A thousand fake stars shine brightly above him.
Beneath the constellations, tables are overflowing with food. Beige tablecloths shimmer slightly under the warm light, courtesy of the candles which rest on top of them, proud of being the room’s principal source of illumination.
People can be seen wandering around the place incessantly, excitedly, occasionally stopping to greet acquaintances or friends before carrying on their way; an everlasting process which has been going on since the start of the night. Across from Harry, some Ministry workers dressed in mismatched outfits chat enthusiastically with each other, glasses in hand, and at the center of the room a group of well-dressed witches gossip non-stop while continuously throwing looks around to make sure no one is eavesdropping on their conversation.
There are merely a few couples on the dancefloor. With their faces barely illuminated, they sway subtly to the slow ballads which the orchestra has been playing since the start of the night. Almost hidden by the dark of the night, but close enough for him to be able to see their silhouettes, a young couple has given up all pretense of dancing and is snogging shamelessly against a wall.
It’s the Annual Winter Solstice Ministry Event (or A.W.S.O.M.E, if you’re into acronyms, see: Hermione), and Harry is bored out of his mind.
He stands against the same wall as the young couple, close to the entrance fireplaces. Ron and Hermione are at his sides, forever loyal companions, chatting animatedly over the low sound of the music. Hermione is swaying slowly and seemingly unconsciously to the rhythm, and contrary to Harry’s initial superstitions, there’s an almost soothing energy in the room. He can gradually feel himself relaxing even in spite of the maddening amount of reporters who wander around the place like hundred eyed vultures, waiting for him to slip so they can eat him whole.
His jacket lies long ago forgotten on a chair. Nevertheless, the heat sticks to him even despite the fact that it’s bloody winter and fucking freezing outside. The magnitude of all the bodies crowding the room are enough to warm it to insane temperatures, and the heat has such a drowsy quality it makes him want to fall asleep. He probably will, he thinks — he just has to get bored enough first.
But the night still has a long way to go. He has been amusing himself all throughout the evening by ranking the worst outfits he can find. It’s a promising activity, one to which he doesn’t have to give much thought, since Muggle dress-coded parties like this one always provide him with outrageous and easily identifiable mismatches. (Currently, the first place is being proudly held by a bald wizard, who apparently thought it was a good idea to match striped socks with a bright burgundy sweater and swimming trunks. He’s followed closely by the woman in the low-cut denim dress and jeans). Harry absently swirls the drink in his hand, a bright pink beverage he took from the drinks’ chart and which flavour is just as alarmingly sweet as its looks, and continues searching the room for terrible clothing, even though he finds he is quickly running out of material.
Worse still, he deliberately has been ignoring every blonde head his eyes happen to wander upon, which leaves him with a very reduced pool of choices. There’s a part of him that wishes he could get drunk without having to worry about ending up on the front page of a newspaper because he threw up on some dignitary’s shoes again, or something even worse, but it’s unusual the day he actually gets to enjoy a party, and there’s hardly any point in expecting this time to be different.
Distant chattering fills his ears, taking him slowly out of his drowsy day-dreaming. Hermione is saying something to him, he realises.
“What?” He asks stupidly. The security of his inner fantasy world slips away from his mind like a fleeting snitch. She is looking at him with a worried expression on her face, her cheeks already flushed by the alcohol. “Sorry. Lost in thought.” He says.
“I noticed.” She takes a sip of her own drink, leisurely looking out for whatever thing Harry was staring at with a new curiosity set in her brown eyes, and he gives an idea just who she’s expecting to find victim of his staring. The drink in her hand looks suspiciously like champagne, though he can’t be sure — she didn’t have it the last time he looked. It makes him wonder just how long he has been staring off into space without saying a word.
Still looking around, she speaks with forced nonchalance. “I said; Harry, did you read The Prophet's article? Yesterday's." She pauses, then elaborates, rather unnecessarily. "The one about Malfoy, I mean.”
Harry barely suppresses an snort. Of course she means the one about Malfoy. It's the night’s favourite topic of conversation, after all. The very one topic which Harry was attempting to avoid, because even thinking about it made his stomach turn upside down. He read about Malfoy all right. He can bet there’s not a single person in the whole room who hasn’t read about Malfoy, at this point, because gossip tends to spread like the black plague in the Wizarding World.
The thing is, Harry noticed Malfoy the moment he came in, even if he wasn’t actively looking for him. He is rather difficult to miss even though he isn’t particularly tall; his blonde hair usually giving him immediately away amongst the crowd.
To Harry's disappointment, Malfoy happens to be immaculately dressed, a dark grey three-piece suit wrapping his body in all the right places. He had been hoping Malfoy’s exquisite sense of fashion didn’t extend to muggle clothing, so at least he would be able to fixate on that and ignore every other thought that threatened to pop in his head, but it seems like Malfoy has no intention of pleasing him in any way.
Even more difficult to miss had been the whispers and giggles which followed Malfoy around like an echo of his steps as he crossed the room; his face contracted in discomfort. Or the sideway glances and indiscreet pointing people sent his way.
“I did,” he answers, shrugging with an indifference he doesn’t feel. Hermione has given up on her quest and is looking at him now, a careful expression set on her face. There’s a wet spot on her nice blue sweater, although she doesn’t seem to have taken notice, most likely because she’s too watchful of his reaction. “What about it?”
Harry feels the anxiety inside of him bubbling up to the surface, his voice coming out with an edge when he speaks. Ron snorts, but whichever amusement he finds in Hermione’s words he doesn’t say. Harry frowns at him for a moment. It’s probably better if he just ignores him, he decides, turning back to Hermione.
“Well,” she says, sniffing. “I wondered what your thoughts on the matter were.”
Right. Harry’s thoughts on the matter are that he’s trying not to think about it. That’s exactly why he’s been making the effort of ignoring Malfoy’s very presence. Because he doesn’t care about whatever thing Malfoy did or did not do, about whichever sex position he likes and whether he enjoys sucking men off in alleys.
Ron definitely chokes on his drink then, coughing as if he has just read Harry’s mind, and he either does not notice or does not care about the annoyed look Hermione shoots him. Harry hears him laugh, still coughing, and barely refrains the impulse to roll his eyes at him. He wishes this were a new development, but it’s not. They always get like this when Malfoy is mentioned in front of Harry. There’s no reason for it, he thinks, because Malfoy is just a git, and there’s nothing interesting about a git, not even The Prophet’s articles.
But as it turns out, all of Harry’s friends are, for some incomprehensible reason, victims of a general sprout of insanity, which has them under the belief that he has got a thing for Malfoy. Just because. As in, they are convinced Harry is crushing on him. Or wants to fuck him. Or did fuck him. Whatever. It’s an absurd idea, really, just a big, stupid misunderstanding caused by some confessions of his young drunk self, but now there’s no way of proving to his friends the lack of interest he feels towards Malfoy. Having admitted that Malfoy is pretty only means he has eyes, for Merlin’s sake, and has nothing to do with crushing on him. And he doesn’t want to fuck him, he is just superficially curious about him, which is hardly the same. But there’s no taking back your words when your best friend is called Ron Weasley. He just won’t let you.
So that’s his current situation. He’s standing in the middle of A.W.S.O.M.E (which has proven to be more boring than awesome), a weird drink in his hand, and deliberately ignoring the elephant in the room. He just wishes his friends hadn’t brought it up, because that just makes it all more difficult.
“Um,” Harry says. He looks for Malfoy with what he hopes is a convincing enough bored expression. He has lost sight of him in the last few seconds (not that he was indeed looking at him, he just happened to know where he was. As he said, Malfoy is easily identifiable), and now finds him near one of the food tables, talking effusively with Cho Chang, his work partner. By the way Malfoy moves his hands as he speaks, they’re most likely engrossed in a debate of sorts, Cho staring at him with a frown on her face. But notwithstanding Malfoy’s apparent comfortability, Harry can’t help noticing the hard set of his shoulders, the stiffness of his body, the way he keeps looking nervously around.
He understands why Hermione is so interested on his opinion: she is secretly worried this new turn of events, this revelation, will make Harry go full back into his Sixth-Year obsession.
“I think it’s a shitty situation to be in,” he says resolutely, his eyes finding their way back to hers.
Hermione’s voice is eager as she talks. “I know, right? That’s what I said to Ron. I’m surprised he is even here at all.”
Harry had been surprised, too, when he saw him come in, at the beginning of the night. He knew Malfoy had been invited, of course, everyone who worked at the Ministry had been. But after all what happened, no one actually expected him to attend. Bravery has never been one of Malfoy’s most prominent traits.
But here he is, after all. There are dark circles beneath his eyes, anxiety in his movements; but he is here, and it leaves Harry feeling pleasantly surprised.
Maybe Hermione is right to worry, he thinks as his eyes follow Malfoy around, see him pick up a glass and down its content almost immediately. Harry is curious. It has nothing to do with his non-existent crush, but more about this newfound bravery that Malfoy exhibits when facing adversity. About this new facet of Malfoy’s personality which blossoms and displays itself with an uncharacteristic boldness in front of him. About the way his suit clings to his body, making it difficult to tear his eyes away from him even though he tries.
“It’s most likely bullshit, anyways.” Ron says. He’s serious now. He has probably been able to read something in his friends’ silence. Harry turns to look at him, confused. “The article, I mean.”
Yes. Harry wonders. He'd thought that before, too, right after he finished reading it. In fact, he believes those were his exact first thoughts as his eyes scanned through the interview in which a self-proclaimed ex-lover of Malfoy exposed all of Malfoy's dirty secrets, his kinks and liabilities: This is bullshit. They’re only making it up for reads, so they can dirty up Malfoy’s reputation even more . But now, after seeing Malfoy’s reaction to it, he is not sure what he believes anymore.
“I don’t know, Ron.” Hermione says, interrupting herself to walk a few steps to the drinks chart and pick up another glass (definitely champagne), then make her way back to them. “I know The Prophet is not exactly known for its… credibility. But the way he is acting, I don’t know.”
“Well, yes.” Ron says conspiratorially. “But Malfoy doesn’t seem like the kind of person to make himself public after all his sex-life has been nastily exposed to the world, does he? Why did he come, if it’s true? He couldn’t have expected people not to talk about it.” He speaks in a rush, yet his interest on the subject goes as quick as it came, having been distracted by the food which rests upon the table near Malfoy.
Ron has a point. It’s even more surprising that Malfoy hasn’t denied everything yet, that he hasn’t threatened with suing anyone. Knowing his personality, not retaliating is just as good as acknowledging the article’s truthfulness.
Harry wonders who is The Prophet’s source. Zabini? Nott, maybe?
“True or not, I think he’s trying to make a statement.” Hermione speaks resolutely. “And I don’t think we really know what kind of person Malfoy is anymore, Ron.”
On that, Harry feels inclined to agree with her. He has no way of guessing the reasons behind Malfoy’s lack of retaliation, but him being here definitely makes a statement. It says “I don’t care what you think about me”, it says “Keep looking for things to humiliate me with, my sexual record isn’t gonna make it”, it says “you can’t break me”. Having fallen victim to The Prophet’s slander on several occasions, Harry admires him for it. More so because, given the amount of reporters that are in the place right now, Malfoy is most likely going to end up on the front page again tomorrow.
Something must have finally alerted Malfoy of Harry’s stare, then, because he suddenly turns around. His eyes find him through the crowd, jaw quickly clenching in some kind of understanding as he notices them staring. When his eyes go over Harry’s, he lifts his chin, as if daring him to say something.
Hermione puts her glass down so quickly it’s surprising it doesn’t break.
The sudden movement is enough to make Harry jump, enough to break the hypnotizing spell casted by Malfoy’s eyes. His neck cracks because of the swiftness with which he turns to look at her, but before he has the chance to say anything, she claps one time in a way that makes him think she’s trying to bat away the bad vibes, and says, resolutely dismissing the topic: “Well! Who wants to dance?”
Shit. Harry doesn’t. Of all the resources Hermione could have used to distract him from Malfoy, that is by far the worse. He takes a step back, stumbling in his eagerness to back away from the insistent hands which are now shooting his way. He really, really doesn’t. Luckily for him, she gives up a moment later, after seeing the disagreeable face he makes at her, and turns to Ron, who hasn’t noticed any of this because he’s still staring longingly at a plate of roasted chicken, and therefore doesn’t have the time to run away from her. When Ron understands what is happening, he is already being dragged mercilessly towards the dancefloor.
Midway, though, Hermione’s step falters. She turns to look at Harry, her face unreadable. “You can come with us, you know. You should come with us.”
Behind her, Ron tries to run away, but doesn’t make it far before she catches him by the arm without bothering to look at him.
“I know,” Harry says, managing a smile. He knows she is hoping to get him away from Malfoy, lest he do something stupid. He also knows she gets uncomfortable with his obsession, and her need to get away from both of them (Malfoy and him, that is) is almost as big as her need to get him away from Malfoy. He decides to spare her the effort, and doesn't point out that it's her fault that he's even thinking about Malfoy in the first place. “You don’t have to worry about me, Hermione.”
Hermione nods, but doesn’t look very convinced. She speaks to him one last time before they lose themselves in the crowd: “Behave, Harry, please.”she says, almost pleadingly, and doesn’t wait for his answer. There’s now enough people dancing that he quickly loses sight of them.
I will , Harry mutters to the empty air.
You won’t, the distance between him and Malfoy seems to answer.
It’s true enough. Because when Harry looks back at him, he finds him still staring his way with a frown on his face, and for a stupid moment Harry considers approaching him, but then what would he say? “I’m sorry about what happened to you, though you talked shit about me to The Prophet too, when we were at Hogwarts, even if it wasn’t shit of the same indole. So in a way you kinda deserve it, but I understand how bad it feels, and also, I know it’s not any of my business, but is it true? Did you really suck someone off in an alley?” ? That isn’t gonna make it. He wishes he could go back to ignoring him, because now it’s impossible not to think about him, the spell of indifference has been broken and he’s afraid he’s unable to put it back up. Hermione is all the common sense he has and she’s not going to be of any help this time.
Still, approaching Malfoy is not an option (not a wise one, anyways), but there’s still a chance Harry can find out the level of truthfulness of the article if he gets close enough to Malfoy’s table to be able to overhear something, hence satisfying his professional curiosity. Maybe Malfoy will say something to Cho, they seem to be close enough friends to confide each other their secrets, and no one can blame Harry if he just happens to overhear something while he’s wandering about. Then, he can find Ron and Hermione, and get as wasted as his sanity requires it. It’s not as if he has something else to do, anyways.
Harry sets his now empty glass down resolutely and makes his way through the room. The heat has increased over the last few minutes, probable due to the escalating percentage of dancing bodies, and he can’t stop his shirt from sticking to his skin as he advances through the improvised dancefloor. It should be illegal to be this hot during winter, he thinks.
He narrowly manages to avoid a girl who looks like she’s building up the courage to ask him for a dance, and a Witch Weekly’s reporter who advances towards him with such determination set on his face that can only mean he’s hoping to write an article about him. Relying on the dancing couples to serve him as a shelter against unwanted attention, Harry crisscrosses the ballroom as inconspicuously as he can, and soon enough he finds himself standing next to Malfoy’s table.
Upon it there’s chicken, pork, a variety of salads, pies, fruits, cheese, bread. He walks along the table, pretending to be deciding on what to choose while progressively getting closer and closer to Malfoy. Albeit rather slowly, he manages to get close enough to overhear at least a few arbitrary words.
Luck doesn’t seem to be on his side tonight, though, because Malfoy suddenly falls silent. It makes Harry freeze on his spot, afraid that he has been spotted. He feels the silence stretch next to him, like a rubber band that is about to snap on his face. His hands sweat both because of the heat and his own nervousness, and he cleans them on his jean without daring to look up.
Malfoy clears his throat rather pointedly. Harry finally stops fidgeting, his stare fixed on an apple while cold sweat gathers up at his neck, and after a moment he finally risks a quick glance at Malfoy. The git in question is reclining on the table, arms crossed, one of his unmistakable pissed-off expressions plastered on his face. He is looking at him as if he thinks him stupid. Cho, meanwhile, stands at his right, and seems fairly amused by the spectacle even in spite of herself.
“Hi, Harry.” She says, and doesn’t even seem to be attempting to hide how much she’s enjoying this. Harry shifts his weight to his left leg and tries not to look as guilty as he feels.
He’s not sure he manages it. “Hi, Cho.” He says.
Maybe Malfoy is right. Maybe he is stupid.
“Not really.” He says. This whole thing is stupid. He doesn’t know what he had been expecting to hear when approaching, but interacting with them hadn’t been a part of his plan. He has the feeling he should have thought this more thoroughly before proceeding. “You?” He asks Cho, now merely for the sake of being polite.
Cho smiles at him. “Not really.” she says, softly. Her eyes twinkle under the dim light, and Harry is suddenly struck by how attractive he finds her. Malfoy, on the other hand, looks like he has just sucked on a lemon, and seems to be growing rapidly impatient at her side, his foot tapping repeatedly against the floor.
Harry’s brain says: abort abort abort.
He doesn’t ever bother on making up a reason to excuse himself. “Alright,” he says instead. “Bye, then.”
Grabbing an apple from the table in a last attempt at maintaining his dignity, Harry looks at Malfoy’s sneery face one last time, and walks quickly away from them.
“Bye, Harry.” Cho yells at his back, and he thinks he hears her laugh as he loses himself in the crowd.
Great. Such a bright strategy, Harry, he mutters to himself. Humiliating himself in front of his ex-crush and his nemesis (ex-nemesis?) is just what he needed to get his self-esteem up. Suddenly not even hungry anymore, Harry sets down his apple on the next table he finds, then decides he’s not drunk enough to deal with this, and grabs the nearest glass of champagne. The reporters can make as many headlines about him as they wish, he thinks, because he needs a drink nonetheless, and hell if he isn’t gonna have it. Screw all of this.
He downs it quickly, almost desperately, then sets the now empty glass back in the table with impetu. Screw it, screw this bloody event, screw Malfoy. Screw Malfoy especially. Malfoy and his bloody suit and his mannerisms, his speculated over sex-life and his stupid patented sneer and nasty smile. Harry forces himself to shove down all the previous curiosity he felt about him and grabs for another glass.
He drinks until the rooms begins to sway in front of his eyes, until the fire of the candles starts to dance beneath his gaze.
Until he can feel his bladder begging for relief.
He sighs. He would very much rather stay where he is, getting wasted and resolutely not thinking about Malfoy, scowling at every single person who looks at him, but his bladder doesn’t seem to have any intention of waiting for him to finish drinking the night away. He pushes his body away from the table, then, and forces his feet to stagger forward and towards the bathroom. Pissing himself in front of everyone is a headline he would much rather avoid, if anything else.
The amount of people is starting to make him feel claustrophobic. He bumps into a wizard on his way, whose blurred face regards him with a blank stare which does nothing to alleviate his uneasiness. I shouldn’t have drunk so much , he thinks. But there’s no helping that now. Maybe washing his face will alleviate him somehow, or so he hopes.
Surprisingly, there’s no one in the bathroom when he comes in. The room is incredibly alight in comparison to the ballroom, the incandescent white light blinding him momentarily, and the sudden change makes a sharp pain arise on his temple. But once inside, the muffled sound of the music works like a charm on his moodiness, and he can’t help but be thankful for it. He hadn’t noticed how much the noise was bothering him until now.
He goes over to the last urinal and relieves himself with a sigh, his drunk legs swaying a little under his weight as he urinates. It’s cold in here, and he wishes he had had the good sense to put on a jacket.
But as he reaches the sink, he’s already starting to feel better. His eyes have accustomed to the light by now, and so he washes his hands and face with composure, the cold water doing wonders on his drunkenness. Behind him, the door opens and closes, but he pays no mind to it as he closes the tap and shakes his hands to dry them.
That is, until the newcomer speaks.
“Well, then, Potter.” He says. “Spit it out.”
Harry looks up with a start. Malfoy’s blurry reflection regards him with casualty through the dirty mirror. He’s leaning against the closed door, arms crossed and a bored look on his face. His suit wrinkles where his side is pressed against the door frame.
“Malfoy,” Harry says. He doesn’t turn, but makes sure to keep a watch on him through the mirror, too wary of letting him out of sight. Finally Malfoy’s words reach his foggy mind, making way through his enhiebrated state, through his surprise. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Malfoy rolls his eyes at him. He quickly loses the bored look and is back at looking pissed, a sneer plastered on his face, as if he believes Harry is taking the piss. “Yes, you do.” He says bitterly. Harry doesn’t bother on insisting that he really doesn’t, because it’s not as if Malfoy would listen anyway. But he hasn’t done anything, apart from a fool of himself. The only thing he knows it’s that he’s too drunk to be solving Malfoy’s riddles.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you staring at me all throughout the night, Potter.” Malfoy elaborates slowly, as if Harry were a four-year-old with impaired hearing abilities, and not just a drunk man in a public bathroom. In Malfoy’s mind, they’re probably the same.
When Harry doesn’t respond, too confused and a little ashamed of having been caught staring at him, Malfoy just sighs. And even though Harry is watching him carefully through the mirror, he still doesn’t register the sudden movement of his hand before he has raised it, wand in hand, pointed at him. He doesn’t even has time to turn before he feels the spell propel him forwards, the sink hitting his stomach like something out of an inverted and nightmarish deja-vú.
But it’s not a hex. Instead, he just feels the alcohol forcedly evaporating from his body, the sobriety spell casted with such a force it leaves his head pounding painfully and his stomach bruised.
He’s so shocked he almost forgets to be mad.
“ What the hell, Malfoy!?”
Harry spins around to look at him directly. The artificial light suddenly feels too bright again, his own awareness too acute. The beating of his heart too loud in the emptiness of the room.
Malfoy is undeterred. “Oh, get a grip, you were acting even more stupid than usual, and that’s saying something.” He says. He doesn’t lower his wand, nor he seems too worried about Harry’s reaction. “Now, I will say it again: spit it out. I know you’ve been dying to. You’re not subtle, and I’m not blind.”
“And I will say it again,” Harry answers. He raises his chin at him, mirroring the gesture Malfoy did back in the ballroom. The sink feels cold under the grip of his hands. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Malfoy snorts. He finally lowers his wand, putting it back into his pocket, but the annoyed frown never leaves his face. “What I mean,” he says, his jaw clenching in anger as he strides over to him in four decisive steps. Harry doesn’t make a move, doesn’t let go of his grip, doesn’t take his eyes off him. “Is that I’ve seen the way you look at me, and I know it’s because of that bloody article. I can see your mocking face even when I turn around, Potter: yours and your friends’.” His upper lip curls in a grimace at his last words. He’s closer now, staring at Harry from above his pointy nose. So close that Harry feels the heat of his body, the quickness of his breathing. “Now, do you have the guts to insult me to my face, or has time made you a coward as well as an homophobe?”
Harry starts. It takes him a minute to catch up with what Malfoy is saying, but when he does, he wants to laugh in relief. Malfoy thinks we’ve been insulting him, he repeats to himself, the words reassuring . It sounds too good to be true, considering the alternatives. But he doesn’t laugh, because he has the feeling Malfoy would hex his balls off if he did.
“Of all the assumptions you could’ve made, of course you had to choose the most ridiculous one.” Harry says, his mouth dry. He rolls his eyes at Malfoy’s sceptical face. His heart is rabbiting in his chest, adrenaline flowing through his veins. “Oh, give it up — You’re not the center of the universe. No matter how much you’d like to believe otherwise.”
He attempts to walk away, to get away from him before things get out of hand, but Malfoy’s got other plans in mind. He pushes Harry back against the sink with force, a single hand pressing him against it to keep him in place. There’s a nasty smile on his face, one that reminds Harry too much of their school days, and he craves to erase it. “Spare me, Potter, please. It’s not as if I didn’t notice your pathetic attempt at eavesdropping. Hoping to hear something shameful to tell your friends, were you?” He cocks his head a little to the right, his grey eyes staring fixedly at Harry’s.
“I wasn’t.” Harry mutters, even though he’s not sure just which part of Malfoy’s statement he’s denying. Malfoy is too close, at least close enough for Harry to see a few of the freckles scattered across his nose. He still hasn’t taken his hand off Harry’s chest, and so there’s no way he doesn’t feel the increased rhythm of his heart, drumming against the tip of his fingers. Harry doesn’t allow himself to be deterred by it either way. He swallows and continues, “I don’t have a problem with your sexuality, Malfoy. It’s not that.” Quite the contrary, actually, he doesn’t say.
This seems to throw Malfoy off balance. “What is it, then?” He frowns at him, probably just now registering the crazy beat of Harry's heart against his open palm; noticing how it flutters beneath his touch. Whatever it is he notices, it makes him take a step back, his arm dropping on the space between them.
And Harry doesn’t know what his eyes show right now, if he takes notice of his flushed cheeks, of his accelerated breathing, but either way Malfoy’s eyes open wide in realization. When he talks again, it’s barely a whisper against the cold of the room.
“ You want me, ” he says. He’s stating it, not asking. Harry knows this, but the words still sound too surprised to have a true sense of security backing them up. So Malfoy repeats it, probably because he needs to make sure that Harry has heard him, but maybe because he's also having trouble processing it.“ You want me. ”
His smile is a mix of wonder and amusement, of amazement and hysteria, and Harry feels his heart drop to his feet at the sight of it. He should have listened to Hermione. He should’ve stayed away from him. But Malfoy rushes on, eager on his task of humiliating him further. “Hell, Potter, you aren’t homophobic, you are curious.” He says.
Those words feel like a kick to the stomach. They crawl under his skin, tearing up his sanity to shreds as easily as if it were wallpaper.
Harry is suddenly glad that he hasn’t loosened his grip on the sink, because there’s no chance his legs could support him on their own now. And he is about to interject, mouth full of spite, when Malfoy goes on with a smile still playing on his lips. “I bet you want to know if it’s true.”
“ No.” Harry says. “ No, you are wrong. ” He hates just how vulnerable he sounds right now. “I don’t. I don’t care about you, Malfoy.” He tries to smirk at him, to show him just how much he doesn’t care, how honest he’s being, but it comes out more as a grimace than a smile.
The truth is that he needs to get away. He needs to get away now, to put some distance between his body and Malfoy’s, because if he doesn’t then he isn’t sure what he’ll do, doesn’t know what sweet things Malfoy will whisper on his ear to make him give in into his madness, into his lies , because Harry isn’t crushing on him but Malfoy’s mouth is just as dangerous as poison.
Carefully. he lets go of the sink. Sidestepping Malfoy as to not to touch him, Harry hastily makes it to the door, his legs trembling slightly as he walks. He feels drunk again, even though he knows he can’t be, unless he has been intoxicated by Malfoy’s expensive smell. Somehow, it doesn’t even sound too crazy.
Harry pulls eagerly at the handle, all his composure abandoning him now that he’s almost out, but the door does not budge. He tries again, desperate, pulling as hard as he can, but it earns him no better results than before, and his rushed Alohomora penetrates through the wood without assorting any visible effect. It’s locked, he realises. Malfoy must have locked it when he came in, the bastard.
Of course he did. It just occurs to Harry that Malfoy hasn’t made a movement to stop him from leaving, hasn’t moved from his spot because he knew Harry’s efforts would be fruitless. He knew an Alohomora wouldn’t work, either. Anger rises up in him at the thought of that, his jaw clenching in contempt.
“Open it,” he growls, turning around. He points his wand at Malfoy’s chest, who is regarding him with interest, his stupid smile still on his face. His own anger comforts him, serves as a protective blanket against his previous discomfort, his previous neediness. Anger is something he understands, something he’s accustomed to, and he relies on it with relief. He feels on safe ground again.
Malfoy raises his eyebrows at him, dismissing the wand pointed at his chest with nothing more than a quick glare. “I will,” he says, not unkindly. Harry stares at him, waiting. But Malfoy smiles at him even more widely than before. “I will, if you tell me I’m right.”
That earns him a dry laugh from Harry. For a person who has lost a war, whose reputation couldn’t get worse, Malfoy is still too cocky for his own good. Harry wants to punch him on the nose. He would, if he weren’t so scared of the consequences of touching him. “Malfoy, open this bloody door before I change my mind and punch you on all your pretty face.”
The words are out before he can think better through them. They echo in the silent room, ringing on the back of his head as his brain processes them. Malfoy looks startled for a second, his eyes widening as he raises his hands in surrender, and on a heartbeat the fake sweet smile back on his face. “Alright,” he says softly, mocking.
When Malfoy starts to walk towards him, Harry raises his wand even more in warning. The threat makes Malfoy suddenly stop, sighing as he stares at the wand in front of him. He looks at Harry with an exasperated face. “Potter,” he says. “If you want me to open the door, then you actually have to let me get close enough to it to open it, don’t you think”
Harry waves his hand at him. “Open it with your wand.” He says. “You’re a wizard after all.” Malfoy looks at him with a pained face, as if he thinks Harry is being deliberately obnoxious. As if it wasn’t him the one who locked them in the bathroom and started making crazy accusations just because he hates Harry and thinks of himself as the center of the universe, a mighty beauty capable of turning every man’s heart into a poodle.
“I can’t.” He says, licking his lips. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d say Malfoy looks almost nervous. “I charmed it so it only opens at my touch.”
Harry is not sure he believes him, but if playing by Malfoy’s game is what he has to do to get out of this bloody bathroom, then he can make the sacrifice. He lowers his wand a little, enough to let Malfoy know he’s allowed to get closer, but still pointing towards him, so Malfoy understands he’s not the one who’s in charge anymore.
Slowly, Malfoy steps towards him, hands still raised. He reaches next to Harry’s waist, his hand closing over the gold handle.
His breath is on Harry’s ear, cheek almost pressed against his own. Harry feels him press against him a little, successfully trapping him with his body. Shivers run down his spine when he feels Malfoy turn his face towards him, lips pressing against his ear.
“Just for the record,” Malfoy says, slowly, ignoring Harry’s wand pressed against his chest. His voice is so deep that Harry can almost feel himself drowning on it. He’s a sailor succumbing under the untruthful and heavenly chants of a siren, and what it’s even worse is that he wants to succumb, wants to give in to him.“I want you too.”
Malfoy doesn’t wait for his answer. He’s out the door before Harry can react, before he has the chance to do anything but gape at him, all his blood going south.
He doesn’t know if Malfoy lets the door open on purpose or if it’s merely a casualty, but it leaves Harry with no option but to stare helplessly at his retreating body as he mingles back into the party.
He doesn’t even know how he manages to get to Ron and Hermione before completely losing his mind, but he does. He absently remembers tripping onto a chair on his way through the room, his legs almost giving up completely. They’ve wanted to give up ever since Malfoy pushed him against the sink, and now, with his words still replaying in his brain like a broken record, it is even more of a miracle that they’ve held him up this long.
Ron sees him come first. He smiles brightly at him, a portion of chocolate cake in his hand. When he notices the panic in his face, the flush of his cheeks that still hasn’t left him (he can feel it burning), his smile falters a little. He nudges Hermione, who’s next to him talking with a pretty witch in a emerald sweater.
When Harry finally gets to them, he almost collapses in Ron’s arms.
“Bloody hell, mate, what happened? Are you drunk?” Ron says, his hands holding him against his chest.
“No,” Harry laughs a bit hysterically against him. He wishes he were drunk. Of course Malfoy had to deprive him of that as well as of his sanity. Prat. He should have punched him. He should have slammed him against the door and showed him just how much of a nasty bastard he still was. “No, not anymore.”
“Harry, what happened?” Hermione insists, her voice is filled with worry.
“Malfoy happened,” He finally answers, after seconds spent trying to find his voice. When he manages to speak, he does so hastily, the words flowing out of him before he has the time to change his mind and choke up in his own silence.
“Ah,” Hermione says. Only that, and she’s already grabbing a glass of water from a passing tray and handing it to him, her face a confusing mix of pity and self-righteousness. She doesn’t have to say ‘I warned you’, because the sentence is practically written on her eyes.
Ron pushes him away from him with a sigh. Harry grunts at the sudden loose of his consoling warmth body against his, but lets himself be pushed away nonetheless. Ron keeps his grip on his shoulders and stares into his eyes with disappointment written all over his face.
“What did you do?”
Harry splutters. “What makes you think I did something!?” He says, voice indignant. Ron raises his eyebrows skeptically at him.
“Um, I don’t know, maybe the fact that you’ve been eating him with your eyes the whole night?”
“Wha— No, I haven’t!” He says, and there’s a chance his voice comes out just a little too loud, because a few people turn to stare at them, interested on the show they’re putting. “Why is it that everyone keeps insisting on that?”
Hermione perks up, an incredulous eyebrow raised at him. “Because it’s the truth.” She says, nonchalantly. “So I presume he has noticed?”
Harry takes a sip of his drink and doesn’t answer.
“Harry?” She prompts, impatiently. It takes her a moment to realize Harry has no intention of responding. There’s no point to it. “Ah,” She says. “What did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” Harry says. But he feels that if he doesn’t tell anyone then the words will replay forever inside of him until they become all of him, until his existence does nothing but scream ‘ I want you too,’ , unable to form any other coherent thought. He feels consumed by it, and it takes only an exasperated sigh from Hermione to have him talking. “He thought we were insulting him.” He says.
“He what?” Ron turns to look at him, curious.
“He thought we were insulting him,” he repeats, “You know. Because of the, uh, article, and all that. Called me an homophobe”
“Merlin,” Ron says. He turns to look incredulously at Hermione. “I thought only Harry was that dense.” He tells her.
Hermione snorts, but Harry hurries up before she can speak, ashamed and feeling a bit called out. “Hey,” He says, accusatory. “I’m not dense. And anyways, he changed his mind rather quickly. Now he’s convinced that I’m crushing on him, or something.”
Ron sniffs, still looking at Hermione. “Yeah, I take it back. Maybe he’s not that dense.”
“Oh, no, not you, mate. I meant Malfoy. You are dense, no doubt.”
Hermione stifles a laugh against her hand, and Harry turns to look at her, betrayed. He’s not dense, and is about to tell them so, but she dismisses him with a wave of her hand before he can even open his mouth. “Well, one thing is certain,” she says. “And that is, Malfoy doesn’t seem to be too bothered by your crush.”
“I’m not crushing.” Harry repeats, for good measure. It’s just a matter of pride, at this point. Malfoy does look good in his suit, and that’s a fact. Harry’s not blind, and that’s another fact. And that’s it.
Then Hermione’s words catch up with him, and he frowns at her, confused. “What do you mean, he’s not bothered?” He wants me, he thinks, stupidly.
“I mean, he has been eating you with his eyes ever since you found us, that’s what I mean.”
Harry follows her gaze. It’s true enough. From across the room, Malfoy’s eyes linger discreetly over him, his gaze appreciative as it wanders over his body. Harry stares dumbly at him, and Malfoy winks at him when he notices.
Harry’s throat makes an unearthly sound. He turns away quickly, his eyes going over to Ron, who is making a mildly disgusted face. He accentuates it when he notices Harry looking.
Behind him, Hermione sighs. “Well,” she says. “I guess that settles it then.”
“That you need to go talk to him.” Hermione answers, giving him a pointed look. Harry stares blankly at her.
Ron stares at him. “Harry, mate, just go for it already.”
Harry makes a face at Ron, then turns back to Malfoy, speculating. His heart is rabbiting in its cage, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s not crushing on Malfoy, but. But. But the way he’s looking at him is enough to make him reevaluate everything he thought a few minutes ago. But his words keep repeating inside of him non-stop, taunting whispers against his skin.
With the stars still shining on his stupid hair, Malfoy looks his way one last time. He has got a playful smile on his mouth, and even though he nods at whatever his companion is saying, Harry doesn’t think he’s really listening. Then Malfoy says something to the wizard, a rushed apology, maybe, and he’s turning around without waiting for a response.
However, he doesn’t come over to Harry. Instead he directs his steps towards the back exit, the one that Harry knows leads towards a small backyard usually used for Apparation or a quick smoke while on work break. He watches him disappear behind the door.
He turns back to find Ron and Hermione both staring at him. Harry raises his eyebrows at them, an inquisitive gesture which initially only earns him Ron handing a glass to him. He refuses with a wave of his hand, still too annoyed by the remains of the sobriety spell which stills linger on his body.
Hermione sighs, and after a moment she seems to be able to hand it no longer. “Harry, just go after him.”
Those words are enough to set him into action.
“Alright,” he says, and his body is moving before the words are even out of his mouth. Once the decision is taken, he seems unable to stop. He crosses the room with ha ste, his feet ca rrying him at such a speed that he can’t avoid bumping into a few persons on his way out. He apologizes without stopping, his eyes set on the door, so when he finally reaches the threshold he’s almost out of air.
A wave of cold hits him hard on the face when he opens the door. He had already forgotten how cold it was outside, and he curses under his breath as he comes out. Malfoy is sitting on a windowsill, legs popped up against the wall, a few feet away from the door. He startles at the bang the door makes when it hits the wall, and Harry realises suddenly how crazy he must look right now, messy hair and in a t-shirt in plain winter, all in a hurry without apparent reason.
They stare at each other for a few seconds. Malfoy has got a cigarette between his fingers, and for a moment it stays there, forgotten, consuming itself. Then he snorts, his expression becoming amused as he shakes his head a little, seemingly mindlessly, before bringing the cigarette back to his mouth. It’s weird, seeing Malfoy smoking, like two ideas that he has never associated before colliding with force all of a sudden. It makes him feel weirdly out of place. He’d never thought of Malfoy as an smoker, but the action seems natural on him, which only adds to the weirdness of the scene.
Harry closes the door and advances towards him with uncertainty. He’s freezing, and it somehow didn’t occur to him just what he was gonna do once he reached Malfoy. He stands awkwardly in front of him, considering just how weird it would look if he just turned around and went back inside.
“Want to borrow one?” Malfoy says, apparently taking compassion on his awkwardness. It takes Harry a moment to realize he’s talking about the cigarettes.
Harry doesn’t really smoke, but he has run out of ideas already, so he doesn’t see why not. He nods at Malfoy, feeling relieved and a little thankful at being given a motive. Malfoy smiles at him and hands him one, taking his legs off the windowsill to make space for him to sit.
Harry sits promptly on it, careful to avoid any kind of physical contact, and accepts the cigarette Malfoy hands him with forced nonchalance, pretending this is a normal occurrence. He’s not sure if he succeeds at all.
Still, Malfoy doesn’t say a word, not even to acknowledge the events which had place in the bathroom. He throws him the lighter without looking his way, staring up into the sky with a awfully serious expression on his face. Harry doesn’t know if he has deliberately ignoring him or just waiting for him to talk, but they stay like that for a few minutes, as Harry lights his cigarette and takes a long drag. He almost chokes on it, thankfully managing to refrain the cough before it leaves his mouth, but there’s nothing he can do to suppress the smoke coming out spasmodically out of his nose, however. Malfoy doesn’t even look at him, but Harry catches him smiling to himself.
“So,” Malfoy finally speaks, letting the smoke slowly out of his mouth in a unnecessarily elegant way. It kind of pisses Harry off a little, but making fun of him would surely have Malfoy retaliating in ways he’s sure he won’t enjoy. “Are you going to say anything, or am I just supposed to sit here on silence waiting for you to grow some bits?”
“Fuck you,” Harry bites back.
“Sit in silence, then.” Malfoy smirks again, and Harry just wants to punch him on the mouth right now. There’s no point in trying to communicate with Malfoy, Harry’s almost sure the prat gets off in being annoying. It’s almost like his full-time job at this point. He came out here hoping to have a nice, civil word with him, but well, if Malfoy can’t be stop being a jerk to save his life, that’s his problem.
Harry won’t do anything about it. He’ll just go back from where he came and swallow all his words until the end of times, and Malfoy can go fuck himself. Harry is not even interested anymore. He just doesn’t care.
Malfoy senses his anger. “Oh — come on,” He starts to say. “I was kiddi — ”
But Harry won’t have it anymore. He grabs Malfoy by the arm and before he can react takes his cigarette out of his hand, throwing it to the floor and stepping deliberately on it. Malfoy freezes, letting a surprised grunt, but Harry acts before he has the chance to speak. He lunges forward, pushing Malfoy against the window with impetu, Harry’s lips choking out the whimper which attempts to leave his mouth.
Malfoy’s initial surprise seems to wear off after a few seconds. His hands take a grip in Harry’s hair, and he seems to suddenly and by all means sink into him, his body going slack against Harry’s, mouth opening in a silent plea.
It feels too much like falling down. There’s no going back now, Harry thinks crazily, as he feels the hunger inside of him unleash with inevitability. He grabs Malfoy’s vest, opening his mouth under him with a necessity he didn’t even know he felt. He drowns into him as if it were the only thing he knew how to do properly.
Malfoy’s mouth is soft and tastes faintly of cigarettes and wine and something refreshing, his tongue warm against his as they meet in his mouth. Harry holds desperately onto him, a muffled groan losing its way into Malfoy’s mouth. His body burns even out on the cold as Malfoy’s hand tightens his grip into Harry’s hair, pulling barely but enough to make him lose his mind even more.
He should have done this way sooner. He doesn’t even know why he’d tried to contain himself, why he’’d tried to deny his feelings for him to start with. But Malfoy’s mouth against his feels more necessary than breathing, and maybe it’s about this, it’s always been about this, about Malfoy’s mouth and his warmth, his body hard against his. Maybe he always made and effort to stay away from Malfoy because of the fear carried in the possibility of never being able to get away if he submitted.
That is how he feels now, as if Malfoy’s body taunts him with unearthly magnetism, as if he’s never going to be able to pull away. But he doesn’t want to anymore. He was foolish to try to stay away from him in the first place.
They’re both panting heavily as they break apart, Malfoy’s cheeks flushed with warmth. He looks slightly dizzy and his hair is a mess, which is kind of funny given the fact Harry doesn’t remember ever putting his hands on it.
Malfoy clears his throat. He doesn’t take his eyes off Harry, and the unexpected attention makes Harry self-conscious enough for him to have to repress the sudden and desperate urge to flatten his hair, now worried about how awful it must look. But Malfoy doesn’t say a word.
Instead, he rests his head back against the windowsill, closing his eyes, lips red from the pressure of kissing. Harry observes him carefully; the surprisingly long eyelashes, the ruggedness of his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls, the hard set of his jaw. The bare neck, exposed against the cold air of the night. He’s mesmerised by it, and Malfoy’s voice makes him jump when he suddenly talks. “Well,” He says. Harry waits fruitlessly for him to continue.
And after a few seconds of silence, Harry finally thinks, fuck it. He may as well ask him. Worst case scenario, Malfoy will say no, and they can part ways. No biggie.
“Do you want to go to my place?” He blurts out.
At the same, Malfoy says: “You know, it’s not actually true.”
Harry pauses. “What?” He asks, confused.
Malfoy is properly blushing now, the crimson colour filling up his cheeks as if he’s on fire. He clears his throat again. “The Prophet’s article. It’s mostly bullshit.”
Oh. Harry had forgotten about that. “Oh,” He says. “So, you don’t — ” He stutters, tries to start again. “I mean, you don’t want to go to my place, then?” He is ashamed, but it looks like at some point of the night he had just decided that the article was true, and somehow has not given thought to the possibility of it being false.
Malfoy blinks at him. “I,” He says. He seems confused. “I didn’t say that.”
They stare at each other, Harry unsure about whether to proceed or not. Is Malfoy accepting? It looks like he might be, if his blush is an indicate of something his words haven’t accomplished to express. He wonders if he should stand up, ask for his arm so he can Side-Along him.
Malfoy takes the decision for him, standing up. He sniffs and turns to look at him. “Is the offer still up, or have you already changed your mind?”
Harry stands up hastily. He takes Malfoy’s arm without asking and waits a second for him to back away should he want to. When Malfoy doesn’t, but instead only stares at him expectantly, Harry takes a deep breath, thinks
They arrive on the front porch. Harry lets go off his arm, both of them silent as Grimmauld Place appears in front of them. It feels weird for Harry, now that they’ve stopped touching, to try to initiate body contact of any sort. Even though it’s clear why Malfoy is here, his imposing presence still makes Harry feel inadequate on his steps.
Malfoy certainly does not look like a person who’d suck someone off in an alley, after all, and he wonders how he managed to believe it even for a few hours.
He steps into the house and Malfoy follows him, still not bothering to talk (and Malfoy is such a great talker, it should be surprising that he has managed to keep quiet just when Harry most desperately needs him to speak), but he observes the house with interest, eyes wandering over Walburga’s hidden portrait with a raised eyebrow as they make their way into the room.
Harry wonders if he should lead him straight to the bedroom. It feels rude somehow, so he stops on the corridor and turns to look at Malfoy hesitantly. “Wine? Something to drink?”
Malfoy’s gaze is intense. “No, thank you.” He says, his voice soft but sure. Harry stares at him, suddenly frozen in place. He feels his body warming once again by the newfound attention he’s receiving.
“Okay,” Harry says, as he watches Malfoy advance towards him. He doesn’t move, but lets Malfoy softly and tentatively push him against the wall, a mimic of the bathroom encounter, his back meeting the coldness of the wall with a shiver.
His mouth opens in expectative action even before Malfoy gets any closer to it. But it takes no more than a mere few seconds for Malfoy to catch up with the eagerness of Harry’s body, and his mouth collides with Harry’s with confidence.
It feels like a breaking point in Harry’s life. Once Malfoy’s mouth touches his again, under the dim lighting of the corridor, no sound but their own breathings and the friction of their clothes, Harry is once again hit by the realization that there’s no turning back from this. There’s no turning back from Malfoy’s touch. So he sinks into Malfoy’s mouth, his hands coming to grab his impossibly blonde hair, pulling at it almost unconsciously.
Malfoy wines under his rough touch and God, how did Harry never realise just how much he’d wanted this? How much he had wanted to feel the firmness of Malfoy’s chest against his, his accelerated breathing and his hands taking him apart?
Harry takes a step forward, pushing Malfoy away with his body. Malfoy stumbles backwards, looking confused for a second before Harry grabs him by the arm and pulls him towards his bedroom. They are kissing again before they make it through the door, Malfoy’s mouth more dominating than ever before.
It’s not long till Harry’s back to being pressed against the door, his hands incapacitated because Malfoy has a strong hold of both of his arms. Harry’s whole body buckles against the wall, seeking even more contact in greediness. He hadn’t expected Malfoy to be of the dominant sort, even though he should have. Somehow and without even realising he has gotten used of his lovers letting him do whatever he wanted. But it feels right, now that it’s happening, to let Malfoy do as he wishes.
Harry doesn’t attempt to break free. He gasps when the hold strengthens, their bodies alienated perfectly. He can feel the hardness of Malfoy’s groin against his own, insistent and heavy against his body, and there’s nothing he has ever wanted more than to let someone pull him apart.
“I-” Harry says, but quickly loses his track of thought as Malfoy abandons his mouth in favour of his neck. He gulps heavily. “Bed.” He manages to croak, but Malfoy only hums against him.
“No,” He finally says, when it’s clear Harry has the intention to head towards the bed. His words lose themselves into Harry’s neck. “No, Potter. I want you like this.”
Harry’s knees threaten to buckle under his weight. It’s funny, how nobody has ever dared to bossy him around until Malfoy (except Hermione, but she doesn’t count, and really, that’s not something he wants to think about right now). It’s funny how he has never even considered it a possibility, used to people expecting him to be all heroic and powerful. But Malfoy’s words reverberate in his brain, their alluring neediness ready to do with Harry as they wish.
He can’t say he doesn’t like it. Of course Malfoy would crave power over him, it’s what he always did, and somehow Harry hadn’t expected it at all. He had expected Malfoy to bend for him and let him do as he pleased, or maybe to turn all stuttery and flushed under him. He should have guessed, he thinks. And still he hadn’t.
“Alright,” He says, even though Malfoy hasn’t waited for his reply. He’s still kissing his neck, his mouth soft and endearingly careful in its touch. Harry grabs him by the hair, lets his fingers merge into the softness of his strands.
His answer pleases Malfoy nonetheless. He comes back to his mouth, his kiss warm and slow in spite of Harry’s attempts to go faster. He lets his hands travel over Harry’s body, and Harry barely has the time to register what is happening before he is being lifted from the ground. He crosses his legs over Malfoy’ sbody by instinct, the pressure of his trousers now becoming almost unbearable. He’ll be lucky if he manages to last much.
“Wait,” he says. Malfoy grunts against him, so he repeats it. “Wait, wait, I want to suck you off.”
That catches Malfoy’s attention. He stops, blinking at him a few inches away, colour coming back to his face. “Alright,” he says.
He steps away a little, giving Harry enough space to kneel. The plant of his feet touch the door as he goes down, and he stays like that , feet against the door and hands on Malfoy’s hips, his fingers fumbling clumsily with the button of Malfoy’s trousers. He can feel the beating of his own heart in his hands, the hardness of his cock trapped under all the fabric he doesn’t know why he’s still wearing.
It’s too much, the overload of mixed emotions leave him almost breathless. He holds unto Malfoy’s waist desperately, pressing his head against the heaviness of his briefs with sheepishness. Malfoy doesn’t say anything to him in response, doesn’t pressure him to carry on but merely travels his fingers over Harry’s hair, patting him with something close to tenderness. As unexpected as the action feels, it works on calming him down, and he lets a breath out before his hands are back on Malfoy’s brief, pulling it down with renewed eagerness.
He doesn’t miss the hitch on Malfoy’s breathing as his cock springs free. It’s unsurprisingly long, the milky skin becoming a fierce pink at the head. Harry stares at it dumbly, his mouth watering before he even allows it get any closer.
Harry lets his tongue meet the head, blood rushing in his head as he closes his mouth over him. Malfoy holds onto his hair, his fingers crashing painfully against his skull before he softens his grip with a groan.
It’s all the encouragement he needs. Harry presses forward, letting his mouth open under the weight of Malfoy’s cock. His cheeks burn with pleasure, a rush of adrenaline prompting him to look up at Malfoy’s face. “Shit,” Malfoy says, staring down at him with something resembling disbelief. Harry feels Malfoy’s leg tremble under his own weight before recovering stability.
He presses forward still, his head moving rhythmically to meet Malfoy’s hips. He sinks into him, the smell of sweat filling his nose, his tongue full with effort around Malfoy’s cock. He’s holding onto Malfoy’s hips for dear life, a grip reciprocated by Malfoy’s steady hands on his hair. It seems like a desperate effort to maintain themselves upright, a stupid attempt of anchorage accompanied by Malfoy’s soft groans, and Harry feels lost on him anyways.
It’s no long before Malfoy’s breath hitches, his groan cutting itself in the middle to give out a warning, as if Harry is not waiting on this, as if he doesn’t realise Harry has been eager for this ever since he saw him across the room. He lets Malfoy spill himself into his mouth, swallowing eagerly while he holds him together by the hips.
They’re both panting heavily as Malfoy takes a step away and almost collapses before he manages to get a grip on Harry’s shoulder. Harry looks up at him with wonder, and maybe a little pleased with himself, too. He manages a smile which Malfoy returns briefly.
“Sorry,” Malfoy says, and to his credit he actually sounds it. “I should have warned you.”. Harry shrugs at him, even though it’s becoming hard to ignore the pressure of his trousers. He pops the button open as discreetly as he can, but Malfoy’s eyes follow him anyway. “Alright, bed.” He says, holding his hand out to him.
Harry takes it. They both manage to make it to the bed before collapsing, and Malfoy quickly pulls at Harry’s trousers, taking his dick in his hand. He wanks him lazily, apparently too drained out to give it much care, but Harry is already so close he doesn’t feel like complaining too much. “You know,” Malfoy says offhandedly, “I really, really wish i could fuck you right now.”
It takes him by surprise. Harry’s brain resolutely stops working, and he’s dimly aware of the way his heart is beating fast in his chest and of the way Malfoy islooking at him as he comes all over his hand, a groan strained in his throat.
When he finally comes back to himself, Malfoy is looking pleased with himself. Harry rolls over to look at the ceiling as his breath comes back to normal, accompanied by Malfoy’s own.
They stay like that for a few minutes, Harry’s brain working at an incredible speed; Malfoy most likely falling asleep at his side.
Then a thought comes to him.
“What do you mean, it was mostly bullshit?” He asks suddenly, leaning onto his elbow to look at him. “Was any part of it, uh, not bullshit?”
“Ah,” Malfoy says sleepily. He sounds amused. “Well, I might have or might have not have a thing for leather, that’s true enough. And it was technically not in an alley, so.”
“I knew it.” Harry snorts. He turns around, suddenly sleepy. Then he remembers what Malfoy said. Feeling bold, he adds. “You can, you know.”
Malfoy hums, stops. “What?”
It’s difficult not to fall apart under his gaze. “I mean,” Harry continues, “You can, still. Fuck me.”
He hasn’t really considered it before Malfoy mentioned it, but he doesn’t find the idea as disturbing as he thought he would. He’s just not used to it, to anyone wanting him like that. He’s usually happy to take over. But he would do anything Malfoy wants, he just has to ask. His friends are right, after all, he is crushing on him.
Malfoy blinks at him, surprise breaking through his wall of sleepiness momentarily. “Are you serious?”
Harry takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Not now, though. I’m knackered.”
Malfoy smiles briefly at him. “Oh, don’t worry. We have time.”