Being an ex-Death Eater left one with a lot to prove about oneself, Draco thought ruefully; specifically, that one could still be a productive member of society. Not that any of the others had been given a chance to prove themselves. Locked up in Azkaban, the lot of them, including his father. Draco only escaped the same fate because of—
Well, because of Potter. Of course.
Because if he wasn’t saving Draco from Fiendfyre or the Dark Lord, he was saving him from prison, or house arrest, or a life without magic, or even a group of ridiculous fifth years who’d got it into their head they could hex Draco with no retribution because his wand was restricted to exclude offensive magic—proving yet again that people underestimated the things that didn’t count as offensive. He could take very well care of himself, thank you very much, Potter, for the intrusion in what should have been a private hexing.
Stupid bloody heroics. Draco was starting to think Potter was completely obsessed with him, frankly. It was worrying. Because they hated each other and always had. Because Draco still had his pride. Because Potter had filled out quite nicely over the summer and it was wreaking havoc on Draco’s nerves.
And anyway, Draco didn’t need him. He’d never needed Potter.
All right, maybe he’d been the teensiest bit… relieved when the Dark Lord had perished. Maybe even grateful when Potter had returned his wand at the the start of summer. Perhaps a little horrifyingly attracted to him when they’d met on the Hogwarts Express at the start of term.
Not that that was very new. But now he couldn’t even tease Potter for being scrawny and half starved.
He sighed, letting his mind wander as he studied the Latin text on the dusty scroll before him. The Archaic Spells course, one rarely taken, was one of those things he was having to do to make a good impression. Rather than the courses he had originally planned on taking for N.E.W.T.s before everything had gone to Crup shit, things that would have been almost too easy to pass with an O, he had been forced to reassess; people weren’t going to be impressed just because he got a good mark in Potions, or Arithmancy. Hell, Granger was going to get good marks in those.
So. Reviving ancient spells. It seemed like the skill would only be able to lead him down a very specific career path, but in truth, his options would be quite broad; he could become a Curse-Breaker or Unspeakable. Hell, he could probably even become a bloody Auror if he wanted after getting an O.
Draco smirked to himself, picturing the look on Potter’s face if he showed up for Auror Training with him after they graduated. That would show him who needed saving.
He shook his head and ran his finger along the incantations listed on the scroll. His grasp on the Latin that most modern spells were derived from was strong enough, but the Archaic Spells scrolls were tricky and tended to be quite literal. Not to mention that, like most spells, the caster’s intent likely played a key part in the spell’s effect.
Draco’s assignment was to select a spell to work on restoring and translating into a modernised version. Most of them were fairly boring; the ancient ceremony to bind a house-elf to a home, how to conceive of the perfect, ritualistic gift to give at a sacrifice. He started narrowing his choices down to three candidates that intrigued him when an incantation far down the list caught his eye.
He carefully unfurled the scroll and cast an orb of softly glowing light to hover over his head so that he would be able to see better. He nibbled on the corner of his lip as he read the spell.
In conplexus veritas petere, invenio ignus.
Draco made an inquisitive sound and pulled a spare bit of blank parchment closer to copy the spell in sophisticated cursive. The explanation below the spell was faded and partially smudged, having been written long before wizarding folk cared much for proper preservation of written texts and grimoires. There were a mess of notes in different handwriting scribbled into the margins surrounding the spell; these old scrolls also tended to leave words out from the translation, because Merlin forbid someone be clear about the exact effect of an entrails inflaming curse.
He tilted his head as he tried to work it out. The most obvious part was that it had something to do with truth, and the seeking of it through questions. The margin notes seemed to babble on about a number of things, including a need for physical contact between the caster and the beacon of truth the caster was seeking.
Draco rubbed his chin as he worked out how that would translate. Perhaps it’s similar to Veritaserum, he thought. A spell, rather than a potion, to encourage truth? That was… interesting. Unique. Sure to garner him a notable mark.
He made a quick copy of the parchment, then tapped it with his wand help translate. It wasn’t an ideal solution, usually, particularly if one couldn’t read Latin. But Draco knew enough, and all he really needed was a confirmation of his suspicions—that it was what he thought—which the parchment dutifully provided.
His mouth curled up in a satisfied smile. It really wasn’t fair to the other students, now that he wasn’t distracted by other, more distasteful duties.
He carefully worked out the wand motion that might be required for it, which was the trickiest part; so many of the wizards from centuries past hadn’t used wands, and so there was rarely an explanation for how to twist one’s wrist. But it it was definitely a spell to cast onto another person, which meant a decisive, pointing flick at the end, and something that was also supposed to affect someone’s mental state, which would indicate that a small twirl would be needed as well. And then two small jerks at the tip of his wand to appeal to the physical aspect of loosening someone’s tongue, and finally… He hesitated, then grinned, feeling euphoric. The heart. Of course, the heart. Where truth lay. Which would mean a single downward arc at the start.
He practiced a few times until he was sure he’d gotten it right. It felt a bit awkward, as most new spells do, but after several minutes, he was fairly confident he had the rhythm down. It took him another half hour to figure out the potential counter-spell, which might be a pointless venture, as spells that didn’t leave a physical mark tended to fade on their own, either through fulfilment or just enough time. The margins made clear the need for physical contact between the caster and the subject as well, and he couldn’t really feature holding someone’s hand as he intoned the counter-spell. Still, he thought wryly, it paid to be cautious. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
The primary issue was having someone to practice it on. Obviously, he couldn’t bring it to the professor without having verified how well it worked. But a thousand-to-one, no one was going to volunteer to stand at the casting end of Draco Malfoy’s wandpoint, not anymore. Even Blaise, who’d returned alongside him, and Pansy, would probably blanch at being asked; they were too self-preserving, like everyone else in his House.
With a sigh, he came to the conclusion he’d been trying to avoid: he’d have to cast it on himself.
Which at least took care of the physical contact issue for the reversal.
It was more than a little annoying, but one did what one must—which was the whole point of this exercise. It wasn’t as if he had many secrets anymore, anyhow.
Or as if he’d be stupid enough to let them ask him any questions, if he did.
“Bollocks,” he muttered under his breath, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear as he tried to focus. Arc, twirl, jerks, point-flick. Arc, twirl, jerks, point-flick.
He stood and paced a circle around his room, mentally girding himself, then exhaled slowly through his nose and turned to look in the mirror. He could definitely do this; he was at least as talented as Potter, almost surely more so and something like this would surely show everyone that—
Draco shook off the thought. He stared hard at himself for a moment, then closed his eyes—and cast.
Light exploded beyond his closed lids, and with it a cloying, sweet odour made his nose twitch. Draco opened his eyes to see a thick, pink-green mist swirling around him and looked back into the mirror just as the mist forced its way in through his teeth, lying sticky on his tongue for a moment before barreling down his throat and into his lungs, sending him into a coughing fit.
When he’d caught his breath some, he straightened, holding his stomach, and caught sight of himself. He looked sickly and, truthfully, felt it too. His stomach roiled with the urge to… to say something, to know something, to find something, to fetch—to fetch—
“What the fuck?”
Anyway, it wasn’t like he thought Malfoy was trying to bring Voldemort back or anything; they’d had several civil interactions since term had started.
It wasn’t like Harry had set out to repeat history, either, but old habits died hard. He started the year off strong, determined to put the past behind them. And if he smiled a lot as his mind wandered in odd directions, and if those directions were usually pointing at Malfoy, well—that could all be chalked up to the fact that he was just sort of accustomed to wondering what Malfoy was getting up to.
At first it was just a stray thought here and there at odd times of the day, like when he was in class or scrubbing himself off in the showers. Convenient, that.
But it had slowly progressed from occasional to frequent again; seeing him every day in the halls or in their shared classes, or in the common room they now shared… It was almost like Malfoy was one of Hogwart’s ghosts, now. Likely to pop out and startle you and haunt your fucking thoughts at the slightest provocation.
Like when he was… Heading over in Harry’s direction. Without veering off. And then stopping. Right beside where Harry was sitting.
Harry looked up at him blankly.
"Potter, may I speak with you?" he asked tightly.
Harry tried not to choke on his food. "Um. Sure. What?"
"Can we go somewhere more private?" Draco's eyes shifted back and forth, making him look cagey, and not at all like someone Harry would want to go somewhere 'private' with. Except that, well, he did.
“Is this about those ruddy little fifth year’s again? I told you before, you should let me tell McGonagall about what I caught them doing to you,” Harry insisted, hiding a smile.
Malfoy bared his teeth and made a low, hissing noise. “Did I ask for your help, Potter? Why do you keep insisting that I need or want it?”
Because he couldn’t help himself. Because it was fun, and Malfoy got so bloody pokered up about it. Which was sort of—charming, if someone could use that term about Malfoy, of all people. Harry fought back a laugh at the stiffly outraged look on his face, but Malfoy seemed to understand that it was there, caught in Harry’s throat, and his pale face darkened furiously. His hands clenched into fists, and Harry eyed him, curious.
“Come with me?” Malfoy forced out. His jaw was tight, and he seemed to struggle with himself for a moment. “Please?”
Harry sat back, startled; up until that moment, he would have been hard-pressed to say that Malfoy even knew how to ask politely rather than demand. He might have even wagered that the other boy didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘please’, except that he was pretty sure Malfoy could speak in something like nineteen languages.
Looking at the remains of his lunch regretfully, Harry wiped his mouth on a napkin and stood. “Yeah, okay. Where?”
“My room?” Malfoy suggested, looking relieved.
"Don’t be shy, Malfoy," Ron interjected with a snicker, "you can declare your love for him in public."
Harry threw him a dirty look and flipped him two fingers even as Malfoy’s face turned pink and he started off. The utter wanker had the completely stupid idea, since Harry'd come out over the summer, that his obsession with Malfoy in sixth year might have been about more than suspecting him of illegal activity.
Which it emphatically had not been.
Ron shrugged and gave him an unrepentant grin before shoveling another forkful of lunch into his mouth.
Harry caught up with Malfoy in the corridors, jogging up to his side. “So what’s this about?”
“I—” Malfoy winced; his hand pressed flat to his stomach. “Can I tell you in a minute?”
“Sure.” Harry examined him as they made their way to the eighth year dorms and through the common room. He was starting to feel uneasy. Something about Malfoy looked—off. His skin was usually… Less green, Harry decided, concerned. “Malfoy.”
Malfoy cast him a sideways glance and kept walking, leading Harry into his room. Harry followed, standing a bit stupidly in front of Malfoy’s giant bed as Malfoy pressed the door closed with a definitive thunk and locked it, turning and pressing his back against the wood.
“Has anyone ever told you how eloquent you are, Potter?” Malfoy asked, obviously trying to sneer, but it just came out sort of listless, and a bit frightened too.
“Loads,” Harry told him evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “You look really bad, Malfoy. I think maybe we’d better take you to the hospital wing and let Pomfrey take a look at you. We can talk later, yeah?”
Malfoy sagged suddenly, going boneless. The green tinge under his complexion darkened further, and he worried his lip between his teeth so hard Harry was a bit concerned he’d start to see blood soon. “Can you not go all heroic on me?” Malfoy snapped wearily. “And perhaps just let me tel—te-t.” He stopped, pressing his lips into a tight line.
Harry came closer to him. Distressed grey eyes blinked at him as he reached out and tucked a finger under Malfoy’s lowered chin, guiding his head up so Harry could inspect it. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Can I just ask you some fucking questions?” Malfoy burst out, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Harry startled and took an automatic step back to put some space between them—if Malfoy had finally lost the plot, he thought it’d be wise to ease off slightly. But Malfoy sort of—followed him, stalking closer as Harry continued back.
“Fine, Malfoy,” he said carefully, hand subtly seeking the hilt of his wand. “Ask me whatever you need to know.”
“You think I need to know something?” Malfoy seethed. “You don’t know anything, do you?”
“I, um, guess not. Why don’t you tell me.”
“You expect me to tell you?” Malfoy echoed incredulously, eyes narrowing to slits, and Harry had abruptly had enough.
“Malfoy!” he barked, shoving the advancing boy back a step. “Stop acting like I’m a bloody Legilimens and tell me what the fuck is wrong with you! You’re the one who wanted to go somewhere private to talk. Why do you need my help?”
Malfoy draped both arms across his midsection, hugging himself tightly as he whirled to face away from Harry, hunching his shoulders. He was breathing hard, his back rising and falling in a fast pattern, and just as quickly as Harry’s frustration had hit him, it bled away. He came closer and, hesitating a moment, dropped his palm onto Malfoy’s shoulder. “Tell me,” he said, softer. “I want to help.”
“You think you’re so bloody noble, don’t you? Do you think I’ve ever wanted your help?” Malfoy shot back, but his voice was shaky and thick. “Don’t you think I can do things—help people—too?”
Harry paused. “I know you can—have. You’ve helped me,” he pointed out carefully. “Everyone knows that. But just because you don’t like my help doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take it. I took yours, remember?”
“Do you think you would have if the circumstances hadn’t forced you to?” Malfoy asked, low and resentful.
“No,” he said firmly, not even bothering to consider. Malfoy flinched under his palm, but didn’t move away. “That’s the thing, though—our circumstances always force us to need help, right? Whether it’s being without a wand, or—or, I don’t know, needing love advice, or seeking help from a bloody Healer. Malfoy, come on! Let me take you to Pomfrey.”
Malfoy took a shuddering breath and turned back to face him. His eyes were bright and his chin was slightly crumpled the moment before he remembered to firm it. Harry’s hand dropped off his shoulder. “Don’t you think I would have gone to Pomfrey if I thought she could help me?”
“Then what can I do?”
“I nee—” Malfoy broke off with a soft grunt and a pained expression. He took a shaky breath and tried again, his voice wobbling. “Will you touch me, Potter?”
Well, of course he wanted to touch Malfoy, Harry thought, he was bloody sexy wasn’t he, and his arse was— Then the actual question smacked Harry in the face, like the whip of a mermaid’s fin, and he could do nothing but stare.
Malfoy stared back, chin going up.
Harry’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, and he said the only thing that came to mind.
“Malfoy, what the fuck?”
He let himself wonder why he hadn’t just dragged Potter into his room hours ago. It would have saved him an immense amount of time and humiliation. He should have known, bloody Gryffindor that he was, that Potter would be amenable. Although he couldn’t quite let himself believe what it seemed like Potter might actually be amenable to do.
He shook his head in slight disbelief as he recalled his morning just after casting the spell.
Despite the instinct that welled up in him, the magic calling him to find Potter immediately, Draco had done his best to ignore it. He put it off by trying other avenues and outlets to sate the ancient spell, re-reading the margin notes another dozen times, and obsessively trying to translate the words “physical contact” into something slightly less appalling. Unfortunately, the more he worked over them, the more he felt the urge to hex himself for his own stupidity, because every translation he came up with worked out to mean…
He stayed holed up in his room for as long as he could stand before the sensation became too difficult to avoid, then wandered carefully through the dormitory halls towards the eighth year common room. The first person Draco came across was Pansy, thankfully.
As soon as he opened his mouth to greet her he gasped, his mouth gaping open like a fish. The words he meant to say were tangled up in his throat.
“What?” she sniffed, mouth pursing as if she’d tasted something sour. “Still mad at me?”
“Because I’m not going to apologise, I’ll have you know,” she continued, eyeing disdainfully. “Slytherin rules still apply in the eighth year dorms and if Blaise overhears you using Potter’s name while you wank in the showers, that’s open season and you know it. You should just feel lucky we didn’t share the information with anyone from the other Houses.”
Draco closed his eyes miserably. “Are you going to?”
“Of course not,” she said, annoyed. “Salazar’s panties, Draco, what do you take me for?”
“I-I-” He had to—ask her something, he realised instinctively as the statement caught in his throat again. Had to ask her a question about which he sought the truth, or else this feeling would eat him alive.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Swallowing hard and making sure the words came out scornfully, Draco muttered darkly, “Do you know how much I love you, Pansy?”
Pansy blinked, sooty lashes fluttering. A delicate hand came up to her collarbone, and her fingers rested there. “Are you okay?”
“Do you?” he insisted, scowling. Something in her face softened, and her pug-like little nose wrinkled.
“Draco, don’t be such an utter ponce,” she said fondly. “Hate me all you want to; I much prefer it. Statements like that make my teeth hurt.”
“I-That—” He sighed. He couldn’t figure out a way to tell her that her looks might improve without them, or say that her teeth probably hurt because it was obvious she hadn’t used a cleaning charm on them in a while. All the things he would normally respond with were trapped in the cage of his throat, because it was impossible to phrase them with the intent to enquire. It was so hard to phrase a cutting comment as a truthful question. “Do you know how lucky I am to have you?”
She blinked again, then smirked. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but it’s pretty amusing. I might try it; Blaise’ll die.” She leaned in pressed a swift kiss to his cheek. “Need to talk to Daphne—I’m glad you’re not mad. Hope it stays that way, don’t think the showers thing won’t come up at every possible opportunity.”
Draco watched her walk away, stunned and vaguely furious. For all that, though, it occurred to him that his nausea had faded slightly; that the rocking of his surroundings had eased into a steadier background.
He stood in the entryway between the dorm rooms and the common room for another minute before shaking his head and striding across the room. He avoided eye contact with the handful of people curled up in armchairs and gathered around the tables along the edges of the room. He wasn’t quite ready for a repeat performance after his run-in with Pansy.
Luck wasn’t on his side, it would seem. As he was pushing out of the portrait hole he bumped straight into a mess of dirty blonde curls that smelled of wet leaves and raw meat. Draco stumbled back and caught himself on the gilded portrait frame.
“Hello, Draco,” Lovegood greeted in her dreamy lilt. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t an eighth year student—she was always somehow hanging about their common room.
“I—eurgh,” Draco grimaced as another wave of unpleasant sensation clawed at his insides. He blurted the first question that popped into his head. “Why do you smell like meat and rotting leaves?”
“Oh, I was just out feeding the Thestral herd. The new foals are just starting to walk,” she said.
Draco watched, vaguely disgusted, as she fished a large leaf out from where it was tangled in her curls. He glanced down and noticed that her trainers were caked in mud, too.
“You can see Thestrals?” he asked flatly, still staring down at her dirty shoes.
“Yes. I imagine lots of people can see them now. Perhaps I’ll have some company when I go to visit them,” Lovegood prattled on. “Would you like to come with me next time?”
Draco’s stomach swooped unpleasantly at the thought of seeing the leathery-winged beasts up close. He had run out of obvious questions to ask, and Lovegood didn’t appear to be in a hurry to get on with whatever else she was planning on getting up to. When he gathered the nerve to meet her gaze again, she was blinking at him with her big eyes. Draco shrugged vaguely to appease her question without having to give an answer.
“Why on earth do you visit them?”
“I always have,” she said with a gentle smile. “They’re fascinating creatures. I think they would be excellent candidates for therapeutic purposes.”
Draco blinked slowly, trying to work out what he could possibly say to that.
“What does therapy have to do with anything?”
Luna tilted her head, her lovely eyes flashing with a calculating gleam. “Everyone needs help.”
He twitched at the mention of help, his mind dutifully reminding him of the times Potter helped him, which set off the magic instinct running circles around his brain like an excited Crup. He brought a hand to his temple and gripped the edge of the portrait frame tighter. She made a faint sound of interest.
“What about people who don’t deserve help?” Draco winced as the question left his lips, out before he could snatch the words back. Luna was eyeing him with a knowing look.
“Everyone deserves to be helped, Draco,” she said solemnly. He swallowed uncomfortably, his throat gone tight with emotion. She watched him silently before adding, “If you need help, all you need to do is be brave enough to ask for it.”
“And what makes you think I need help?” Draco snapped waspishly. He had to find a way out of this conversation, it was already revealing too much about the soft, vulnerable parts of himself kept hidden by his cool mask. “What if I’m doing alright on my own? What if I don’t want to need anyone at all?”
She didn’t respond. She looked at him with what he thought to be a sad expression. One never really could tell with Lovegood.
Draco wanted out of the conversation and shoved by her, tossing a question over his shoulder. “Perhaps I’ll see you later?”
“Goodbye. Good luck finding the help you need. I hope you manage to figure out how to break it.” He ducked when he heard her call out after him.
After several moments of rushing blindly through the corridors, hoping he wouldn’t run into anyone else that would lead to embarrassing question-conversations, he took a decisive turn in the direction of the Great Hall. The invisible tugging that felt like it was hooked in his chest purred happily at his trajectory. He did his best to ignore it.
It had all just gotten out of hand so quickly. He wanted to kick petulantly at the wall and sulk over the stupidity of proper archival practices of the fourth century. It was just bloody reckless, is what it was. Why hadn’t the spell translation and the various margin notes been clearer about the implications of the spell? Why couldn’t he have taken a few extra minutes—or, hell, days—to ensure he had all of the information? Why couldn’t he, for once, be as smart as he thought himself?
But he hadn’t, and he obviously wasn’t, and now he was left with Potter in the middle of his bedroom, staring at him like he’d never seen him before.
“Touch me?” Draco got out again breathlessly, still unsure whether he should be aroused or humiliated by that look on Potter’s face.
Potter lifted a hand automatically, as though hypnotized, and then faltered, leaving it hanging in the air, hovering near Draco’s face. “Touching you will help you,” he said flatly.
“Do you think I would ask if it couldn’t?”
“I didn’t think you’d ask if your hair was on fire,” Potter muttered, but dutifully slid his hand against Draco’s cheek, cupping it in his palm. Oh. He was warm. Draco let himself lean into the touch, just a little, and saw Potter’s evergreen eyes flare. “You’re under some kind of spell?”
Draco gave a twitch of a nod.
“And…” Potter’s mouth pursed. “You know what it is.”
Draco tried to scoff, he really did. He was pretty sure it wasn’t his fault it came out more of a sigh, not with Potter cradling his face that way. But—he couldn’t stand there all day, that much was obvious, and he really did need Potter’s help, so…
“Can you read Latin?”
Potter blinked. Then did it again. Something cleared in his expression. “You haven’t said— you keep asking me questions.”
Pulling away from Potter’s hand regretfully, Draco indicated the parchment still sitting on his desk with the spell on it. Potter gave him a hard look, then walked over and picked up the primary scroll with all of his notes, scanning it. He tapped it with his wand and muttered a translation spell after a moment, and Draco almost felt sorry for him, because there was no way Potter was going to get much context even from that, if Draco hadn’t, and—
“You cast a spell that makes you ask truthful questions?” Potter asked, turning to him incredulously. Draco’s mouth dropped open. “What the hell could the point of a spell like that be?” His eyes returned to the scroll, and then he looked up. “And now you need intimate—fuck, Draco—intimate contact to break it?”
“What?” Draco asked weakly, mouth gone dry. He held out his hand. Intimate contact? “May I see?”
Potter handed it over, looking at him like he was daft. “Didn’t you read it first?”
“Do you honestly think I’m that stupid?” Draco bit out, offended, even as his eyes fell onto the words on the scroll. The translation spell was—well, much better, he saw, horrified. It must have been Granger’s. He felt the blood drain from his face as he skimmed the margin notes; the mention of contact was not ‘physical.’ No, it very definitely said ‘intimate,’ in that unavoidable glowing scrawl.
“What the fuck?” he whispered.
“What were you thinking, playing around with old spells on your own?” Harry asked, his voice edged with exasperation.
Part of him wished someone else had cast it on Malfoy, but it turned out he had to save Malfoy from himself.
Malfoy made a garbled sound and looked up from the translated parchment, his mouth sagging in a funny looking way. Right, Harry thought, the questions.
“Can you answer at all if you don’t word something as a question? You nodded before,” Harry pointed out.
Malfoy made a vague gesture that could be a shrug, looking like he was on the verge of spiraling into a monumental strop. He glanced back down at the words on the page. Harry noted the way his knuckles were clenched so tightly around the edges of the parchment that they’d gone bone white.
“Where did Granger get such a high level translation spell?” Malfoy asked, voice dripping with venom. Oh, he was definitely teetering on the edge of a tantrum.
“Er, well, when we were on the run there was...some old texts we had to work out,” Harry hedged. “She got quite good at the spells like that.”
Malfoy grumbled something under his breath that he didn’t quite catch. He hunched his shoulders and turned further away from Harry.
“Look, Malfoy, I want to help you, okay? We’ll...it will be alright, we’ll sort this out. Together,” Harry said. “I promise.”
He gave into the urge to touch again, letting his hand fall comfortingly onto Malfoy’s shoulder. To his surprise, Malfoy didn’t shrug it off; rather, he… shuddered slightly, loosening his death-grip on the parchment to bring one free hand up to put it over Harry’s.
Harry heard himself make a noise, but couldn’t figure out what it meant.
Malfoy took a deep breath, his shoulder rising and falling under Harry’s clasp. His voice was quiet when he finally spoke. “So then you’re unwilling to help me?”
Malfoy’s hand fell away, and he turned around to face Harry again. His expression was even; careful. “Did you not understand the question?”
Harry swallowed. It was more that he wasn’t sure how to respond. Because of course he’d understood the question. In fact, his whole bloody body seemed to understand the question, as evidenced by the abrupt, uncomfortable tightness of his trousers, and the heat flooding his face.
“Er,” he said again, rather eloquently, he thought.
Malfoy snorted, but it didn’t sound amused; he looked down. “You do know that I would understand, don’t you?”
Okay, so it was apparently just really hard to keep swallowing when your throat had gone entirely dry. Harry opened his mouth, emitted a squeak, then cleared his throat and tried again.
“It’s not that I’m—unwilling to help you. I’m willing. I’m very, very, willing,” he muttered, and how the hell had his voice gone so husky like that? It had never done that before.
Apparently, Malfoy seemed to notice it too; the look on his face changed from caution to hope, and even maybe something else that Harry couldn’t let himself figure out. Malfoy drifted a bit closer, and Harry got a whiff of the clean smell of his aftershave. “I just wouldn’t ever, uh, help someone who was being controlled by a spell to, uh, participate,” Harry added hastily.
Giving him a faint smile, Malfoy reached up and pushed a lock of hair away from Harry’s forehead, baring his scar. His fingers were cool, and he watched his own movements. “But what if you were assured that the other participant would have been more than willing to participate, if he’d known you might be interested?” he asked significantly. His whole hand, still lingering near Harry’s hairline, suddenly sank into Harry’s hair, fingers threading through it.
Harry swayed a bit as desire swamped him. Because surely Malfoy couldn’t mean that—
“If he’d wanted to participate for a while?” Malfoy murmured, eyes intense on Harry’s own, his breath shuddering out of him. His fingernails lightly at Harry’s scalp, and it felt heavenly, sending little shockwaves of sensation down to his groin.
“Malfoy,” Harry said weakly.
“Potter, don’t you know when to shut up?” Malfoy asked.
So Harry kissed him.
For all of his talk, Malfoy seemed to hesitate for a second, but then his arm was closing around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him closer and clutching at his shirt. Harry angled his chin up and let himself lick the seam of Malfoy’s lips, which opened for him. Harry slipped his tongue inside, licking at Malfoy’s own. He tasted sweet, like toffee candies, and he hummed a little, the hand in Harry’s hair closing into a fist. Harry groaned at that sharp little tug and kissed Malfoy harder, deeper, grabbing him around the waist to pull him tight against his body, until they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to thigh. With a dizzy, distant rush, he heard Malfoy moan as the stiff ridges of their cocks came into contact.
With effort, Harry pulled his mouth away, and Malfoy opened his eyes slowly. His pupils were blown wide, and his mouth was shiny-slick. “Potter?”
Harry scrambled to collect his thoughts. “Did that work?”
Malfoy blinked several times. “I—” he paused, sick look sweeping off his face. “It might—” He sighed, frustrated. “Do you think it might need to be more intimate than that?”
“How, uh, how much more?” Malfoy looked vaguely offended, but Harry shook his head, admitted, “There’s just a lot of stuff I haven’t done.”
“What haven’t you done before?” Malfoy asked, face softening.
“Um, pretty much—well, anything.” He shrugged and it occurred to him, rather incongruously, that he and Malfoy were having this strange conversation while still wrapped in each other’s arms. He was absently rubbing his fingers against the small of Malfoy’s back; he could still feel the hard press of Malfoy’s cock against his. “I mean, kissed. But never like—like that.”
Malfoy seemed to debate with himself for a moment. “And you’re assuming I have?” he asked slowly, as if phrasing the question took some consideration.
“You haven’t?” Harry blurted.
There was a tense, minute shake of his head, but Malfoy’s eyes were still trained on Harry’s mouth, almost like… Like he couldn’t wait to get back there. Harry clamped his arms tighter around Malfoy’s waist to keep his knees from buckling.
“So then…” He screwed up all of his courage and reminded himself that people thought he was noble. “I mean, how far are you willing to take this?”
Malfoy’s eyes flicked back up to his again. “Well, we could—would you be okay just… Seeing? What works? What doesn’t? And keep going until the spell stops?”
“Keep going?” Harry echoed. His arms tightened their grip again, and Malfoy smirked.
“Am I imagining that you like the idea, Potter?” he purred, lowering his head again to nuzzle at Harry’s ear. His tongue traced the shell of it.
“Do you?” Harry asked urgently. He basically had two options at this point: cast an Immobilus on Malfoy and levitate him to the hospital wing, or take him at his word, and give fuck all about the consequences. He really, really hoped he could do the latter.
Malfoy’s hips gave a little bump, and Harry hissed. “Do you feel that, Potter?” he whispered, voice low and shivery next to Harry’s ear, breath hot. “What do you think?”
Harry didn’t bother answering. He tilted his head instead and pressed forward to capture Malfoy’s lips in another kiss. Malfoy made a sound in the back of his throat and surged against him, kissing him back. Harry ran his hand up the lines of his back, and then followed them back down again to shove his hand under Malfoy’s shirt, eagerly stroking at his soft, warm skin. Malfoy hummed into the kiss and rocked his hips forward, rubbing their erections together through their clothes.
Harry was feeling too much of everything at once: heat, desire, excitement. He had to keep reminding himself that he was doing this (Mostly. Sort of.) to help Malfoy break a spell instead of getting lost in kissing him. Fuck, but he could kiss.
Their tongues slid together and Malfoy sucked on Harry’s bottom lip, grey eyes fluttering open to meet his. Harry’s knees went weak again and he turned his head to trail his lips over Malfoy’s jaw. He heard a shivering, hissing breath as he mapped Malfoy’s neck with biting kisses. He angled his head to give Harry better access to graze his teeth and lick at his pulse point.
“Did you know that I’ve thought of you while I wanked?” Malfoy murmured the admission as Harry was marking his neck up.
Startled, Harry stumbled back, catching himself on the bedpost. “You have?”
Malfoy hummed. His cheeks were flushed and rosy and his lips were plump from kissing. He looked fucking delectable. “Have you ever thought about another boy before? What it would be like to touch?”
Malfoy took a step closer, his gaze pinning Harry in place. He gripped the bedpost in a tight grip, eyes trained on Malfoy.
“What...what it would be like to taste their cock and feel their arse around your fingers?” Harry’s breath caught. Malfoy’s voice was dropping in pitch with each question as he stalked closer. He stepped up so they were pressed chest to chest again and whispered against Harry’s lips. “Have you ever imagined how it’d feel when someone tasted yours, Potter?”
Harry groaned weakly and dragged Malfoy back in for another kiss, one slower and filthier than before. His fingers scrabbled against the pearly buttons of his shirt, intent on getting access to more bare skin. Harry broke away, already feeling out of breath.
“Can I touch you?” he muttered against Malfoy’s cheek. It felt warm against his lips.
Malfoy nodded eagerly. He swooped in for a quick peck and pulled back, looking uncertain again. “How do we—?”
Oh, right. Logistics, Harry thought muzzily. He felt drunk on kissing Malfoy. He could only imagine what going further with him would be like, excitement zinging through him and skittering up the nerve endings in his spine. Oh, sweet Merlin, they were going to go further. He shivered and glanced around the room.
“Er...sit down?” he suggested.
Malfoy perched on the side of his bed, taking care to smooth his hands over the wrinkles in the coverlet. Harry saw his throat bob as he swallowed. He sat next to him, edging as close as he dared. Somehow sitting on the bed made it all feel more real, more serious than it had been when they were just kissing. His hand trembled slightly as he reached forward to drop it on Malfoy’s thigh.
They both watched as Harry slowly dragged his hand up and over the obscene bulge in Malfoy’s trousers. He let his palm rest there, just feeling the heat of him. Malfoy made a small sound and Harry took it as his cue to do something more. He hesitated before squeezing, cupping Malfoy’s prick through his clothes. He glanced up and bit his lip, unsure if it was good or not. He thought of what he liked and pressed a little firmer, rubbing over the bulge. Harry smiled when that earned him a hitch in Malfoy’s breath.
Malfoy’s eyes were glued to his lap where Harry was rubbing him. The angle was awkward on Harry’s wrist, but he was too focused on making it feel good to care much. He wanted more, wanted to feel the weight of Malfoy in his palm. Before he could work up the courage to ask if he was okay with more, Malfoy spoke up again.
“Would you like to see?” he asked. Harry gave him a puzzled look; his brain was too slow with an overload of hormones and desire. Malfoy’s silver eyes met his and blinked slowly. “Can I show you how I touch myself when I imagine it’s you?”
Harry’s breath wheezed out of his lunges and he nearly slumped sideways. Jesus, Malfoy was going to kill him before they could even get to anything good. “I—yeah,” he choked out, nodding quickly after a moment.
Harry sat back and watched with baited breath as Malfoy’s hands undid his belt buckle and lowered his zip. His eyes darted to Harry’s once before he reached his long fingers into his pants and pulled out his cock. Harry’s mouth watered at the sight of it. Malfoy made a deliciously filthy sight, sitting with his trousers open and his cock in his hand. He looked debauched, with his hair out of place and mussed up, his face pink. Harry fucking wanted him.
He reached his hand forward, intent on batting Malfoy’s hand out of the way, and paused. “I want to… Can I?”
Malfoy nodded and watched with half-lidded eyes as Harry’s fingers brushed against the swollen crown. He bit down on both of his lips and inhaled sharply through his nose when Harry trailed them down the shaft and back up the sensitive vein on the underside. It was velvety soft and so warm. He circled his fingers around it and mused that it felt different from when he touched his own cock. He stroked him slowly, almost gently, relishing the little sounds Malfoy was making—soft sighs and hitches in his breath. Malfoy hummed, low and approving, when Harry felt confident enough to grip him tighter.
“I imagine you didn’t picture your afternoon going this way?” Malfoy mused, rocking his hips up into the circle of Harry’s hand.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his eyes intent on watching the plump head of Malfoy’s cock poking through his hand on each stroke. His wrist was starting to cramp from the odd angle and his other hand was starting to go numb and tingly from supporting his weight while he leaned close to Malfoy’s body.
Malfoy leaned close and nosed along Harry’s jaw, nuzzling against him and dropping kisses as he pleased. He made a startled, approving sound when Harry grew bold and twisted his wrist over the head of his prick.
“Would you like me to touch your cock, too, Potter?” Malfoy whispered against his ear.
Harry shuddered and swayed closer. He swallowed thickly and nodded, his hands already going to fumble with his belt and the button of his jeans. He heard Malfoy make a sound when he pulled out his own prick, and he found Malfoy staring at it with wide eyes.
“You really have been rather lucky in life, haven’t you?” he said, his voice tinged with something Harry couldn’t quite place.
“If you call the number of times I’ve had a brush with death luck, sure,” Harry answered blithely.
An amused laugh bubbled out of Malfoy and Harry was struck with how strange a picture the pair of them must make. Two former school rivals, sitting on the bed with their cocks out. The thought slipped away like water through his fingers the minute Malfoy’s nimble fingers closed around his cock. He felt it throb in Malfoy’s grip as he stroked Harry experimentally.
“S’nice,” Harry said quietly, unsure of the proper etiquette when one had their former-rival-slash-wank-fantasy’s hand on their dick. “You can do it harder.”
“Like this?” Malfoy asked and he twisted his wrist to give his cock a firm pull.
Harry dropped his head back and hummed appreciatively.
“Do you have any idea what you look like right now?” Malfoy asked intently. He moved his hand faster and Harry matched him, smiling when he made Malfoy’s grip falter because he’d swiped his thumb across Malfoy’s prick to spread the bead of pre-come gathered there. “You look so good like this, did you know?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry said, tamping down on a disbelieving laugh. He nearly felt delirious with lust, but it wasn’t enough to be able to come. Harry let his instincts guide him as he twisted and tackled Malfoy back on the bed. “But it can’t be better than you look at the moment.”
Harry lined up their hips and bucked, rubbing their cocks trapped between their bellies together.
“Potter, what the fuck?” Malfoy gasped.
Draco thought he could definitely work with that.
He shimmied his hips and worked his trousers down to his thighs, grunting with Potter’s weight holding him down.
“Take these off?” He tugged one of the belt loops of Potter’s jeans.
Potter glanced down between them and froze. Instead of moving to pull off his trousers, he kept his head down, eyes trained on their cocks sliding slick together, and began pumping his hips in a tantalizing drag of back-and-forth. Draco choked and thrust upwards as the silky crown of Potter’s prick slipped against his own and he wanted—he wanted there to be nothing between them, wanted to feel all of Potter’s golden-warm skin against his own. He stilled Potter’s hips with one hand, and Potter looked back up finally, a wild, determined glint in his eye.
“Can’t you imagine how much better it’ll be if you can feel all of me?” Draco whispered.
The words that sprang forth could have come from any one of a million fantasies he’d had of this very moment; there was no way to tell which. He was amazed at how confident he sounded, how sure, when his heart was threatening to pound out of his chest and his stomach was tight with lust and nerves. He had something in his arms that he’d wanted for so long, and Potter seemed strangely afraid that Draco might be hesitant, or unwilling without the spell, so he had to choose his questions carefully and not let on that he was a little scared, too.
When Potter didn’t answer but for a nearly-silent whine in the back of his throat and another clumsy thrust of his hips, Draco asked, “Don’t you want me to feel all of you?”
A dangerous light flared in Potter’s eyes. His whine transitioned to a rumble, a low growl that set Draco’s blood flaming. Potter hooked his fingers into his own trousers and pants, shoving them down roughly over his hips. He wriggled, pushing them farther, then rolling to the side to kick them all the way off with his trainers, toeing off his socks as he did so. His eyes remained on Draco the entire time, hot and intent, and Draco fumbled with his own clothing, fingers shaking as he loosened his tie and undid the buttons of his shirt. Part of him couldn’t quite believe this really was happening. Potter finished stripping off, sitting up to yank off his jumper in a quick movement that set his glasses askew on the bridge of his nose, before tossing the garment to the floor and reaching for Draco’s trousers, which were still bunched around his thighs. The soft inside of his wrist brushed against the head of Draco’s cock and he stilled.
His hand drifted, twisting slightly, and apparently his whining growl was catching because Draco heard a remarkably similar noise issue from his throat as Potter’s hand—warm and slightly rough with callouses—circled his prick and gave it a slow pump, watching as though fascinated as another thick, pearly drop of fluid appeared at the slit.
Draco closed his eyes, turning his head to the side. The grip was looser than he was used to when he was by himself, more gentle than before, but perfect for all of that. Potter pulled his foreskin up and down, fingers dancing in a light tap as though he was playing an instrument, and Draco arched helplessly, panting, finally opening his eyes. He leveled Potter with as clear a look as he could manage. “Harder, please?”
Potter groaned, wetting his lips and Draco’s eyes followed the flick of his tongue that he could swear he felt in his cock. Potter tightened his hand, moving it faster, sending Draco’s balls to tingling, sending flashes of pleasure radiating out over his extremities.
“God,” Potter muttered hoarsely. “I wanna make you come, Draco.”
His given name, said in that rough tone from Potter’s mouth, was almost enough to make that happen, Draco thought wildly. “P—Harry?”
Harry’s—Merlin, Harry’s—eyes pulled away from watching the delicious things his hand was doing, and pinned Draco with a look so filled with hazy desire, Draco thought he should lay down before his legs gave out.
Oh, he remembered distantly. I am, already.
Harry’s fist gave another slow, tight pump. “What? Doesn’t it feel good?”
“Don’t you want me to make you feel good, too?” Draco grit out through his teeth.
“I—” Harry looked down at his hand, at the shiny head of Draco’s cock popping out of it, clearly torn between the two immediate options.
And he’d thought the word would hurt; it always had before. But this time, on Draco’s tongue, it was like the sweetest sort of truffle being tasted. “Please? Harry, please?”
Harry bit his lip, then opened his fingers one at a time, as if it pained him to let go, even for a moment. Draco couldn’t stop the moan than escaped as the delicious pressure of Harry’s fingers finally released him, and couldn’t decide if the sound was one of regret or relief. But then Harry was kneeling between his thighs and peeling his trousers and pants down, slowly and carefully in a way that he hadn’t done with his own clothes. He tossed them to the floor as well, and then just sat on his knees, skimming his hands lightly over the hair on Draco’s thighs.
It occurred to Draco that this would be the moment in which they could quite get on with things, not that he had much experience with it—no matter how often he thought about it. They were both naked and on his bed, and it had only been about a minute ago that Harry had been this close to stroking him to completion. But Harry didn’t reach for his cock, letting his hands, instead, continue to brush softly over Draco’s legs as his eyes wandered over his body. So Draco let his eyes wander too, in the way he’d always wanted.
Because Harry was—well, he was sort of beautiful in a way that was easy to not feel bad about being annoyed by for so many years. He was whipcord lean, but had muscles in all of the right places; they weren’t ostentatious, but the fine layer made him look strong and healthy, so far from the scrawny boy he’d been, even a few months ago. His nipples were brown and small and tight, and he had a light patch of hair across his chest, too, narrowing down his stomach, past his flat belly button, then continuing on in a thin trail that led to his groin. There, the dark hair increased, black and curling, surrounding the thick cock that sprang from it, so hard it bobbed with a slight upward curve. Draco’s eyes fastened on with a scrutiny he hadn’t been able to give before, and suddenly he was unable to look at anything else; not Harry’s neat Seeker’s build, or his wide-ish shoulders, or his sturdy thighs. Just his cock, flushed so red it was nearly purple at the head, which was peeking out of the foreskin stretched around it. It was slightly thicker than his own, Draco thought, and a good bit longer, too. He reached for his own cock dazedly and give it a slow tug.
Harry flinched, a hard breath exploding out of him. “Draco…”
Draco struggled to formulate the words crashing around in his mind. “If you—Do you want to come closer again? Why don’t you let me touch you again now, hm?”
“Fuck,” Harry whispered, licking his lips. “Yeah. Yeah.”
He crawled back over Draco, who could feel the heat of his skin before they even touched again; the Boy Who Lived certainly would never die of hypothermia. Harry levered himself between Draco’s spread thighs and propped himself on his forearm, lowering himself over Draco and drawing him into a messy kiss, all slick lips and tongues. Draco released himself as he felt the weighty thump of Potter’s erection on his stomach and moved his hand to catch it, giving it an experimental squeeze.
Harry groaned and dropped his forehead, banging it into Draco’s. “Ow?”
“No—sorry—” Harry gasped. “Don’t stop.”
Draco realised he’d loosened his grip during his brief concussion, and tightened it again. “Can you tell me what you like, Harry? What do you want?”
“I don’t know. Any—ah—anything,” Harry said in a strangled tone. “Just...just keep—”
He broke off and buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck before finishing his sentence, his hips rutting into Draco’s hand. Harry made a broken sound, muffled into Draco’s skin where he was hiding his face; he barely noticed as his glasses tumbled off and to the side. His blunt fingernails scratched down Draco’s side when he rubbed his thumb against Harry’s slit and Draco gasped and arched up against Harry. He hooked a leg over Harry’s hip to pull him even closer. He could feel his cock leaking with pre-come, throbbing with heated pulses each time Harry made a sound of pleasure.
“Touch me?” Draco almost begged.
He could feel Harry nodding frantically against his neck as his hand wormed between their bellies to wrap back around his prick again. He groaned appreciatively, tipping his head back against the rumpled covers. Draco’s grip faltered as he was overcome with the sensation of someone else’s hand stroking his cock when an idea struck him.
“Wait, Harry, can we try something?”
Harry looked like he had to physically restrain himself from devouring Draco in that moment, but he leaned back patiently.
Draco bit his lip and stretched his fingers around both of their cocks after lining them up alongside each other. “Can we see if this…?”
He trailed off as he gave an experimental squeeze. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed and his lips parted on a sigh of pleasure. It felt divine; their cocks were tight and hot, pushed close together in his grip. Harry’s fingers came up to help, closing over Draco’s, and together they gave a tentative stroke.
“Ohh,” Harry breathed, dragging it out. Draco silently agreed, closing his eyes and letting the heady sensation of skin on skin wash over him.
It was difficult to find a perfect rhythm at first. Their arms kept bumping together. Draco was pulling up when Harry was trying to stroke down, and they wanted to twist their wrists at the wrong time, but after a minute Harry followed his lead and they fell into sync. On every other stroke, Harry would grip tighter around Draco’s hand and squeeze their erections together until the crowns were both nearly purple, aching with the need to come.
“Are you gonna…?” Harry mumbled. Draco gave a jerky nod in agreement, keening when Harry thrust his hips with another delicious little growl, his cock sliding tightly alongside Draco’s.
Harry’s messy mop of hair was beginning to curl with damp sweat, some of it matting across his shiny forehead. They were both panting as their hands moved over their erections together, creating a wonderful pressure as the sensations kept building in a crescendo in Draco’s gut.
It struck Draco that he was quite literally living out his wank fantasy, with the very subject of his desires, and suddenly it was too much.
His brain felt like it was short circuiting as Harry rocked his hips again, creating that perfect friction that dragged their cocks together and lit up his nerve endings. He cried out sharply as the heat and pleasure swelled in his gut and burst in a sudden wave of ecstasy, his release shooting in thick pearly globs between their joined fingers.
Harry grinned crookedly and propped himself up on his elbows again to watch Draco come, still rutting his cock against Draco’s, and fuck if that wasn’t the most erotic sight he’d ever seen. Draco made a high pitched whining sound in his throat as another rope of come dribbled from his twitching dock. Harry licked his lips and scooped a glob of come off his belly and smeared it over his cock as he pushed the head of it back into Draco’s hand.
“Fuck, that’s so hot,” Harry mumbled in a garbled jumble of words, circling his hips slowly.
Draco felt lethargic and loopy, the aftershocks of release still making his limbs tremble as Harry rubbed against his spent dick. He wanted to hold Harry close and continue to stroke his cock until he came all over Draco, but he couldn’t get his tongue to work in order to ask for what he wanted.
He must have made some sort of needy sound, because Harry leaned back down and kissed him, deep and slow. He brought both hands up to cup Draco’s jaw and gently brushed his fingers over his face, thumbs rubbing back and forth on his cheeks. Draco could feel the hot, heavy weight of Harry’s erection in his hand, covered in Draco’s own release, trapped between their bodies.
When they broke apart, panting, Harry leaned up on one elbow and looked him over. Draco wanted to wrap both arms around his neck and pull him back down into another kiss—wanted to roll him over and try a taste of his cock and his come.
“Does it seem like the curse is broken?” Harry asked curiously.
Draco held his breath for a moment. He was feeling so many things at once that it all seemed so tangled up in a messy ball of feelings and magic.
“I don’t know?” he ventured. His stomach sank as the ancient spell surged up again, forcing another question to his tongue. He scoffed and shook his head. “What the fuck?”
“But don’t you want to come, too?” Draco murmured, looking down between them where his hand was still wrapped around Harry’s dick.
He looked so different from how Harry had come to think of him—with is natural poise and deep self-control and perfect pale skin. Now, though, Draco looked utterly wrecked and strangely vulnerable, hair tousled and sweaty, eyes glazed. His neck and mouth held faint red burns from Harry’s light stubble, and his stomach and cock were covered in come. Harry considered passing out for a moment, but wasn’t sure he’d get another opportunity—or that this wasn’t just the most realistic dream he’d ever had. And there was no way he was not going to take full advantage if Dream-Draco was willing.
Draco’s hand convulsed in a quick, tight squeeze, stealing a startled gasp from Harry’s throat. Harry looked down between them and saw Draco’s long, elegant fingers still circling his cock, now sticky with fluids.. He hadn’t stopped moving into Draco’s touch.
“Can we still…?” Draco asked. He was holding his breath and Harry was tempted to hold his own.
“Yeah,” Harry agreed huskily, not even caring what it was Draco was asking him for. He’d gladly give it to him. He felt an odd rush of tenderness in his chest as he observed Draco’s hand, holding his prick; his body smeared with fluids. “We can do anything you want.”
Draco’s gaze went dark and intense, his lids lowering to half mast. “Are you aware of the kind of power you can give someone with a promise like that?”
Harry’s lips slowly curled into a wide, cheeky grin. “Well, maybe I might like to try that kind of thing. We could try it together, if you like.”
Draco made a garbled, choked sound and pulled him back down into a sloppy snog. Harry quickly grew breathless and dizzy again, his tongue sinking into Draco’s mouth as Draco flicked it with his own, their lips a tight press against one another, teeth clicking when it got heated again. His hand unfolded, pulling away from Harry’s prick and Harry heard himself make a muted noise of complaint that really wasn’t, not when Draco’s hand slid, sticky and moist over his hip. He spread his legs wider and Harry automatically adjusted his position between them, coming down onto his knees between Draco’s splayed thighs, his hard cock brushing over his balls, which were soft and now hanging heavily below his semi-soft prick.
“What if...” Malfoy swallowed hard; his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “What if I gave it to you?”
“What if—” Harry broke off as Draco’s word echoed in his mind, soft and tentative and filled with as much meaning as the restless shift of his legs, bracketing Harry’s thighs. He scrambled up and off, sitting back on his heels, some of the fog leaving his mind as the full force of Draco’s implication hit him. His cock bounced mournfully, obviously sad to be away from the press of Draco’s skin. So was Harry. “Are you saying that you’d… that you’d let me…”
Draco bit his lip for a moment, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Do you want to?”
Harry’s breath gusted out of him. “Do I want to?” he echoed incredulously. “Draco.”
Draco flashed him a smile that managed to be both embarrassed and triumphant. “Do you know how to start?” he asked in a low voice? “With fingers?”
“I…” Harry trailed off again, mind gone sluggish. His prick was thick and aching and he gave it a tight squeeze around the base until his sudden, extreme urge to come faded enough that he could respond. Draco was looking at him carefully, as though he wanted to say something but couldn’t, tiny lines that indicated a smile appearing on either side of his mobile mouth. Harry took a long breath, feeling momentarily dizzy as the oxygen hit his brain again. “I’ve read things.”
“Do you trust me?”
“I—Yeah,” Harry said unthinkingly. Draco’s grey eyes widened and the lines around his mouth grew until he actually did flash a smile, one that was so devastating in its honest, simple pleasure that Harry felt almost—heartbroken from it. How could he have not seen this, for so long?
“Can you Summon the lube?” Draco asked.
Harry nodded. He picked up his fallen wand and a second later, a small bottle of lube came flying into his free hand. He looked at it, then back down at Draco. His cock was beginning to lengthen again, and Harry hadn’t even touched him. He felt another warning pulse in his own and grabbed at it desperately for some much needed control.
“Have you ever done this?” Harry managed.
Draco pursed his mouth, but he didn’t look angry. “Would it matter?”
“No,” Harry said truthfully. He popped open the lid and drizzled the light, silky oil over his fingertips. “But I want to know.”
“What would you say if I haven’t done exactly this?” Draco conceded evenly after considering how to phrase it for a minute.
“I’d say I’d never have believed I’d get to be the one,” Harry murmured, and the colour in Draco’s cheeks warmed.
“How could you not have been?” Draco countered, in a whisper so soft that Harry wondered for a moment if he’d imagined it.
His heart thundered. He wanted to say something else, but couldn’t pluck a single thought from his muddled mind. He moved his hand, slick and soft with oil down between Draco’s legs, fondling his balls with a light touch before sliding down further to coast over the crease of his arse.
“Are you sure?” he checked one last time, hesitating.
Draco didn’t answer; he widened his legs further, almost uncomfortably so, and crooked his knees up, giving Harry a better view. He pulled one round, muscled side of Draco’s arse open and slipped his fingers in, hunting gently for the right spot. Draco made a strangled sound, eyes flying up to meet Harry’s even as Harry’s touch ghosted over it, that puckered, tight little opening that made the heavy bead of precome clinging to the head of his cock dribble.
They both held their breath as he wriggled the tip of his oiled finger in. It was tight—tighter than Harry expected it to be. He’d tried it on himself once, when he had felt bold. This felt like something else altogether. When his first knuckle slid past the snug ring of muscle, his breath stuttered out of him. He watched, mesmerized, as his finger slid in another inch into the vice-like heat of Draco’s body. Harry pulled his finger back out slowly, almost all the way, and then pushed it in again, relishing the feel of Draco clenching, clinging passage.
“Okay?” he asked. He glanced up to watch Draco’s face, carefully looking for any discomfort as he moved his finger slowly.
“It’s—Yes?” Draco answered in a strangled tone. He shifted on the bed and hitched one of his legs higher. “I think...I think you might be able to move faster?”
Harry pushed his finger in deeper, all the way in until he felt the back of his hand brushing against the cleft between his cheeks. Draco keened, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath. Harry moved his finger faster and concentrated on stroking against Draco’s inner walls. Draco was nearly vibrating, shifting restlessly and making small, aborted sounds.
“More?” he gasped. Draco reached one hand out to clutch at Harry. “I need—I need—”
Harry bit back a groan and slowed his hand down to carefully wriggle a second finger in alongside the first, eyes glued to the way Draco’s hole stretched around his fingers. The muscle was fluttering and twitching as Harry inched his fingers in and out, waiting for Draco to relax around him. It was an unbelievable sight that he would remember forever, even if he never got to see this again.
“Christ,” Harry muttered under his breath.
Draco tugged on him to pull him down closer, making another one of those sounds that drove straight through Harry; he was helpless to resisting. He leaned down and rested his forehead against Draco’s. He twisted his fingers and pushed them in at a different angle, deep enough for Draco to convulse as a moan wrenched out of him.
His nails scraped across the back of Harry’s shoulder in a rush of stinging heat. Harry hissed and pumped his fingers into the same spot, feeling the rigid edge of the spot he hoped was the one he was looking for. Draco was babbling in his ear, unable to form a coherent question or get out whatever he was trying to say. Harry smoothed his free hand over Draco’s hip and squeezed comfortingly.
“Right there? It’s good?” he murmured, peppering kisses along Draco’s jaw and rubbing his fingertips over the same spot.
Draco nodded urgently. He looked like a wild creature. “Will you fuck me now?”
Harry sagged against Draco with a hoarse groan, inhaling the musky scent of his sweat in his damp hair. He was going to be the death of Harry before they even got a chance to fuck.
Looking around the bed, he realised the lube was too far away. Draco must have accidentally kicked it when he was writhing on Harry’s fingers. Harry didn’t want to leave Draco’s side to reach across the bed for it. He gently pulled his hand free and fumbled around for his discarded wand as Draco pawed at him. When he couldn’t find it within three seconds he grumbled under his breath.
It took him two tries with his lust-addled brain, but he managed to cast a wandless Accio to bring the bottle of lube back within his reach. It smacked against his palm and he hastily poured a generous dollop into his cupped palm. He smeared it over his cock until it was shiny, and wiped the excess between Draco’s spread legs.
Harry hooked one of Draco’s legs over his arm and lined himself up, rubbing the wet head of his cock over Draco’s pucker. He held his breath and asked one last time, “You really want me to do this?”
Draco’s head shot up and twisted into a frustrated, angry expression. “Merlin, Potter, will you stop asking me that? I thought you said you trusted me?”
“Sorry!” Harry blurted sheepishly. “I just wanted to make sure.”
“Good, now would you be so kind as to fuck me with that unfairly massive prick of yours?”
“God,” Harry whispered, his fist squeezing automatically around the base of his cock. At the rate he was going, he worried he would blow his load as soon as he pushed in. He took a shaky breath and lined himself up again. “Okay. Here it goes.”
With a jerk of his hips, Harry’s cock pressed and skipped over the edge of Draco’s hole, missing the mark. They both grunted and Harry hastily righted himself and tried again.
“A little to the left, maybe?” Draco suggested.
“Sorry,” Harry said. “It’s not as easy as it seems.”
He adjusted his grip on Draco’s leg, hefting it higher on his arm, and pressed his hips forward again, pushing until his swollen crown popped past the tight rim. Draco tensed and cried out, and Harry made an answering sound as the slick heat encasing him pulled his focus to a narrow pinpoint.
“Fuck, that feels amazing,” Harry breathed. “You’re so tight.”
“Are you in all the way?” Draco asked. His fingers were clenched in the coverlet.
Harry hunched over him, his cock involuntarily sliding in a little deeper, drawing another high pitched sound from Draco. “Not yet, just the tip and a bit. You good?”
Draco nodded jerkily and threaded one hand into Harry’s hair. Each of his breaths were coming out in a scratchy wheeze. Harry turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss to Draco’s wrist. “Stop me if you don’t like it. I’m going to push it in further now.”
“Do you plan on giving me a play by play the entire time?” Draco asked breathlessly, and quirked an eyebrow at him.
Harry shrugged with effort and was satisfied when Draco’s expression completely changed when he rocked his hips again, slipping deeper into Draco’s wet hole. He jerked his hips back clumsily and slowly circled them to push in again. He repeated the same motions again and found that it was easier to push in and out; Draco was relaxing and loosening around his cock.
“You feel really good,” Harry muttered roughly.
He hunched over further and kissed him. He tried angling himself differently each time he rocked in, ambitiously seeking the spot that would make Draco cry out again. An oddly possessive part of him, deep down, wanted to make this so good for Draco that it would ruin him for anyone else.
Harry moved his hips slowly, alternating between circling and rocking them. He pressed all the way in until his balls were brushing against Draco’s arse and held himself there, feeling Draco’s muscles contracting around him as his cock throbbed. Their eyes met; Harry gave a sharp thrust of his hips and relished the way Draco’s mouth fell open in a silent cry, his neck arching in a long line dotted with blooming red love bites and stubble burn.
Harry growled low in his throat and darted down to lick a stripe up Draco’s neck, thrusting again and again as he picked up the pace. He could feel Draco’s renewed erection between their bodies and blindly reached for it, wrapping his hand around it and giving it a firm tug. Touching Draco’s cock already felt like coming home after he’d made him come once. He was determined to do it again.
Draco arched into Harry’s grasp on him, which caused his passage to shift and contract around Harry. Harry frantically rutted deeper before reminding himself to slow, to wait, even as his cock throbbed in a dangerous reminder of orgasm too long delayed. He paused, struggling to still his hips completely and began to work his fist up and down over the shaft of Draco’s swollen prick again. Draco, however, refused to hold still; he was automatically pistoning his hips upward and back down with what little leverage he had, and Harry gritted his teeth so hard he feared they would crack.
“Draco, Draco wait,” he groaned. “Oh, god.”
“Mmm—wha—?” Draco opened his eyes and looked up at him like he’d forgotten Harry was there for a moment. “What? Why’d you stop?”
“I’m too close,” Harry grunted through his teeth. “Gonna come if you keep that up.”
That whine started again from Draco’s throat, high and almost broken. “Potter, can’t you just hurry up?” he wailed.
Surprised, Harry huffed a laugh. He leaned down again, awkwardly positioning himself so he could kiss Draco, little light kisses that felt like being out in the warm spring air, as he continued his determined tugging on Draco’s cock. He swiped his thumb over the tip and was satisfied when he felt a new release of pre-come there; less than before but still tantalisingly slippery. He rubbed his fingers gently over the slit, coaxing more out as he began his slow rocking again, holding his breath in a silent prayer not to come on the spot. Draco turned his face; caught Harry’s mouth in a kiss, sucking Harry’s upper lip between his teeth and laving it with his tongue. Harry shuddered, and Draco made a low noise of assent, then began hiking his hips back up and down with more deliberation, using Harry’s arm under his knee for leverage, riding himself on Harry’s cock as Harry slipped in and out of him.
Fuck, this was excruciating.
Harry felt the hot prickle of tears as he kissed Draco back and tried not to focus on the clinging vise of Draco’s arse, squeezing his cock to perfection. He tried not to focus on the warm slide, the pressure against the crown of his prick and the way Draco’s channel tightened around him. He tried so hard not to focus on the fact that Draco was warm and wriggling beneath him, his mouth this sweet, hot haven that made him feel things he’d never felt before, but it was no use. His balls, slapping against the round, firm flesh of Draco’s arse, were growing tight and drawing up against his body; his shaft was throbbing almost painfully, and he somehow could no longer control his hips, which began thrusting with wild, frantic abandon, guiding him deeper and deeper, in and out in this amazing slide that made his fucking toes curl. Draco gave a fractured cry, and Harry gripped his prick tighter, dragging his foreskin over the head and back as fast as his hips were now moving, no finesse at all, god this was embarrassing and wonderful and fuck fuck fuck—
“I’m coming,” he groaned. Pleasure crashed through him as he shuddered, grinding his cock into Draco’s arse to seek more friction. Some distant corner of his mind noted the convulsions around him, that repetitive squeeze and loosening of Draco’s arse, but Harry couldn’t think of anything other than the waves of tingles rushing down the base of his spine, the spurt after spurt of come pulsing out of his cock and spilling into Draco’s hole, filling him up. It made him wetter there, if possible, and that seemed so—so hot, to feel some of that slickness inside Draco slicking the way for him and know that it came from him, from Harry, that he had put it there.
Draco was making noises too, much like the sounds Harry couldn’t seem to help as his orgasm washed over him and finally slowed, allowing his hips to judder weakly as the last of the sensation began to fade. He sagged onto Draco, exhausted and dazed and sweaty, suffused with warmth everywhere. His heart was racing, and yet he’d never felt happier or more calm in his life.
Harry lay like that for several seconds, breathing deeply while his pulse tried to slow. Vaguely he felt like he should be remembering something, and then Draco twitched underneath him and Harry realised he was still holding on to his cock—oh, shit, he’d forgotten to—
But when he levered himself up with a breathless grunt, he saw that he needn’t have worried. Sometime, during his own orgasm or right after, Draco had come too; his prick was still firm in Harry’s palm but softening steadily, and Harry’s fingers were dripping with a new supply of thick, whitish fluid. He looked back up and Draco dryly arched a pleased little eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth tilting up.
“Forget I was there, Potter?”
Harry snickered. “I’m not the only one who got distracted.”
He hesitated, then pressed a soft kiss to Draco’s lips. Draco responded eagerly, reaching up to wrap a hand around the back of Harry’s neck to keep him in place for a moment before letting go. Harry pulled away reluctantly, gently removing his cock from Draco’s passage. Draco grimaced and Harry patted his thigh sympathetically. He seemed to have some of his normal colouring back, the sickly tinge of his skin nearly faded.
“All good?” Harry asked. “The spell?”
Draco looked surprised, as though he hadn’t thought about it for several minutes—not that Harry could blame him. He was pretty sure he’d forgotten his own name for a while. Draco said, “I—” he closed his eyes, that sick look etching itself across his sharp features again, and his bottom lip poked out in a way that Harry probably shouldn’t find adorable considering the situation, but honestly? Did a little.
“Don’t you think I’d be able to stop asking questions if it had?” Draco said finally on an exasperated sigh.
Harry frowned, some of his euphoria fading. Obviously, he’d talk to Draco in Mermish if it meant they could keep doing this, but it did complicate matters a bit.
“Maybe we should go to Pomfrey now,” he suggested quietly.
Draco shot him an annoyed look. “Do you really think she’ll be able to do anything for me? I thin—Don’t you think,” he amended on a growl, “that we could just study the spell a little while longer?”
“I don’t know,” Harry admitted, running a hand through his hair; it was slick with sweat and probably standing up all around his head. “It’s just—Draco, what the fu—”
Draco clapped a hand over his mouth. He rolled his eyes. “Can you not, please?” he asked wearily.
Draco opened his mouth to answer and had to stall as he waited out the uncomfortable sensation of his insides twisting and forcing a question out of him, rather than a statement he would have made. It was bloody exhausting, and not in the good way it had just been with Harry fucking his brains out in a spectacular fashion. He rather wished he could just lay in the aftermath of that for a while; his whole body felt alight with warm sensation, arse sore and swollen and a throbbing nicely, body sticky in a way that would normally have him wrinkling his nose with fastidiousness, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to wave a wand at.
It had been… lovely. Lovely and frightening and a little painful and perfect, the way Potter’s cock had slowly buried into him in that careful way of his. The way, not too long after, he’d lost complete control inside Draco, panting and groaning and rutting furiously. And Draco, legs spread wide and drawn up, had come from that—not Potter’s hand on his cock, working him a bit too hard after one orgasm already, no. But the desire on his face, the way he’d pounded into to Draco as if he couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything better. He’d—he’d broken above Draco, and Draco had broken, too. And it had been the sweetest thing he’d ever felt.
“Sort of?” Draco tried finally, tearing his mind away. He was grateful the magic allowed it as a question; he didn’t know how much more often he could stand that sudden twist in his stomach.. “It’s similar, I suppose?”
Harry chewed on his lip and shifted so he could press his whole body close to Draco’s side.
“What made you come ask for my help?” Harry mumbled, yawning halfway through his question and burrowing closer against Draco. He slung an arm over his waist; his fingers stroked his skin absently.
Draco shrugged, hoping to avoid this line of questioning. It was bound to reveal how focused on Harry the spell was—that the first urge he’d felt when he cast it was to go find Harry. “I...er...you seem to be remarkably hell-bent on helping me, and I thought, why not?”
Harry glanced up at him from where he’d pillowed his head on his chest. His eyes looked even greener without his glasses on. He studied Draco carefully, but kept quiet. Draco coughed awkwardly and waved his hand.
“Does it matter? You were more than willing to help, weren’t you?” he bit out.
“Of course,” Harry assured him. His fingers tickled a spot high up on Draco’s side, teasing the corner of his armpit, making him squirm and suppress his laughter. Harry hummed as he turned to plant a wet trail of kisses across the parts of Draco’s chest that he could reach. “What I don’t get is, if the spell demanded intimacy, why sex wouldn’t be enough?”
Draco went stiff, his addled thoughts whirring into gear. For a moment he wondered if Harry wouldn’t be enough to save him this time. Because Harry was right, if sex wasn’t enough to appease the spell, then the translation meant something else—something more. His mind raced as he recited the translation in his head, the words echoing in his head. Intimacy.
It would seem that this time it was up to Draco to save himself.
“Oh, what the hell?” Draco grumbled under his breath. Because, of course. Of course the spell would mean that he had to be intimate with his heart, not his body. He needed to be open with his feelings.
“What is it? Did you think of something?” Harry asked, popping back up on his elbow.
Draco squirmed under his scrutiny, feeling flayed open and vulnerable—and he hadn’t even asked any of the questions he truly wanted answered, buried deep inside his heart. Harry seemed to sense the shift in him and sat up, pulling Draco up with him, then plucked up his hand and looked at him earnestly.
“I’m here to help,” he promised, and Draco’s heart twisted.
The magic was rearing up in him, clawing at his throat and forcing his hand. Draco held one hand up to his neck and winced, fighting against the pull of compulsion. If he was going to do this, it would be on his own terms. He cleared his throat and threaded his fingers with Harry’s.
“I think, maybe, there was a reason the spell pushed me towards you?” Draco started haltingly.
Draco nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “If I were—needed—to ask you some questions, would you be willing to answer them?” he forced out, hating himself for his uncertainty.
Harry blinked and sat up a little straighter. “Of course,” he said simply.
Swallowing hard, Draco thought a moment. What mattered? What did he need to know? His brow furrowed as too many inconsequential things dangled in front of him, tempting him not to ask the things he suspected he was meant to.
“You don’t still hate me, do you?” he muttered in a small voice.
Harry’s eyes grew round and distressed. “Fuck! Draco, no! Do you think that I’d—that we’d—that—” He sputtered for a moment wordlessly, then took a deep breath and pinned Draco with a direct, level look. “No,” he said clearly. “I fancy you. I have all year. I probably would have before if you hadn’t been such a complete arsehole when we were kids.”
Draco snorted, but the uncomfortable coil of tension still residing inside him was impossible to ignore, the tight burning in his throat, prodded him onward. He sighed. “Do you think you could actually… Care more than that?” he tried, feeling his cheeks heat. He dropped his gaze before Harry could answer; the pattern on his duvet was really quite intricate and should be studied at every opportunity.
Harry huffed a bit of an exasperated laugh. “Didn’t I just sort of say that?” he returned softly. He touched Draco’s chin with one finger, and Draco glanced at him, relaxing at the startling affection in Harry’s gaze. “Anything else?”
Dark images flashed before Draco’s eyes, frightening and unsteady shadows that he’d worked so hard for months to not think of. But so much of them were wrapped up between the two of them, in Harry, himself, and Draco didn’t know if any of it was relevant to the spell but he had to try something. “Why did you save me, that night? With the Fiendfyre?”
“I…” Harry trailed off, suddenly shy. He gave a sharp exhale, and his eyes darted to the side before he appeared to gather his courage. “I’ve never been able to imagine my life without you in it,” he admitted.
There. Some of the ache, sharp and acidic in the back of Draco’s throat, in his stomach, began to fade noticeably. It was such a relief that he didn’t immediately process what Harry had said; when the words finally filtered into his brain, he felt the warmth in his face turn hot; his jaw suddenly felt unhinged. “What?”
“I just—you’re sort of part of me, you know? Somehow,” Harry fumbled out in his ridiculously endearing way. Draco felt… Swept away by the sentiment, especially when he considered the fact that it was, well, true for him too.
Somewhere within the aching array of emotions spilling up in him, he found a smile, and Harry smiled back.
Harry smiled at him back.
That was almost better than anything else they’d done.
But there was still—something.
He searched his mind slowly, looking for the thing that he knew he needed. It felt like muscle memory; something he was so used to thinking by now that he barely knew how to function without it in the back of his mind—something so automatic that he didn’t even remember it was something he did every day.
Draco paused to take a breath, squeezing Harry’s hand. “Why do you keep saving me?”
There. He’d said it. Or, well, asked it. Now he’d have the answer to the thing he’d wanted to know the truth about.
Harry blinked once, twice. His lips quirked up to the side and he swiped his thumb over the back of Draco’s hand. “Well, I think you’re worth saving,” he said somberly. “I always have, you know.” His voice grew quiet, something barely more than a whisper. “I always have, Draco.”
And there it was—the answer to his question. Harry said it like it was so easy, like it cost him nothing at all to say something like that to someone like him. But it felt like most intricate spell untying knots that had built up over generations. It felt like a softening in Draco’s chest, a warmth to his belly, the tender way the understanding was issued from Harry’s tongue. It felt like the truth.
And then it felt like the air had been punched from his lungs.
Harry’s words made his heart stutter in his chest and Draco tasted that fog again, sickly sweet and cloying, rising like bile before he felt it. Then that thickness coming forth, spewing from his mouth as he coughed and sputtered and heaved, swirling around him—more and more and more until it was all out. He heard Harry’s startled cry, felt his hands grasp onto his shoulders to steady him in place as he retched up the ugly green-pink smoke, his eyes watering from the force of it.
The mist settled, a dark and threatening pile in the corner of Draco’s room and Harry extended his arm at it, almost unthinkingly; it Vanished, and Draco stared at him in astonishment.
Harry turned back to him. “Are you okay?” he said urgently, smoothing his hands over Draco’s face, fanning his fingers against his jawline. He prodded Draco’s chin and reached up to—it seemed like, possibly—poke him in the eye, and Draco batted his strangely nervous hands away.
“I’m fine,” Draco snapped irritably. “Don’t do that.”
They both stopped.
“Did you just—”
Draco grinned, liberation swamping him. Harry laughed loudly, a bright, happy sound, and pulled him in for a tight hug. “I’m fine,” Draco said again, just because he could. However, he felt the need to amend, “You can do that, though.”
Harry’s mouth, which had found his ear, began working its way down the side of Draco’s throat. “God, I never thought I’d miss your snarky little comments,” Harry muttered, pressing a sucking kiss right under Draco’s jaw. “So, you fancy me as well, then?”
“Don’t let it go to your head. Your refractory period had better be low,” Draco groaned, hands coming up to find Harry’s nipples and tweak them between his fingers and thumbs. Harry made a breathless sound; a gasp or a laugh or a sigh, Draco couldn’t tell, so he went on, just for sheer enjoyment’s sake of saying things, “Because mine is. And I’m not going to wait around on you, you know. I’ll start without you if—”
“Draco,” Harry murmured, lips still searching against his skin. Draco tilted his head further. He’d always known Potter had fancied him; he might as well make good use of that fact now.
“Wh-what?” he gasped when Harry’s teeth found a particularly sensitive spot and gave a too-rough nip.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Merlin, yes,” Draco agreed weakly, hands falling into Harry’s lap. He was already partly-hard again. Well, Harry hadn’t come twice Draco reminded himself, so it wasn’t a big deal that Harry’s refractory period really was low, and he refused to resent it, because it would only benefit him really, he realised as Harry wrestled him back down onto the mattress and half-covered him with his body. And in the meantime, they could explore some of the other things they hadn’t tried yet; maybe Draco could use his mouth, and maybe even Harry would—
Harry seemed to have the same train of thought, and started sliding those teasing kisses downward. Draco’s mind went blank with lust again; this wasn’t natural, he was sure, to want someone so much, but what the hell.
He heard a banging noise and a loud, uncultured voice brayed out, “Oi, Harry, you’ve been in here forever, Mate, has the ferret killed you?”
And then Ron Weasley stopped in what was perhaps one of the top five moments of Draco’s life thus far, as he saw his best friend’s—The Chosen One’s, The Saviour’s—head buried in Draco’s lap. Everyone froze, and Harry gave a muffled, strangled laugh that danced over the skin of Draco’s thigh.
“Do you always burst into someone’s personal quarters unannounced like that? Get out, Weasley,” Draco ordered, even the sight of that ginger hair not putting him off of what Harry had been about to do. In fact, his prick twitched at being caught out. Harry must have felt the same way; Draco felt a lightning-quick flash of Harry’s tongue tasting his cock.
Weasley stood there, rooted to the spot.
“Ron, get out,” Harry echoed after a moment, holding still but not lifting his head. His arse was facing Weasley, and Weasley’s face was a priceless mixture of horror and confusion. He started backing away quickly, tripping over his own feet as he went.
“Merlin, right, yeah—oh!” The door thumped hard behind him as he yanked it closed, and there was a heavy pause on the other side. Then. “Just—Harry, what the fuck?”
Harry glanced up with a crooked grin. He winked before ducking back down and closing his lips around Draco’s cock.
And Draco’s helpless laughter quickly choked off into a surprised moan.