out properly for help and whether he ought to go wake Pomfrey.
But then the sound came again, slightly louder, and this time it was a pronounced moan – the kind of moan that can only be explained when--
Eyes widening, Harry turned towards the bed, his feet carrying him forward without his own conscious volition, the perverted need to know persistently jabbing at his insides.
Still holding the glass of water between his thumb and middle finger, he lifted his hand and let his little finger slip into the gap between the curtains and twitched it open soundlessly, holding his breath as he peered inside, squinting through the darkness.
Head thrown back, white gold hair spread out across the pillow, Adam’s apple bobbing in the long neck, thin chest heaving – eyes still shut; skinny limbs shifting restless in his sleep--
Draco Malfoy, apparently still asleep, was (presumably) experiencing a wet dream as Harry stood and watched.
And watched—when Malfoy’s mouth trembled open and he let out another tremulous little moan, louder than before. Loud enough to startle Harry into jumping where he stood, the glass of water slipping out his grasp and toppling right onto Malfoy’s chest.
With a loud gasp that made Harry shush him in panic, Malfoy sat up, eyes wild as he looked around in a daze, shivering as the water soaked him right through his thin hospital issued pyjama shirt.
“Shit!” Harry scrabbled for the glass even though it was fucking pointless now. “Sorry—I’m sorry!” He nearly threw the glass back onto the bedside table, coming close to knocking the little lamp right off as he hurried to turn it on.
Malfoy stared up at him, blinking through the sudden burst of yellow light, panting noisily through his mouth as he lifted one hand, heavily bandaged from wrist to finger tips, to brush some hair off his face. Harry then noticed that his other hand too was similarly bound, and felt a random rush of sympathy.
“What the hell happened to you?” Harry asked, regretting it instantly when Malfoy’s lips twisted as he finally looked down at his soaked self.
“Some idiot upended a fucking glass of water on me while I was asleep.” Malfoy glared, his bound hands resting awkwardly in his lap as he mentally stabbed Harry in the neck. “What the fuck, Potter? Is this some new form of bullying?”
“I didn’t—When have I ever bullied you?!” Harry scowled.
“Oh please, it was only a matter of time before you joined in with the others,” Malfoy snapped, clumsily plucking at his shirt with two fingers.
“Joined in? None of the other Eighth Years bully you either, as far as I know.”
“Shut your fucking face, Potter,” Malfoy said, suddenly sounding weary, “And pass me my wand so I can spell this dry.” He began pawing at the buttons on his shirt, the inch-thick bandages not helping in any way as he attempted to undress.
“I could spell it dry for you.” Harry’s mouth was suddenly parched again; Malfoy’s nipples were nearly abnormally pink – bright enough that Harry could see clearly through the flimsy cotton.
“That would be—thank you,” Mafoy mumbled, managing to yank one button free. “Just wait until I get it off though.”
“Yeah.” Harry licked his lips slowly, staring at the way the wet cloth clung to Malfoy’s body, imagining what it would be like to peel the material off him.
“Need some help with that?” Harry asked casually, hoping to Merlin he didn’t sound like the pervert he was being.
“I’m fine,” Malfoy grit out, fumbling unsuccessfully with the next button.
Harry sighed. “Malfoy, what’s the big deal?” Unable to believe his own temerity, Harry reached forward and gently pushed aside Malfoy’s injured hands. “Honestly,” he said softly, shaking his head as he began undoing the buttons, his knuckles grazing the damp skin of Malfoy’s chest as he worked the shirt open.
His cock was half-hard.
Malfoy was pink in the face from what Harry could make out in the soft light from the lamp. He blinked down at Harry’s hands working open his buttons and Harry suddenly had the urge to burst into hysterical laughter. He was undressing Draco Malfoy in the dead of night and was sort of getting off on it.
“There,” Harry said softly, pushing free the last button. Malfoy sighed through his nostrils as he pushed the shirt open wider; Harry inhaled sharply and Malfoy started, looking up at Harry with a little frown, noting his expression of horror as he took in the sight of Malfoy’s chest, and then quickly pulling his shirt closed once more.
“On second thought, Potter,” Malfoy said primly. “I can do it. Could you hand me my wand, please?”
“I never realised--” Harry fell silent when Malfoy threw him a quelling look that very clearly said, don’t push it.
Malfoy’s fingers scrabbled over his wand on the bedside table, the thin length of wood slipping out of his grasp repeatedly. Harry could see the muscles in Malfoy’s jaw twitching as he grit his teeth in frustration.
“Here.” Harry picked up the length of hawthorn and saw the way Malfoy’s eyes widened momentarily – as if he fully expected Harry to run off with it again.
Harry rolled his eyes pointedly. “It’s your fucking wand, Malfoy, I know that. It’s why I returned it in the first place, yeah?” He sat down on the edge of the bed, next to Malfoy’s hip, and indicated with a lift of his chin that Malfoy should get his shirt off. “I’m just using it for a second because I don’t want to go all the way there to get mine.”
“You could just Summon it,” Malfoy mumbled as he sat in this weird half-turned away pose and began to try and shrug his shirt off.
“I could,” Harry said conversationally, “but I’m just going to go ahead and use yours. It works great for me anyway.” He didn’t even bother to pretend to look away, instead keeping his eyes on the white, slightly raised scars across Malfoy’s chest; one extended from his left collar bone to his right hip, another parallel to it, but wasn’t as long, and three more lines, each longer than the other ran across the other two in a jagged X.
Harry wanted desperately to touch them.
Malfoy was muttering under his breath about something, his shirt entangled around his elbows as he struggled to get it off. Harry nudged his shoulder so they were facing each other again and then reached around to where his arms were stuck awkwardly behind him. He ignored the way his heart raced and his cock further stiffened at the feel of Malfoy’s warm breath huffing against shoulder and instead focused on getting the sleeves down his arms.
“What happened to your hands anyway?” Harry freed one hand with slow care before moving on to the other.
“Second degree burns from a potions accident,” Malfoy replied curtly.
“Oh.” Harry held up the soaked shirt in one hand and pointed Malfoy’s wand at it. “I sort of skived off Potions today.”
“To go play Quidditch, I know.” Harry glanced over to see Malfoy look pointedly at Harry’s bare, tightly bound midriff. “Did your bloody glasses fall off? Who doesn’t notice a Bludger coming at them?”
Harry shrugged with a smile, now shooting consecutive drying spells at the shirt. “I caught the Snitch.”
“Congratulations.” Malfoy’s tone was such that Harry could practically hear him roll his eyes. “Are you fucking done yet? I’m cold.”
Harry shook out the shirt, crushed the material in his hands over a few spots to check if he’d dried it out evenly, and then threw the shirt into Malfoy’s lap when satisfied.
“You’re fucking welcome,” Harry said sarcastically when all Malfoy did was snort and pick up the shirt between the palms of both hands with a sceptical eyebrow-lift.
“You expect me to thank you for throwing a fucking glass of water on me while I slept?”
“I didn’t throw--” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Do you need help putting it back on or not?”
But Harry didn’t move – he was back to staring at Malfoy’s scars again. He was still hard.
“Potter,” Malfoy said lightly as he stuffed one hand into a sleeve. “You of all people would know how infuriating it is when people stare at your scars like they’re something fucking fascinating.”
Harry didn’t get flustered. Instead, he leaned forward and brought the shirt around Malfoy’s back. “I do know.” He could feel Malfoy’s breath on his skin again. “I’m sorry.”
“For staring at them or giving them to me in the first place?” Malfoy’s voice, soft in Harry’s ear, held a definite hint of a smirk to it.
“Both,” Harry confirmed, pulling gently at Malfoy’s shoulder, trying to get him to lean forward so he could help him push his other arm in.
Malfoy leaned, turning sideways a little awkwardly, and Harry felt something brush his own hip.
There was a little gasp and it took Harry a second to realise that it was Malfoy who’d made the sound. Malfoy drew back with a jerk as if burnt again and Harry was left staring down at his lap, still covered with the blanket.
“Thank you, Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly. “You can fuck off now.” He still had only arm inside the shirt and Harry realised that in the confused mess that had followed when he’d attempted to investigate the moans, he’d completely forgotten that Malfoy had very likely been having a wet dream – right before he’d interrupted it, of course.
Malfoy was now fighting to lift the other sleeve enough to push his right hand into and all Harry did was sit there and stare, with a complete lack of shame, at his pink cheeks and his long neck and his scarred chest until he was staring at his lap and imagining what it’d be like to pull of the covers and look at the erection that had just poked him in the side.
“I thought I asked you to fuck off, Potter?” Malfoy snapped. “Why exactly are you still here?”
Harry licked his lips, barely aware of his own unblinking staring until Malfoy waved his hand rudely under his nose.
“What?” Harry blinked rapidly, finally looking back up at the pointed face, now twisted with anger.
“Are you done staring like a fucking pervert?” Malfoy hissed. “Do you mind going back to your own fucking bed? Or, since you can’t seem to stop staring at my fucking crotch, do you plan to help with that situation too?” His mouth curled into an ugly sneer.
Harry swallowed with difficulty. “I- I wasn’t staring at your crotch.” There was a derisive huff from Malfoy. And then, “Your crotch is covered,” Harry babbled unthinkingly.
Malfoy’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief, his mouth falling open slightly as he gaped at Harry as if he was the stupidest fucking thing alive--
--and then, literally out of nowhere, he let out a little snort, his mouth turning up at the corners before he looked away, shaking his head with his eyebrows raised in exasperation.
“Just—just go away, Potter.”
But Harry didn’t want to go away. Harry wanted—oh fuck, he wanted so, so much.
He had since the start of the term and he’d never even admitted it to himself until now. But maybe Madam Pomfrey’s potions were bringing down his inhibitions tonight or something, who even knew. His heart galloped up to his throat and his stomach was a pool of something scorching hot and his cock was now properly straining against his pyjamas.
“I could, you know,” he blurted out and Malfoy sighed as he turned back to look at him with one eyebrow raised expectantly, waiting for him to explain. “Could—help you with that... that situation too... Gladly.”
Malfoy, to Harry’s vague satisfaction, looked utterly gobsmacked. Harry held his breath, waiting for something nasty and along the lines of I’d rather chop my bits off, Potter, and even somewhat resigning himself to a punch on the face.
Instead, Malfoy, his expression a cross between incredulity and scepticism, asked, “Are you even gay, Potter?”
He spoke as if being bent was an incredible privilege that Malfoy very much doubted Harry, unlike Malfoy himself, had been blessed with. As if Harry lacked some sort of prerequisite quality and wasn’t allowed to be gay. As if he’d never believe it in a thousand years even if Harry confirmed that he was.
As if he needed proof.
“Care enough to find out?” Harry smiled but was well aware that it didn’t reach his eyes. Malfoy frowned slightly at him, but when Harry reached out a hand and slowly pulled the covers off him, he scrabbled wildly for them, shock and uncertainty clear on his face.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” Malfoy glared, panting slightly.
Harry shrugged. “Helping.”
“I don’t need any more help from you, Potter. Fuck off.”
In reply, Harry simply stared pointedly at Malfoy’s tented crotch, now clearly visible, with a raised eyebrow.
“Jesus, I ought to have known you’d be a pervert on top of everything else!” Malfoy managed to drag the covers back up, thumping his hands down over his lap. “Stop staring!”
“I’m not staring,” Harry replied vaguely, “I’m imagining.”
Malfoy made a sound like a strangulated cat and Harry finally glanced back up at his face to see it burning a bright red, his lips parted as he breathed noisily, eyes impossibly wide.
“You’re still hard,” Harry pointed out unnecessarily. “And you’re currently in no condition to—to take care of it.” Carefully, Harry traced one finger over the back of one of Malfoy’s hands, the plain white bandage slightly coarse but soft under his touch.
“It’ll go away,” Malfoy gritted out. “Stop being a freak or I’ll--”
Harry looked back up at him with his eyebrows raised, wordlessly challenging Malfoy to continue that thought. When he didn’t, “You’ll what?” Harry prompted.
“I’ll—I’ll tell everyone.” Malfoy’s voice was a breathy whisper – Harry was stroking the inside of his wrist now, just above the bandage, and almost as if he were acting out of his own control, Malfoy turned his hand over, palm upwards, giving Harry better access.
“Good,” Harry said firmly. “It’ll spare me the trouble of officially coming out.”
“You’re not gay,” Malfoy said weakly, even as he stretched his arm out towards him so Harry could run four fingertips in a slow graze up the inside of his arm.
Harry smirked, slow and smug, before once again pulling the covers off Malfoy, bringing it down his legs before placing his hand lightly on the inside of one calf. There was a sudden, deafening silence as Malfoy stopped breathing entirely. Harry let his hand brush, feather soft, against the flimsy pyjamas as he moved his hand upwards.
His hand slid, punishingly slow, so slowly that the lean muscles along the back of his arm started to get strained. And Malfoy, like it was the most natural thing to do, let his legs fall open slightly as Harry’s hand travelled up the side of his knee.
When Harry’s fingers moved up the inside of his thigh, Malfoy’s breath left him in a shuddering exhale and there was a soft flump as he fell back against the pillows.
“Get them off.”
Harry blinked. Malfoy’s head was thrown back and he could only see the pale triangle of the underside of his face. He was writhing lightly, and when Harry lifted his hand off him, he continued to writhe, shifting restlessly in a way that made Harry bite his lip as he watched.
“Get them off,” Malfoy repeated, his voice sounding slightly nasal from talking with his head thrown back. As Harry watched he wriggled around until he was pulling his shirt off, dragging it off his arm roughly. “Potter, get them the fuck off.”
The snapped instruction made Harry shift into action almost automatically. He hefted his left knee onto the bed and swung his right leg over Malfoy’s calves, leaning forward and slipping his fingers under the waistband of the pale blue pyjamas. His hands paused momentarily and Harry used the second of indecision to glance up at Malfoy once more.
He belly clenched with a mixture of excitement and apprehension when his gaze squarely met Malfoy’s; he was half-sitting up, his weight resting on his elbows as he gaze-glared at Harry with narrowed grey eyes.
“Yeah?” Harry’s fingers flexed around the elastic once; Malfoy’s nostril’s flared as if in irritation.
Then he nodded – and lifted his hips off the bed.
Holding his breath, his brain malfunctioning slightly as it tried to process that he was straddling Malfoy and stripping him naked, Harry dragged the pyjamas down, carefully lifting the elastic off the bulge of his erection, his insides leaping excitedly at the round, wet spot left there.
Malfoy’s cock was smooth, pink and was already glistening with a coat of precome where it lay on his flat belly, oozing head peeking out from under the silken looking foreskin. His balls were a shade darker, slightly wrinkled where they met his body, and looked soft and sensitive. He had a triangular thatch of trimmed blond hair, neat and sharp along the sides almost as if he’d used a ruler and a razor to shave off the rest.
His thighs were pale and smooth, nearly hairless, his calves shapely and tight, the hairs on them golden, nearly white. His ankles were bony, the arches of his feet deep and his toes slim and slightly crooked.
He curled them tightly as Harry placed a soft kiss to his instep, just to soothe Malfoy (and truthfully, maybe even himself) before deliberately pushing his legs open wide. Stretching himself out in between, Harry took a second to try and calm his hysterically shrieking brain.
He had absolutely no idea what was about to happen. Maybe Malfoy would kick him in the face. Maybe he’d scream loud enough that the whole school would rush in and see him lying there between Malfoy’s legs with his cock rock hard. Maybe he’d hex Harry’s rock hard cock off. Hell, maybe Harry’d wake in his own bed in a few minutes with a rock hard cock and would never again be able to look at Malfoy without sprouting an instant hard-on.
Or maybe he and Malfoy would have sex.
Malfoy, who was still writhing, his knees bending and straightening where they lay on the bed, his breathing rough and loud in the stillness of the room. Harry didn’t have to look up to know that his eyes were closed. He’d have closed his eyes too, just to hide from the sheer absurdity of the situation, the magnitude of it; except that Malfoy was rather fucking stunning.
Harry’d only really ogled his arse these past few months; Malfoy’s trousers were rather well-fitting. He’d only ever noticed that Malfoy, when not glaring or scowling, wasn’t at all bad to look at - quite the opposite really. He’d only just silently accepted that he much preferred it now that Malfoy wore his hair loose and unstyled, so that it fell into his eyes, as if he was trying to hide behind it as he sat for hours at that corner table in the library, hunched over his books long before anyone else came in, remaining there long after everyone else had left.
Now Harry looked at everything else; he looked at the little mole on Malfoy’s right thigh, he looked at Malfoy’s scars, cutting cruelly across the otherwise utterly flawless expanse of ivory skin; he looked at Malfoy’s nipples, hard and pebbled and mouth-wateringly pink.
He kissed Malfoy’s hipbone, sharp and prominent, and was suddenly struck by the intimacy of the act; of how incongruent it was with the air around them – they were both tense, still in disbelief, and ready to throw punches at a moment’s notice. Harry wondered if maybe the innocuous hostility in the air was contributing to the undeniable arousal on both ends – Harry’s cock had already leaked a patch right through his pyjamas and onto the sheets.
Finally in a position to do what he’d been aching to for the past several minutes, Harry stroked his hands, palms flat, over Malfoy’s front, holding his breath at the way the muscles jumped under his touch. The scars were shiny and felt soft under the rough pads of his fingers, and Malfoy suddenly brought both his hands up to cover his face.
Harry’s gaze flicked between Malfoy’s damp cock and the skin his hands stroked, finally unable to resist licking a determined path up the underside of his erection. Malfoy’s hips bucked, a low sound drifting out from under his hands.
Harry smiled lazily, licking once more, this time slower, and slipping the point of his tongue under the foreskin; he tasted like cinnamon and fresh sweat. Malfoy sobbed softly, shifting under him again, and Harry dragged his hands down over the scars up to his hips, which he then caught hold of, curling his fingers under it and pressing his thumbs along the pointed edges.
Turning his head slightly to be able to wrap his lips around the head, Harry sucked it into his mouth with a noisy slurp, salty-sweet precome spreading over his tongue as Malfoy’s hips lifted off the bed and his hoarse gasp rustled over Harry’s skin, making the hairs on his arms stand up.
He pulled off for a second to look up once again; Malfoy’s hands, heavily bound as they were, were clenched beside his head on his pillow and his eyes were open – they were wide open as he panted up at the canopy. Harry kept his gaze on his bobbing Adam’s apple as he lowered his head once again and sucked.
With a small, strangely heart-rending sound, Malfoy thrashed again, lifting his legs to rest his feet on Harry’s shoulders, his chest heaving. And then, “What are we doing, Potter?!” He sounded petrified.
Harry pushed his face into the manicured nest of blond pubes, nuzzling through the curls as he gripped Malfoy’s cock at the base with one hand and ran his other hand up Malfoy’s quivering flank.
“Want me to stop?” he asked, managing to sound sincere despite the frantically building heat in his own belly.
“No.” It was a whisper, barely audible, but it was firm. “No. Don’t stop.”
He sounded slightly desperate, bitterly resigned and supremely vulnerable.
And it was enough to make Harry lift himself onto all fours, wincing at the dull ache in his recently healed side, and crawl over the other boy until he hovered over his face. Malfoy was frowning again and his eyes held a tinge of defiant accusation in them.
“Should I stop, Malfoy?” Harry asked him once more, this time watching closely.
Malfoy’s expression went from irritable to a forced calm, if still slightly unfriendly. “Was I not clear enough before, Potter? No.” He swallowed; licked his lips. “I don’t want you to stop if you don’t want to stop.”
Harry lowered his head, unable to take his eyes off the spit-slicked lips. “I don’t want to stop,” he admitted, grinding his still covered cock into Malfoy’s bare erection just to emphasise how much he didn’t want to stop.
Bandaged hands flew up to grab onto the planes of his shoulders, Malfoy grimacing as he successfully swallowed the sound that nearly escaped him, instead planting his feet flat on the bed and bucking up into Harry again. Harry groaned, lost the patience that he’d surprisingly managed to hold onto until that point, and kissed Malfoy.
He kissed him hard and deep and vigorously, all at once, and Malfoy gasped into it as he immediately struggled to return it, pressing bound hands into his back.
Harry could feel Malfoy trembling under him – or was it Harry himself who was trembling? Malfoy was moaning roughly, guttural sounds of satisfaction as he bit down on Harry’s lower lip and stretched it out, letting it go and then nipping it again. He opened his mouth as Harry sunk his tongue back in, panting roughly every time Harry gave him a second to breathe.
“P--” Malfoy started to say (probably, his name), but Harry pressed back in, Malfoy growling in frustration as he was cut off. When they next broke for air, Malfoy didn’t gasp out his name but, “Please!” coupled with a wild upward buck into Harry’s cock that made Harry see bright white spots.
“Fucking hell, Malfoy.”
“Do something, you fucking oaf!” He thrust up again, violently, with his teeth bared at Harry and hands thumping painfully into Harry’s shoulder blades as their cocks slid together.
“Oh my g--” Harry reared upwards, his cock weeping helplessly at the friction, and snarled. “Fuck you!”
Malfoy nodded feverishly. “Oh god, yes, fine!” He parted his legs under Harry, wide enough that they hung off the bed. “Do it. Just do it, Potter.” He followed it with an eager kiss to Harry’s gaping mouth.
Malfoy wanted Harry to fuck him.
And here Harry had been about to come spectacularly from simply frotting against the git.
He followed Malfoy’s mouth when he pulled away, sucking his way into another wet kiss that left them both gasping. He moved his mouth lower, down the column of his throat, down to the scars he’d unintentionally left him with.
“Are we doing this or what?!” Malfoy sounded beyond annoyed as he helplessly arched into Harry’s mouth. But Harry didn’t know how to tell him that he was a tad bit terrified. He didn’t know how to tell him that he’d never done this before. Until, “Have you ever fucked a guy, Potter?”
Harry stilled, blinking down at Malfoy’s chest, damp with his saliva. One of the scars, the very tip of one, cut into the pink of his nipple – his right nipple. It was only evident when seen up close, and just to comfort his hysterically panicking brain and his thunderously drumming heart, Harry sucked over it wetly.
Malfoy whined. “Potter, please... I’ll—I’ll tell you what to do. Just—”
Harry lifted his head just enough to be able to look up at him – to check if Malfoy looked smug about the fact that he would be coaching Harry through this.
But Malfoy looked like he genuinely meant the offer and so, unwilling to overthink it, Harry sat up, tugging his pyjamas off and kneeling between the parted legs. Malfoy indicated to his wand on the bedside table and Harry leaned over to pick it up.
“Lube,” Malfoy said shortly, slightly breathless. He watched in silence as Harry, on his third attempt, conjured some lube onto his left palm, the clear, gel-like substance oozing slightly from the heat of his hand. “Okay, one finger.” Malfoy lifted one leg, bringing his left knee to his chest.
Harry almost came.
He could see Malfoy’s arsehole like this. It was furled and had a beautiful fringe of white-gold hair around it and Harry nearly came from literally only looking at it. His mouth watered and Malfoy’s hole winked cheekily at him. It was tiny. Harry wondered how anything (leave alone his cock) was supposed to fit into something that fucking tiny.
“I take it you’ve spotted my arsehole by now,” Malfoy bit out. “So go ahead and put one finger in, Potter.” Harry blinked and looked around, registering the instruction at last.
“W-with the lube, right?” he blurted uncertainly. Malfoy pursed his lips.
“No, Potter, the lube is just for moral support – to sit there in your hand in case you need something to hold—yes, with the lube!”
Scowling, Harry crooked one finger through the lube, leaned forward and prodded his finger at the little hole, wiggling the tip inside and pausing at Malfoy’s quick inhale.
“Don’t fucking stop, just put it in – slowly.”
“I don’t fucking need step-by-step instructions, Malfoy.” Harry held his breath as he pushed in up to the first knuckle, noting the way Malfoy twitched and bit his lip. “I think I know how fingering works, thanks.”
“Could’ve f-fooled me,” Malfoy huffed out, his voice breaking when Harry pressed forward a little more before abruptly pulling out so he could get more lube. “The fuck are you doing? Where’d you go?”
“Ssshhh!” Harry shushed him loudly through clenched teeth as he returned with more lube, nearly groaning out loud as he watched the way his finger sunk into Malfoy, this time not stopping until he was in all the way.
Malfoy was scorching hot around him, the grip of his arse so unyieldingly tight around Harry’s finger that he was momentarily worried about putting his cock in there. Harry waited two heartbeats and then dragged his finger out slowly, bit by bit, watching the way Malfoy’s mouth fell open, his face half hidden under one arm.
Harry fucked him slowly with just the one finger until Malfoy’s breathing was ragged and his arse clenched around his finger every time he pulled out. When his finger finally slid in and out without resistance, Harry paused for more lube and added another.
Malfoy moaned, a short, devastated sound uttered on an exhale, before he muffled the rest into the many layers around his hands. His cock was leaking copiously onto his belly and his toes curled into the sheets with each inward thrust of Harry’s fingers.
Harry was sweating now, trickles of it running down his face and neck, dripping along the nape of his neck and down his back. He felt cruel for the way he ignored his own need, his poor cock straining for some sort of touch; he was worried he’d barely last once he was inside Malfoy.
“Potter, you need to stop.” Malfoy’s words, muffled into his hands, made dread seep through Harry, a small part of him demanding that he simply carry on.
But Harry pulled his fingers out, gritting his teeth as he watched Malfoy’s hole clench emptily once he was out, slick and gleaming in the dim light.
“What do you need?” Harry’s voice was rough.
“I- I really need to come.” Malfoy sounded almost ashamed. But the next second he moved his hands off his face and glared at Harry. “Do you plan on fucking me sometime tonight?”
Harry glared right back before shrugging exaggeratedly. “Fine,” he said without looking at him, using the remaining lube on his left hand to roughly coat his cock, shivering at his own touch. He then shuffled forward on his knees, leaning down to brace himself on one hand before pausing. “Like this?” he confirmed, one eyebrow raised, his heart feeling like it was about to explode inside him.
Malfoy simply nodded, lifting both knees to his chest, turning his face on the pillow so he wasn’t looking at Harry anymore. Harry swallowed hard, his saliva thick and his throat dry; he simply could not read the other boy. His actions, his words, eagerly invited Harry in; his expression, however, was completely shuttered and that set Harry on edge.
“You do want this, right?” Harry managed to hold off for another few seconds, his cock throbbing in his hand. “Malfoy?”
“I don’t understand, Potter, what it is that you want from me? A written invitation? A formal permission slip? I don’t get it.” Malfoy kept his face turned away and his eyes firmly shut as he spoke, his legs falling sideways from where they were folded over his chest.
“I don’t fucking get you, Malfoy,” Harry spat, sitting back on his haunches once more – if anything was more absurd than the fact that he and Malfoy were on the very verge of full on penetrative sex, it was the fact that they were actually managing to squeeze in some quick bickering before it happened. “Do you really want me to fuck you?” he enunciated clearly.
Malfoy turned to him, silver eyes flaming. For a second, Harry was convinced Malfoy was about to ask him to get the fuck out of his bed. And then, “Yes.”
It was just the one word, barely sufficient, but Harry decided not to push for more.
He placed lube sticky hands under Malfoy’s knees and pressed them back onto his shoulders, planting his own knees firmly under his arse. With one hand, he reached down to line himself up, a nervous buzzing filling his head, Malfoy’s quick pants rather loud now.
When the very tip of his cock finally brushed against the shallow dip where Malfoy’s stretched hole lay, Harry’s cock spat out a large dribble of precome that then trickled down his cleft. Harry whined in his throat, bit his lip and gently coaxed the tip in, Malfoy completely still under him.
“Just... Just push in,” Malfoy whispered.
“I don’t think--” Harry swallowed again, shutting his eyes as he felt his face heat for the first time since he’d got into bed with Malfoy. “I don’t know if I can do that without hurting you.”
“Please--” Something in Malfoy’s voice made Harry look up – Malfoy already looked a little wrecked. His hair was a mess and stuck up all over his place, his cheeks were stained deep pink and his forehead and upper lip glistened with sweat. “It—it won’t be that bad; just push in.” When Harry hesitated for a few more seconds, “Please, Potter!”
Harry rested his forehead on Malfoy’s sternum, tightened his grip around his cock until the head was nearly purple, and rutted forward determinedly.
For the second time that night, he very nearly came. Malfoy was indescribably, almost painfully tight around him, the sensation almost too intense for comfort despite the lubrication – but it was brilliant enough that he almost came immediately. Harry shook with the effort of not simply slamming in the rest of the way.
Malfoy gasped throatily as he was breached, jerking so violently that Harry nearly fell right off him. His hands pressed into Harry’s back as he rasped out a garbled bunch of words that Harry literally could not hear through the rushing in his own ears.
“Are you—are you okay?!” he managed to eventually ask, blinking around and then realising his glasses had slipped off his sweaty nose. “Malfoy, did I--?”
“You need to move,” Malfoy said urgently. “Come on, move, push deeper--”
Harry was only too happy to comply, bracing his hands on either side of Malfoy’s chest and grinding his cock in all the way, his thighs trembling already. “Yeah?”
“God, yes!” Malfoy nodded with his head thrown back. “So good—Potter... ah, ah-- oh fuck, Potter!”
“Move, dammit! Fuck me!”
“Oh!” But Harry was already pulling out, breathing noisily into Malfoy’s damp neck as he paused with just the head inside for a second before thrusting back in.
“Are you serious right now?!”
Harry kissed him hard just to shut him the fuck up, gasping when Malfoy bit him viciously on the lip, the crunch of his lip breaking loud in his ears. “Malf-- Bastard!”
“Fuck me properly, you incompetent shit! For fuck’s sake, fuck me properly!”
“Wait--!” Harry scrabbled around wildly for Malfoy’s wand, finding it beneath his perfectly round arse. He switched it to his right hand and blindly threw out privacy spells followed by a silencing spell. Dropping it somewhere behind the pillows, Harry looked down just in time to see a drop of his blood plop down onto Malfoy’s cheek. Malfoy, wide eyed, leaned up and ran his tongue slowly over Harry’s lip, lapping at the blood and then licking his own lips clean.
Harry fitted their mouths together, pulled out and rammed back in, marvelling at his own self control, amazed at the fact that he hadn’t come all over the both of them already. His back ached and his left leg felt like it was about to go into a cramp. His injured side was properly hurting him again, the pain muted for the time being under the heat of his dangerously looming climax, Malfoy’s arse clenching mercilessly around him. Harry was shaking.
Malfoy was oddly silent under him now, his breath forced out of him in hot bursts with each of Harry’s thrusts, his hands resting uselessly on Harry’s back, his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist. When Harry muffled another helpless groan into Malfoy’s neck, he whispered, “Deeper.”
Harry tried, immediately obliging Malfoy, trying to push deeper into the unforgiving heat of Malfoy’s arse, the incredible tightness. But Malfoy shook his head vigorously.
“No—here.” He unwound his legs, shoved lightly at Harry’s chest, and while Harry was still blinking down in confusion, half blind with pleasure, Malfoy flipped them over so that suddenly, Harry was on his back, dangerously close to the edge of the bed, his head almost hitting the bedpost. A little scream tore its way out of him at how much deeper he was situated inside Malfoy now, the hot clamp of his arse nearly punishing. Malfoy let out a soft scream of his own, throwing his head back wildly, his cock bobbing and leaking between them.
The sweat on Malfoy’s skin shone golden as he sat there astride Harry’s hips, his hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead and along the sides of his cheek. His lips were wet and dark, slightly swollen, and his eyes were dark and slightly frantic.
“Malfoy.” Harry settled his hands over Malfoy’s hips once more, pressing him down gently while grinding upwards – a silent plea. “Oh, god.” Harry’s eyes rolled back as Malfoy, bound hands braced on Harry’s chest lifted himself up briefly before sitting back down forcefully.
“Potter,” Malfoy whimpered, and Harry had to fight his way through the dense blackness and force open his eyes. Malfoy’s eyes shone with moisture and his lower lip trembled. He thumped his forehead down into the dip between Harry’s collarbones, the backs of his hands pressing into Harry’s shoulders as he hauled himself up and back down again in quick little movements that were driving Harry absolutely mad.
“I—I...” Harry wanted to warn him that he was nearly there, he was nearly right fucking there, about to explode into a few million pieces, all of him, every last inch of his body.
“Potter... Potter--” Malfoy breathed his name into his neck over and over again, his thighs visibly trembling from exertion. Harry could feel hot tears in his crook of his shoulder, running down his skin and onto the sheets below. His fingers clenched into the soft flesh of Malfoy’s sinful fucking arse, and with a stuttering gasp, Harry was coming.
He was buried deep inside Malfoy and he was coming; so hard that his body flailed with it, his hips bucking wildly into Malfoy’s as he held him down and fucked his orgasm up into him, grunting with the effort and unnerved from the impossible intensity of it. His insides felt liquefied and his limbs felt heavy and overused.
Malfoy had straightened up and was gasping out his name on loop, sobbing desperate little sobs as he rutted his cock against Harry’s stomach and ground his arse over and over onto Harry’s still spurting cock, his expression open and somehow beseeching, making Harry’s chest flutter despite the way his body was still reeling.
He curled a hand around the back of his slim neck and yanked Malfoy to him, opening his lips with his own and slipping his tongue inside, ignoring the way his lip stung against Malfoy’s and soothing his hands down his sweaty back in a way he hoped was...comforting?
Malfoy came with a low, debauched cry, the material of his bandages rubbing into Harry’s shoulders as Malfoy held him tightly, wrenching away his mouth to press his face into the side of Harry’s neck, his body shaking violently in Harry’s grasp.
Harry could feel the warm jets of his come land on him before Malfoy unwittingly smeared it into both their bellies as he continued to move frenetically, guttural sounds of exhaustion muffled into Harry’s shoulder.
And then Malfoy sagged into him, completely collapsing and letting every last ounce of his weight rest on Harry. His arms fell limply next to them and Harry’s cock fell sadly out of him, sticky with his own come. Malfoy panted roughly, quivering atop Harry for several more seconds before he finally slid off Harry with a low groan, throwing himself beside him so they both lay side-by-side, squashed uncomfortably into each other.
Harry kept his eyes closed, his heart still thrumming restlessly, his torn lip pulsing with small bursts of pain, his skin feeling ultra sensitive now. He was acutely aware of Malfoy’s hand touching his own, not lightly brushing, but firmly pressed up against the back of his own hand; Malfoy’s smooth leg lying alongside his own; their shoulders overlapped, Malfoy’s bony shoulder rested on top of his.
Malfoy was licking his lips now, smacking them like one did when their mouth was dry, and Harry could picture them behind his eyelids – wet and dark pink.
“Could you...pour me a glass of water?” Malfoy sounded like he fully expected Harry to laugh in his face.
But Harry just sighed softly, not answering verbally, instead sitting up and looking around wordlessly for his glasses. Shoving them on, he leaned over Malfoy’s come-sticky chest and reached for the jug and glass. The gush of the water being poured seemed overly loud in the silence between them.
Malfoy sat up and gratefully accepted the glass with both his hands, clumsily lifting it to his mouth like a child and gulping quickly. When he held the glass out, Harry poured him some more and Malfoy drank that too.
The jug must’ve been self-filling because after Harry drank his own share and put it back, it still sloshed heavily with water. Malfoy was still sitting up, and when Harry pulled back he spoke again, soft and hesitant.
“Could you help me put my shirt back on?” He suddenly leaned down and picked up his pyjama bottoms off the floor. “I’ll manage with these. I just--” He sighed. “I can’t let Pomfrey find me naked here, can I?”
Harry remained silent once more, willingly helping Malfoy stuff his hands into the sleeves of his thoroughly rumpled pyjama top and swiftly buttoning it up for him – the backs of his fingers brushed across the scars.
Malfoy struggled into his pyjama bottoms and lay back down with a heavy sigh but Harry simply shifted back until he was leaning against the headboard and laced his fingers in his lap, blinking down at his knees.
He waited for the frenzied disbelief at what had just happened to flood his mind; for the jarring surges of panic and regret.
They never came. Harry was simply...devoid of all thought – and oddly content.
The silence lasted a lot longer than before, both of them not saying a word for what had to be at least a quarter of an hour. Harry checked the large, round clock that ticked soundlessly on the wall above Madam Pomfrey’s office; it was nearly four AM.
“I won’t tell anyone.” Malfoy spoke softly but sounded weary – detached. “Don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Harry replied at once. “I wouldn’t care if you did. I meant what I said earlier; you telling people would spare me the trouble.”
He wasn’t looking directly at Malfoy as he spoke – instead he stared at his navel that was visible where his shirt rode up, round and shallow, with a line of downy blond hair leading down from it – but from the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Malfoy smile swiftly.
“I’m not going to do your dirty work for you, Potter.” If Malfoy was smiling, it wasn’t apparent in his tone.
“Either way,” Harry said, “I don’t care.”
He couldn’t say that the air between them now felt comfortable and warm, or even friendly – it wasn’t. He was deeply aware that this was still Malfoy.
But it didn’t feel bitter anymore – it wasn’t hostile now. They weren’t rivals anymore – Harry realised that they hadn’t been for a good couple of years now.
But they weren’t friends either and Harry wished... it were somehow different.
Malfoy sighed softly and with some difficulty, turned over onto his side, resting his cheek on one bound hand. “Go to bed, Potter. You need to heal.”
Harry slipped out of the bed at once, retrieving the bundle that were his pyjamas and walking around Malfoy’s bed and back to his own. He wondered if he ought to look for a deeper meaning to Malfoy’s words. And then he felt like a prat for trying to pretend like he was in some sort of deeply moving novel or film. Malfoy was referring to his fucking rib. And he felt pretty fucking great apart from that, if he were to be honest.
Snorting under his breath Harry pulled on the pyjama bottoms and got under his covers, turning onto his side, his breath immediately catching a little when he saw Malfoy lying there on his side, facing him, his eyes fixed on Harry. He blinked back slowly, searching Malfoy’s face for... something.
But Malfoy looked as calm and blank as Harry felt and for some ridiculous reason, it was oddly comforting.
Malfoy didn’t glare at Harry anymore; he didn’t spare an eye-roll when Harry was accosted by a bunch of giggling fifth years in the corridors or when meek first years requested him for his autograph. He didn’t ignore or avoid Harry either, no.
Malfoy simply pretended like Harry just did not exist.
Over the next few weeks, Harry’s cool acceptance of what had occurred turned into a giant knot in his stomach that eventually demanded to be paid attention to. Harry didn’t regret it yet, absolutely not. Far from it he, in fact, was rather obsessed with it now, and by extension, also a tad bit obsessed with Malfoy.
He couldn’t look at the bruise on his chest without remembering how it had throbbed under Malfoy’s weight as he lay on his chest, whimpering and overwhelmed. He chewed lightly over the healed nick on his lip, remembering the feel of Malfoy’s mouth, fever-hot and eager, against it. Hell, he couldn’t wank in the shower anymore without fantasising about being inside Malfoy again.
He tried every single day to catch Malfoy’s eye, sometimes even deliberately knocking into him as they crossed in the corridors, just so Malfoy would look at him – would acknowledge him. Would acknowledge... them – what they’d done.
But Malfoy would simply blink at a spot somewhere over Harry’s shoulder, pick up the books he’d dropped and flounce away – like it didn’t even matter to him; like it hadn’t even made a difference to him.
And it was aggravating.
Harry spent his days going about his routine like a robot, his mind instead on things like the fact that Malfoy had seemed experienced; he’d offered Harry instructions like he’d taken a cock up his arse dozens of times before. The realisation that he was slightly jealous of all and any of Malfoy’s past (or current) lovers ought to have made him feel slightly idiotic.
He didn’t feel idiotic. He felt restless and annoyed and slightly dejected.
And then one late evening, almost a month later, Harry found himself in the library with Ron and Hermione (not) doing his homework while (mostly) staring at Malfoy who was sat alone in his usual corner table by the window, from the corner of his eye.
“Are you even really working on that essay?” Hermione’s voice made him jump a little and Harry looked around guiltily at his parchment; he’d written the date, the title (Zark’s Theory of Cross-Species Transfiguration) and had three lines of introduction which he’d basically just copied down verbatim from the textbook.
“Not really, no,” Harry admitted, throwing another glance at the flash of blond hair just visible over the teetering pile of books on Malfoy’s table.
Ron made a weird huffing snort into his arms – he wasn’t even pretending to work like Harry was. His head rested on his arms and Hermione reached over to absentmindedly run her fingers through his hair every few minutes.
Harry hated to watch these little unintended displays of casual affection. It usually made him feel startlingly lonely.
Now it just made him yearn. He had to be mental or something.
He looked over again at Malfoy, his heart leaping nearly into his mouth when he caught him hurriedly looking away.
“You’ve been sort of... faraway for days now,” Hermione said softly, her gaze never lifting from her book, her hand moving steadily as she made notes. “Is everything alright?”
Harry’s heart was still racing excitedly, his skin tingling as he broke into a light sweat despite the November chill. His brain was buzzing – the way it probably ought to have buzzed that night – and he didn’t think before blurting out the first thing (the only thing) on his mind.
“I had sex.”
Ron scrambled into attention; sitting up with his spine stiff, blue eyes popping, mouth twitching on the very verge of a grin. Hermione looked up very slowly, a slight pink tinge appearing on her cheeks as she put her quill down and laced her fingers together in a rather businesslike fashion.
“With a bloke,” Harry added. Ron’s hands scrabbled through the mess of books and parchments on their table as he made a dramatic grab for the edge, looking very much like he was about to faint, vomit and laugh for a week all at once. Hermione’s eyebrows disappeared under her fringe and she pursed her lips up very tightly.
“Who?!” Ron exploded after a few seconds of struggling to talk, and almost reflexively Harry kicked him, hard, under the table, glancing around furtively. Ron went purple in the face and let out a sound like a dying walrus as he slouched forward in his chair, clutching his leg with both hands.
“So... someone here? At school?” Hermione sounded like she was coaxing a toddler to tell the truth about where they’d hidden all their extra candy bars.
“Yes,” Harry said flatly. He glanced over once more and this time Malfoy was definitely staring – or rather, frowning over at them, at the way Ron was heaving into his textbook and Hermione was sighing at him to be quiet – he wasn’t looking at Harry.
“Are we friends with the bloke?” Ron asked weakly. Harry barked out a laugh before quickly clearing his throat.
“No; definitely not friends.” He considered what he was about to say next, wondering if it was even true. And then he just said it anyway, “But I think I like him...?”
“Liking someone is never a bad thing,” Hermione said softly, giving him a hesitant smile as if still unsure of how to react to the rest of the information.
Ron however, just snorted. “You got off with him, yeah? What’s not to fucking like?” He was grinning now and it was rather obnoxious and inexplicably enough, Harry felt his face begin to heat.
“It’s not... it’s more like... I don’t--” Harry’s shoulders slumped forward as he gave up and pushed his hands into his face, his gut clenching with dread as he forced out, “It’s Malfoy.”
This time there was no over the top reaction; Harry sat there with his face in his hands, his glasses fogging up as he breathed, for what felt like several hours before he gathered the courage to look back around at his best friends.
Ron was slightly green and he looked completely and utterly out of words.
Hermione, infuriatingly enough, looked like she’d known forever.
“Ah,” she said with a little tilt of her head. “Right... When was this again?”
“That night in the hospital wing, the time I got hit by a Bludger.”
“Wasn’t Pomfrey around?!” Ron sounded decidedly hysterical as he hissed under his breath, his own gaze now fixed on Malfoy.
Harry rolled his eyes. “It was in the dead of the fucking night.” He sighed heavily through his nose as he was immediately assaulted with mental images of pale skin, blushing gloriously pink; that quivering, beautiful little arsehole; swollen, trembling hot mouth... “It was completely spontaneous, neither of us saw it coming but we did it anyway and he was very clear that he wanted it and now he won’t even fucking look at me.” Harry spoke very rapidly and almost in a whisper, his desperation clear in his voice.
Hermione frowned thoughtfully; Ron was wheezing hoarsely like he’d just been chased across the grounds by Aragog and his whole family, his eyes wide and sort of unseeing, his mouth open and slack.
“And you’ve made attempts to talk to him?” Hermione leaned forward to speak.
“No – talk about what?” Harry frowned.
Hermione gave him a funny look. “Why are you upset that he’s ignoring you, Harry?”
“Because--” Harry struggled, fidgeting with his quill. “I mean--! It’s not like it’s something standard, right?! Us having sex? The least he can do is acknowledge--”
“Talk about that, then,” Hermione interrupted him smoothly. “Clearly you have lots on your mind to talk to him about.”
“Stop trying to encourage this further,” Ron said slightly desperately. “Don’t push him towards Malfoy.”
“Ron, grow up,” Hermione snapped. “I don’t think your opinion on this even counts. This is about Harry and the fact that he probably likes Malfoy—oh, for heaven’s sake!” She rolled her eyes and looked away when Ron hissed at what she’d said. “Harry. I don’t know if you’ll listen, but I think you ought to just go over and talk to him. Or at least let him know that you’d like to talk. Even if he doesn’t cooperate, at least you’ll know you tried?”
Harry was back to staring at Malfoy now, not even bothering to be discreet about it. He didn’t know if he’d been waiting for someone to tell him to do it, or if he’d simply had enough.
He got to his feet and turned to head over to Malfoy.
“Harry,” Ron groaned. “Nooo--”
Harry barely heard the angry threat with which Hermione shut Ron up; he was already halfway across to Malfoy’s table.
“Hi,” he said shortly, plonking himself down opposite Malfoy and carefully moving the stack of books out of the way so he could see him clearly. Malfoy looked completely startled for about three seconds after which his mouth pressed into a very thin line and he pointedly looked back down at the Runes he was translating.
Harry didn’t say anything further; he just rested his chin on laced fingers and stared unabashedly at the snooty Pureblood sat in front of him.
Malfoy lasted an impressive twenty-seven minutes. He’d hardly been insouciant along the way; he huffed out several forceful sighs, loudly gnashed his straight white teeth, inadvertently broke not one, but two quills; his expression remained set in an angry moue, his face getting redder and redder until finally, at long last, he slammed his fist down on the table and bared his teeth at Harry with a nearly venomously hissed, “What?!”
“What?” Harry blinked back.
“What. The fuck. Do you want?”
Harry made a show of looking around. “You want me to show you here?”
Malfoy went crimson, and then to Harry’s utter shock, picked up and hurled a large dictionary at him with a snarl. Jerking out of the way just in time, Harry gaped at a fiercely glaring Malfoy for a few seconds before getting up and walking over to retrieve the book that had landed a few feet behind him. He saw Ron get to his feet furiously, as if determined to come over and throw the book back at Malfoy, and shook his head swiftly with a grin.
Still grinning, he sat back down before Malfoy, carefully placing the dictionary back in front of him and in the same movement, brushing his fingertips over Malfoy’s hand – now no longer bound.
Malfoy jerked his hand out of the way with a little gasp, the look in his eyes now more uncertain than angry.
“You didn’t tell anyone,” Harry said casually, still smiling a little.
Malfoy glared once more. “I told you I wouldn’t. If that’s what you’re here for, to threaten me into keeping quiet, you’re a piece of shit.”
“And I told you, I don’t care even if you did tell anyone,” Harry said on a sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “And it’s not why I’m here.”
“What the fuck do you want, Potter? I’m busy.”
“Why have you been ignoring me?”
“Potter, I don’t know how to tell you this gently. My world doesn’t revolve around you. I don’t have the time to fucking simper and curtsey every time you walk into the room.”
“Do you regret what happened?” Harry asked bluntly, not ready to let Malfoy bait him into an argument. “You think I forced myself on you or someth--?”
“Fucking-- no!” Malfoy gritted out vehemently. “What happened was completely consensual, okay, Potter? So you can rest easy.”
“Do you regret it?” Harry pressed. Malfoy looked like he was about to burst. He looked a little crazed as he glared down at his homework, breathing harshly through his mouth. “Malfoy,” Harry whispered his name, unsure as to why his voice broke.
“No.” Malfoy, on the other hand, sounded firm and cool, despite his trembling hands and darting gaze. “I don’t regret it. But I’m not going to sit around wringing my hands and gazing at you in the hope that it’ll happen again.” He didn’t look at Harry as he spoke.
“Because... you don’t want it to happen again?” Harry’s heart sunk a little.
Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “What I want barely even matters, does it, Potter?”
“Okay, let me put it this way.” Harry was done going in circles. “Do you want it to happen again?”
“Like I said, what I want barely--”
“I want you again,” Harry said flatly, his heart soaring at the way Malfoy’s cheeks coloured again, this time in a strangely endearing way.
“You can’t just tell someone that--” Malfoy snapped, though it was oddly soft. “What the fuck is wrong with--?”
“Do you want it to happen again?” Harry interrupted. This time Malfoy just swallowed thickly, fidgeting slightly and licking his lips, leaving them wet and Harry hard. He leaned forward and traced a little shapeless design over the back of Malfoy’s wrist – Malfoy didn’t pull away.
Harry tugged until his palm faced up, and continued to run one fingertip over the pink and white skin, Malfoy’s breath sounding a little shaky as Harry drew ticklish patterns.
“They’re healed now?” Harry asked softly, now stroking his palm over Malfoy’s, slowly and deliberately, looking down at their hands instead of Malfoy.
“Obviously.” Malfoy’s tone had no bite to it – he sounded slightly breathless and leaned forward a little and Harry felt dizzy from the sudden drastic change in his demeanour.
“Do you think about it? That? Us?”
A deep breath; then, “Obviously.”
“Do you want it to happen again?” Harry looked up now, straight into Malfoy’s eyes, and didn’t even bother to keep the hope out of his own voice. “Because I can’t tell if you do or not, Malfoy. It’s not obvious.”
Malfoy licked his lips again, squeezed his eyes shut for a few seconds before opening them with a soft sigh. “...Yes.”
And then Harry felt as though he was somewhere outside, flying at top speed, the wind whipping through his hair and cutting into his skin and leaving him all tingly while something did loop de loops in his stomach and his heart fluttered happily around his chest. It felt like he’d never back come down.
Not even when Malfoy blushed again and yanked his hand back with a little scowl. Not even when he snapped at Harry to stop staring at him all day like a creep. Not even when he threatened to set Madam Pince on him if he didn’t stop grinning like a lunatic.
And it ought to have made no sense whatsoever; ought to have felt completely fucking ridiculous. Except that it was so utterly mad that he supposed it circled right back around to sensible.
At least that’s what he told himself when, half an hour later, he held a desperately thrashing, shamelessly moaning and completely naked Malfoy down in his warded bed and hungrily pushed his tongue deeper into his gorgeous, tightly clenching arse. Harry didn’t care if it was normal that he found himself enjoying eating Draco Malfoy’s arse out; enjoying it an inordinate amount.
He didn’t care if it made sense that they were doing this again and would probably be doing it again soon afterwards and would most likely be doing this regularly thereafter.
Except it made all the sense in the world.