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Harry never knows when to expect it. He’ll be walking along, minding his own business, when someone will push him into a nearby broom closet or yank him into an empty classroom. It’s getting to the point where every time someone looks at him strangely, he expects them to pounce at any moment. It is beginning to make him paranoid—but in a good way. A very good way.

It had started out simply enough—Harry had dared Draco to do something that would completely shock him, instead of being so predictable all the time with his standard insults and weak jokes. Draco had accepted the challenge, but a week later nothing had happened and Harry figured he’d backed out, as was typical of him.

That was Monday. Tuesday he was pulled into a cloak room by a very determined-looking Hermione, who proceeded to shove his back into the wall and crush her mouth to his in a bruising kiss. Harry was just about to ask Hermione what the sod she was on about when he noticed that she was wearing Slytherin robes, and they were rather large on her. He’d just managed a strangled “Malfoy?” when the Polyjuice potion wore off, and suddenly there were buttons and zippers and then Draco’s mouth was around Harry’s cock and all Harry could think was I know this is completely wrong but I don’t want it to stop.

When they left the room, after checking to see that the coast was clear and walking off in opposite directions, Harry figured that’d be the last of it, that Draco’d had his way with him and now things would go back to normal. That sorely disappointed Harry, but he didn’t quite understand why. All he knew was that what Draco had done to him had been the single most arousing experience of his life, and he wanted badly to return the favour.



Two weeks later, Harry is walking down a torch-lit corridor when he is suddenly grabbed by the arm and jerked into an unused classroom by, to his irritation, Zacharias Smith.


His annoyed question is abruptly cut off as Smith covers Harry’s mouth with his own, backing him up against a wall. Harry is stunned at first, but begins to respond, closing his eyes, as the mouth pressed against his begins to feel oddly familiar.

“What the-“

“Shut up, Potter, and strip,” interrupts a drawling voice. Harry’s eyes spring open, and a slow grin spreads across his face as green eyes meet gray. He flies out of his clothes, tearing at them in an effort to get them off more quickly. Draco, on the other hand, takes his time, meticulously removing each article and placing it neatly in a stack on a nearby desk. Harry stands, naked and freezing, waiting for Draco for what seems like an eternity. Finally, he turns to Harry with a wicked grin.

“My turn,” he says, and Harry is on his knees in front of him, completely unsure of what to do but somehow very sure that Draco will be more than happy to teach him. His first taste of Draco sends unexpected waves of arousal rocketing through him, and he soon learns that not only is he merely giving pleasure, he’s receiving it too.

Three unbearable weeks pass before Harry is pushed into a rather spacious broom closet on the fourth floor by Anthony Goldstein and once again ordered to strip in Draco’s singular drawl just before the Polyjuice melts away to reveal the white-blonde object of Harry’s seemingly boundless lust. Removing the last of his clothing, he jokingly asks, “So are we taking a turn with all the houses, then?”

Draco laughs, then comes up behind Harry, his mouth so close to Harry’s ear he can feel the soft tickle of his lips. “Brace yourself,” he whispers, and Harry barely has enough time to lean forward and prop his hands against the wall before he feels something warm and slick sliding just barely inside him. A sharp intake of air, and then Harry is seeing stars as Draco enters him, hard and fast. He bites his lip, willing himself not to cry out as Draco thrusts, when suddenly he realises that the pain is not really actual pain but instead is much more like ohgodyesyesfuckyes, and he bucks his hips backwards, silently willing Draco to go harder, faster, more. They part ways in silence, as usual, and all the way back to the Gryffindor common room Harry is wishing with all his might that Draco won’t make him wait so long this time to let Harry be the giver once again.

A mere week later, Harry’s wish is granted when Tracey Davis happens upon him alone in a 7th floor corridor and leads him to a nearby classroom. Harry knows he’s getting to Draco as much as Draco is getting to him when he’s pushed back into the wall and kissed so desperately he nearly becomes dizzy. Harry knows what awaits him this time as Draco leads him over to a window seat, long blonde hair gradually becoming shorter and petite body changing to tall and lean.

Draco sits on the window seat, facing Harry, and pulls Harry to him, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist. He mutters an incantation, making his fingers instantly slick, and coats Harry with the substance. Harry looks at Draco, nervous, wanting badly to get it right, and Draco reaches up to pull him down by the back of the neck, whispering, “Do it, Potter. And make it rough.”

Another searing kiss, and Harry straightens slightly, guiding himself into Draco just a little. No more than a second goes by before Draco lets out a low growl and lifts his hips, burying Harry inside him, and suddenly ohgodyesyesfuckyes turns into GOODFUCKINGGODYESOHYESFUCKYES as he slams into Draco, over and over. He cries out as he comes, his legs like water and his head spinning, and Draco releases a moment later, tightening his legs around Harry’s waist and throwing his head back in ecstasy.

This time, after they’re dressed again and ready to part in their usual way, Draco stops Harry and cups his face with both hands, giving him a lingering kiss. He pulls away, and Harry thinks he’s about to say something, but instead he reaches around to cup Harry’s arse, pulling Harry against him, and Harry can feel that he’s once again fully aroused. Draco’s mouth smashes against Harry’s and his arms snake around him, pulling him as close as possible. Unsure of what’s bringing this on but knowing he likes it quite a bit, Harry returns the kiss eagerly, threading his hands in Draco’s hair, humming contentedly into his mouth, tangling their tongues together. Then Draco pulls away and walks out, turning once to look back at Harry, fists clenched as though he’s fighting with all his strength to keep from running back and claiming Harry’s mouth once again. Puzzled, but still basking in the afterglow, Harry returns to his common room and dreams that night of silver-blonde hair and a beautiful, Quidditch-toned body.



It’s been two months and Draco hasn’t spoken a word to Harry, nor accosted him under the guise of some random student. Harry is almost frantic, wanting to know why Draco’s making him wait so long this time, but unable to utter a word to anyone about his desperation. Draco isn’t even bothering to confront Harry in the halls anymore to taunt him about Potions or Mudbloods or anything at all, for that matter. One morning, when Harry’s bag splits, spilling its contents everywhere, and Draco walks by without so much as a sideways glance, Harry decides he’s had enough with the torture and begins to look for an opportunity to get Draco alone.

Two days later, he is studying the Marauder’s Map and sees the dot labeled Draco Malfoy alone and pacing in an unused classroom on the top floor. Careful not to wake Ron or any of his other dormmates, Harry grabs his invisibility cloak and the Map and takes off for the classroom. Once there, he opens the door and strides in, catching the sight of Draco sitting atop a desk with his head resting in his hands, before throwing off the invisibility cloak and blurting out, “What the fuck is going on, Malfoy?”

Draco’s head snaps up at the sound of Harry’s voice, and a look of pure despair and misery crosses his face fleetingly before being replaced by his customary sneer. “What do you want, Potter? Out looking to see what other rules you can get away with breaking?”

Harry is at once furious and perplexed. He frowns, studying Draco’s face, seeing none of the desire there that he’d grown to adore. “What are you on about? It’s been two months, Malfoy. Two months. Are you trying to torture me on purpose? Is this your new form of fun?”

Draco looks away, sneer faltering just slightly, and says nothing. Harry huffs, impatient. “Well? Answer me, damn you!”

Draco’s hands clench into fists briefly. “You want an answer? Fine. Here’s your fucking answer.” He hops off the desk and strides over to Harry, then pushes up the left sleeve of his robes, exposing his forearm. “Here’s your fucking answer,” he spits out again, before brushing past Harry and storming out the door, slamming it shut as Harry falls to his knees on the cold stone beneath him.