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Mistletoe Madness

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Midway through Apparating back to Grimmauld Place, Harry began to worry.

He had never splinched himself before, but he had never Apparated with his tongue wrapped around another tongue, or with his thigh pressed deep between another pair of thighs, or with his erection pressed firmly against the sharp edge of a hipbone before, either. The possibilities for disaster were endless.

His concerns momentarily interrupted his determination on their desired destination. Rather than arrive in the entrance hall, as Harry intended, he and Malfoy landed in a tangled, needle-sharp, jingling, blinking mass rolling across the sitting room floor.

They slammed into the wall accompanied by the sounds of shattering blown-glass spheres and tinkling silver bells.

“What the fuck is this?” Malfoy choked, tearing at a popcorn garland, which had wrapped itself tightly around his neck during the tumble.

Harry felt his face flush as he realised his error. “Sorry. It was my Christmas tree.”

“You Apparated us into your tree?”

“I was thinking of home,” Harry mumbled, plucking a cinnamon-stick reindeer out of his hair. “I don’t know why we landed on the tree.”

Malfoy glared around at the remains of the crushed spruce tree and its makeshift decorations.

“Where is the rest of it?”

“What do you mean?”

“There is approximately half of a Christmas tree here, Potter.” Malfoy kicked his foot out to dislodge the angel that was stuck to the toe of his boot.

“I was late picking one up. They only had the little ones left over.” Harry felt a stab of protective defensiveness for his lopsided, and now pulverised, little tree. He made to disentangle himself from Malfoy and, in doing so, accidentally crushed the sprig of Evil Mistletoe still clutched in the hand that was trapped under Malfoy’s back.

The Mistletoe did not, apparently, care for this treatment.

A sudden rush of heat flooded Harry’s system. He had only a moment to appreciate the look of intense ardour that came over Malfoy’s face before he was compelled to close the distance between their mouths once more.

Malfoy was ready for him this time. His mouth opened without hesitation, hot breath pouring over Harry’s lips, and the tip of his tongue meeting Harry’s in the open space between them. Harry met with an odd metallic flavour and jerked back, squinting at Malfoy.

“You’ve got a bit of tinsel.” Harry reached with his free hand for the silver strand caught at the corner of Malfoy’s lips. As he pulled it away, Malfoy flicked the side of his finger with his tongue, locking eyes with Harry before running the flat of his tongue down the centre of his palm.

Every inch of Harry went rigid. Even his lungs struggled to inflate as he drew a breath.

“The enchantment doesn’t seem to be wearing off,” Malfoy said against Harry’s wrist, causing gooseflesh to break out along his forearm.

“The Muggles got pretty violent before the end of the incidents. I think it’s going to escalate before the curse breaks.”

Malfoy looked alarmed. “Escalate? How much worse can it get?”

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, no, Potter. Absolutely not.” Malfoy’s voice was becoming shrill. “Do your job, for Merlin’s sake. Make it stop!” He punctuated this statement by drawing Harry’s thumb into his mouth and running his nimble tongue along the cuticle.

Harry’s eyes began to drift closed. “It’s odd,” he murmured. “The Muggles were all happy couples, and the Mistletoe turned them into violent combatants. Why is it having the opposite effect on us?”

“Perhaps it affects wizards differently?” Malfoy mumbled around Harry’s thumb, which he had now drawn entirely into his mouth.

“It’s possible,” Harry breathed. “Or it could be that it just brings out the opposite emotions in the victims. People in love felt hatred; we loathe each other, so it makes us feel attraction.”

“Plausible theory, Potter. Perhaps we can trick it.” Malfoy nipped the tip of his thumb gently. “Love me.”

“Excuse me?” Harry spluttered.

“Look at me and think loving thoughts,” Malfoy instructed, in dead seriousness.

Harry was stunned into silence for several seconds. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not going to be fooled by pretending.”

“Of course not,” Malfoy snapped. “You’re going to have to mean it.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m learning to love you, Malfoy? Sucking my thumb?”

Harry regretted his snappish tone immediately as Malfoy, who had been about to resume that very action, narrowed his eyes and clamped his lips back into their familiar harsh line.

“You have a better suggestion, Auror Potter?”

“How about this, Obliviator Malfoy…Obliviate us. What if you were to erase our negative memories of one another?”

Malfoy looked nothing short of horrified. “You want me to attempt to eliminate fifteen years of non-linear memories just to avoid thinking pleasant thoughts about me, Potter? You’ve gone completely round the twist.”

“Who isn’t doing his job now?” Harry grumbled.

“Typical Auror,” Malfoy seethed. “No understanding of the delicate nuances involved in the art of Obliviation. It isn’t like a raid, Potter. You can’t storm into the human mind with wands blazing.”

“Fine. We’ll try it your way.” Harry glared at him. “I love you, Malfoy. You’re so tidy and charming. I simply cannot contain my admiration of your delicate nuances. Your turn.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed further. “Your wit is rapier-sharp, Potter. I do so desire a man who can attempt to make me laugh.”

“You—” Harry began, but stopped abruptly as he was seized with the desire to taste Malfoy’s earlobe. “You—” he tried again, before his mouth closed on the soft flesh, making it impossible to continue speaking.

“I, what?” Malfoy breathed in his ear.

Harry ran his tongue around the rim of Malfoy’s ear. “You taste good.”

“Oh. Well…you smell nice.” Malfoy sniffed his hair. “Like cinnamon and cloves.”

“Reindeer.”

“What?”

“Cinnamon reindeer.” Harry bit lightly along the side of Malfoy’s neck.

“I have no idea what that means, Potter.” Malfoy’s fingertips began stroking lightly across Harry’s jaw.

“Ornament,” Harry clarified. Malfoy’s annoyed breath huffed in his ear. “From the tree,” he tried again.

“Do shut up, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, taking hold of his hair and yanking his head away.

“Alright,” Harry broke his grasp, lunged forward and drove his tongue back into Malfoy’s mouth. He felt increasingly like Malfoy’s plan was the sensible one. Surely, they could set aside their differences for long enough to overcome the Mistletoe and complete the job. He slid his hand, along with the dastardly foliage, down Malfoy’s back, stopping when he reached the strong arch at the bottom of his spine. “You’re quite fit for an Obliviator,” he complimented.

Malfoy seemed pleased, if the roll of his hips was to be trusted. “You aren’t entirely thick-headed, for an Auror,” he praised in return.

Harry felt a glow of pride, and he pressed his own hips forward to express his pleasure.

“It’s quite warm in here.” Malfoy was tugging at Harry’s cloak as he said this. Harry felt a further spike of delight at the fact that Malfoy was thinking of his comfort first.

“We’re dressed for outside,” he agreed, fumbling with the fussy clasps on Malfoy’s cloak. “We’re inside now.” Two of the finely crafted hooks bent and gave way under his increasingly forceful tugs.

Malfoy gave a little grunt, which might have been irritation with Harry’s manhandling or an endorsement of same. Harry chose to believe the latter and snaked his hand through the opening in the cloak and under the hem of the jumper beneath.

The moment his fingers made contact with Malfoy’s warm, smooth stomach, the Mistletoe fairly vibrated in his other hand.

“Oh, do you feel that?” Harry panted, dipping his head to allow Malfoy to yank his cloak up and off at last. “I think it likes this.”

“And you’re certain we should humour it?” Malfoy had gone to work on the buttons of Harry’s shirt. “It is Evil Mistletoe, after all. Perhaps you should try to destroy it?”

Harry blinked. It hadn’t even occurred to him to subdue the Mistletoe since his first attempt in front of the pub. He quickly withdrew his hand, which had managed to travel up Malfoy’s side while he was distracted, and had been stroking the soft hairs under his arm.

He rolled them both to the side, more roughly than was strictly necessary, and freed the hand holding the Mistletoe.

Harry fumbled in the rumpled mess of his cloak for his wand. “Wingardium Leviosa.”

The Mistletoe rose into the air and took up residence directly above them, bouncing slightly up and down, as if it was enjoying itself tremendously. Malfoy scowled at it.

An utterly irrational urge to destroy the thing that was putting that expression on Malfoy’s face seized Harry. “Incendio,” he hissed at the Mistletoe.

He might just as well have pointed his wand at himself. No sooner had he spoken the words, than he was consumed with an unbearable heat. He reached frantically for the hem of his shirt, yanking it over his head with such force that it took his glasses with it as it sailed across the sitting room. Harry squinted at Malfoy, who was kicking out wildly in his attempt to get his trousers off.

“What did you do, Potter?” he shrieked, also trying to wrestle his jumper over his head in a panic.

“The fucking thing is reflecting my spell,” he grunted, twisting onto his back and shoving forcefully at his own trousers. “It feels like I’m burning!”

Hazy though his vision was, there was no mistaking the fury on Malfoy’s face. “We are both burning, you halfwit! Take it back!”

“Ah, fuck!” Harry heaved himself off of the rug and on to the cold floor, desperate for relief. “Finite!” The sensation of licking flames ceased abruptly, leaving Harry lying shell-shocked on his back, covered in sweat, and gasping for breath.

The moment of peace was short-lived, however. Harry turned his head to locate Malfoy, and found himself staring at the sole of a perfectly buffed and polished pale foot, with perhaps the most attractive toes he’d ever seen. He nipped experimentally at the soft arch of the foot. It jerked, and the heel caught him in the nose.

“Ouch.”

“Ticklish, you git,” Malfoy responded, still sounding breathless from the invisible fire incident.

Harry rubbed at his nose and sat up. “We’ve really got to stop nearly burning to death together,” he sighed, peering over at Malfoy.

“This one was most certainly your fault, Potter. What do you say we call it even?”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but the words caught in his throat. He blinked and tried to focus his eyes.

“Are you naked?”

Malfoy’s hands shot to his groin, as if he had only just realised it himself.

“I was on fire!”

Harry thought of a number of snappy comebacks, but it was difficult to assume a superior position when he himself was down to nothing but an ancient pair of boxers, sporting no fewer than three ill-placed holes.

Harry took a deep breath and tried to focus on the task at hand. The Mistletoe was bobbing around merrily, exuding an air of self-satisfaction at this latest turn of events.

“I, uh…I’m not sure I should try any more spells on it, Malfoy.”

“It’s a twig, for fuck’s sake,” Malfoy snapped. “You defeated the Dark Lord, but this is too much for you?”

Harry sighed. “As you well know, I defeated Voldemort by surrendering. Much as I suspect we’re going to have to do here.” In the spirit of surrender, Harry gave in to the urge to crawl across the floor towards Malfoy, who was huddled against the back of the sofa and clutching his bits in what looked like a rather painful grip.

Malfoy’s eyes darted from Harry to the Mistletoe, which was trailing along beside him like an eager puppy.

“Surrender?” he mouthed.

“Give up entirely.” Harry placed his knees on either side of Malfoy’s legs and bent to place a soothing kiss on his tense, bony shoulder. A muscle jumped and shivered beneath his mouth and then relaxed, accompanied by a shaky sigh.

“How are we going to write this report?” Malfoy whispered.

“Very carefully,” said Harry, sliding his lips along the ridge of Malfoy’s clavicle. Interestingly, he tasted a bit of gingernuts even here. Harry wondered if some crumbs might have fallen into Malfoy’s clothing as he was enjoying them. He sucked at the skin, searching for specks of sugary ginger.

Malfoy’s hands were suddenly everywhere. They ran through Harry’s hair, trailed across his sweaty back, gripped the top of his thighs just below his arse, skimmed back up along his sides. It took him a moment to realise that this meant that they were no longer engaged in preserving Malfoy’s modesty.

Harry scrambled forward and sat on Malfoy’s lap, driving his tongue back into his delicious mouth, staving off any potential complaints. He needn’t have worried. Malfoy ground back into him with both mouth and pelvis, grunting quietly in time to the rhythm of their hips.

It was good, but it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy the Mistletoe. Harry resigned himself to the fact that defeating this particular foe was going to require total commitment.

Unwilling to break apart for long enough to wriggle out of the last barrier between them, Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy’s cock and guided it through the opening of his boxers, gripping them both through the thin fabric and pressing the sticky heads of their cocks against his own stomach.

The Mistletoe did a little mid-air flip, as if to say that’s more like it. As much as he hated to admit it, Harry found himself unable to argue the point.

Having Malfoy beneath him—panting, arching, and gripping his forearms to the point of pain—was fucking brilliant.

“I think it’s working,” Malfoy gasped against his ear. “I feel much better.”

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. “Me, too.”

“It’s just—”

“Yeah…hang on.” Harry glanced wildly around the room, searching amongst the scattered presents for the gift basket he’d received from Lavender Brown. At the time, it had seemed like the most ridiculous gift he’d ever received. Now, he vowed to get Lavender something special for the next time he saw her.

Accio Basket!”

The little wicker pedicure set flew through the air and smacked into Harry’s outstretched hand. He tore it apart, emerging victorious with a small bottle labelled Coconut Cuticle Oil.

Malfoy frowned at it. “Are you sure that’s appropriate for internal use, Potter?”

Harry spilled half the bottle on the floor. “Internal? I was just thinking…” He made a sort of half-hearted jerking motion with his hand.

Malfoy looked mortified. “Oh, of course. I meant…never mind. Go ahead.” He bit his lip and looked pointedly at the Mistletoe. “I’m not thinking clearly under the spell, you know.”

Harry truly sympathised. Now that the subject had been broached, he found he wasn’t thinking too clearly, either.

“So, I’ll just…” He motioned again, and when Malfoy gave him a curt nod, reached into his boxers to take hold of them both again.

The oil made what had been extremely pleasurable into sanity-wrecking bliss. Harry rutted his cock against Malfoy with renewed vigour, relishing the moments when their balls brushed lightly together on the downstrokes. He could sense imminent victory with every slick slide of his fist. If he could just get a little better angle

Malfoy’s hands shot out and took hold of the opening in Harry’s boxers, rending them in two with a vicious yank.

“That’s better,” he gasped, wrapping his hand around Harry’s and squeezing roughly. Harry couldn’t have agreed more. He leaned forward, pressing their freed erections between their sweat-soaked stomachs and closed his mouth firmly over Malfoy’s once more.

Harry felt things were going pretty well, but Malfoy seemed to disagree. He began struggling and twisting around under Harry, and his wonderful hand had gone completely off mission and was scrabbling around on the floor. Harry pulled away frowning.

“What?”

Malfoy scanned the carpet and snatched up the cuticle oil.

“It’s probably safe,” Malfoy muttered, turning an unprecedented pink colour. “For other uses, I mean. Oil is oil, right?”

Harry stared at the bottle for a moment, considering exactly how far he was willing to go in the course of duty.

“I should think so,” he finally muttered, feeling as if he was going a bit pink himself.

“It’s the only way,” Malfoy said in a grave tone.

Harry seized the bottle. “It’s got to be done,” he agreed.

Most of the remaining fluid spilled on the carpet as Harry fumbled about coating his fingers and trying to figure out the correct angle to get some between Malfoy’s surprisingly firm arse cheeks.

“Stop mucking about, Potter,” Malfoy snapped, pulling Harry’s tentative fingers from between his legs and guiding them to wrap around Harry’s cock instead. When Harry merely sat there stupidly, Malfoy snarled and took hold of Harry's cock as well, practically pulling him in to position.

“As you say, it’s got to be done,” he said, and then, wrapping his legs around Harry’s back, pulled him in.

If Harry thought the inside of Malfoy’s mouth was nice, it was nothing as compared to the inside of his arse. After only a few halting thrusts, Harry’s bloodstream felt as if it had turned to melted butter, and his muscles were shaking with the strain of intense pleasure. As far as he could tell, Malfoy was enjoying the experience as well. His eyes had snapped shut, but his mouth was hanging open, gasping for air on the intake, and groaning loudly on the out.

On the edge of his vision, Harry saw the Mistletoe begin to glow a shimmering, cheerful gold.

“I think we’re winning, Malfoy,” Harry choked out between thrusts.

“Yes,” Malfoy hissed. “Keep it up, Potter.”

Harry didn’t imagine that was going to be a problem at this point. He surged forward, nearly bending Malfoy in half in an effort to reach his mouth again.

“Auror Potter?”

Harry’s head shot up in horror. He clapped his hand over Malfoy’s mouth, just as he would have emitted another of his delightful moaning exhalations, and earned himself a sharp bite on the palm for his efforts. He shot Malfoy a warning look and pressed forward, burying himself to the hilt, so that he could arch up enough to peer over the back of the sofa.

As he had feared, Minister Shacklebolt’s head loomed in his fireplace.

“Minister?” Harry managed to choke out.

“Ah, Potter, good. I received word that neither you nor Obliviator Malfoy had reported in after going out on the Mistletoe case. I was concerned you may have fallen victim to the curse.”

Malfoy shifted beneath him, causing Harry’s cock to slide nearly out of him. Harry reacted just in time and thrust back in. Malfoy licked his hand appreciatively.

“No, sir. No, I…we, I mean…we’ve managed to contain the Mistletoe for the moment, pending further investigation. We intend to deliver it to the Department of Mysteries first thing Monday, so that they can determine the effects and counter-curse.

“Ah, very well, then,” Shacklebolt said. “I’m glad you’ve got things under control. We have, in fact, already identified the curse. Williamson caught up with the culprit about an hour ago. It seems the young man planned to meet with his Muggle girlfriend whom he suspected of cheating. The cursed Mistletoe was designed to reveal her true, hidden emotions. The unfortunate bystanders who happened upon it apparently had—how do the Muggles say it?—relationship issues.” Shacklebolt chuckled.

“True, hidden emotions?” Harry echoed in horror.

“Indeed,” Shacklebolt grinned. “Unfortunately for him, the young lady was quite in love with him. Until she learned about this, that is. At any rate, we’ve got an Unspeakable on call. Shall I send him through to collect the Mistletoe now?”

“No!” Harry winced as the sound of his shout echoed through the sitting room. Malfoy revisited his thumb-sucking trick.

The Minister peered at Harry curiously.

“I mean to say,” Harry began, at a more reasonable volume, “the Mistletoe is contained at the moment. No point risking any more casualties.”

Shacklebolt nodded. “Quite right. We’ll see you on Monday then, Potter. Good work.” And with that, he withdrew from the Floo.

Harry sagged onto Malfoy, breathing wildly.

“That was close,” he gritted out, as Malfoy thrust his hips up sharply.

“Mmm,” Malfoy responded around Harry’s thumb. He released the digit and took hold of a hank of hair. “The Minister is now under the impression that we’ve got everything under control. It wouldn’t do to let things spiral out of hand again.”

“True.” Harry squinted down at Malfoy, waiting for the inevitable horrified response to Shacklebolt’s revelation about the curse. Malfoy merely tightened his grip.

“Then you had better get back to work, Auror Potter.”

So Harry did.