Ever since Pansy and Hermione got trashed and invented an entirely new and dangerous type of strip poker, Draco has been of the opinion that the students at Hogwarts were separated into different houses for their own safety.
The parties had technically started their eighth year, when they’d had to share a common room and realized that under new circumstances, they could all pretty much tolerate each other. Then, they’d left Hogwarts and the Gryffindors had moved into Grimmauld Place and Draco had thought that was that until Hermione’s very business-like tawny owl arrived with invitations requesting their presence at a party.
There was a bit of minor confusion while the Slytherins tried to figure out whether it was a ‘fancy dress’ party or a ‘bring snacks, drinks, and a saucy attitude’ party, before they consulted and came to the conclusion that the Gryffindors probably never threw true fancy dress parties and they were probably alright wearing just about whatever. Pansy and Millie had worn dress robes, just for fun.
About a year later, Draco still can’t decide if the Slytherin/Gryffindor parties are the best or the worst idea that Hermione’s ever had. There’s technically a Ravenclaw involved too, but regardless of house, Luna remains the least predictable person that Draco has ever met. After they arrived with jello shots that cursed everyone with the uncontrollable need to dance, Draco had upgraded them from Non-Threatening to Very Sneaky. The dancing incident, in which Draco had discovered he could do a body roll, had made a compelling argument for staying far, far away from Gryffindors and etcetera.
Draco might have begged mysterious prior commitments and/or a blood curse if he didn’t very secretly, usually have a very nice time. The party where they’d all made and brought their favorite soups, including one that Neville had made using herbs from his garden, remained the best meal Draco’d had since Hogwarts.
This one had been off to such a calm and regular start, which should have been Draco’s cue that something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong. Draco had identified this as the kind of night where he’d eat all the snacks, have at least one weirdly intense conversation with Blaise, Hermione, or Luna, and be curled up in bed by midnight.
Blaise had brought caviar and crème fraîche tartlets and Ginny had brought pigs in a blanket, and Draco found that if he alternated bites of them he could reach something close to bliss. He’s just taken a bite of tartlet when he hears the siren call of what he would recognize at fifty paces as gossip.
“Who here is the best kisser?” Pansy asks Hermione, in a very casual inside voice that makes Draco’s ears perk up. Everyone else is involved in their own conversations, but Draco, in his eavesdropping arm chair, has been very, very diverted.
“Ron,” Hermione says, which makes Draco take a gulp of his sipping whisky. Boring answer, boring Gryffindors.
Pansy rolls her eyes. “Okay, boring.” Draco smiles. Girl after his own heart. “You have to say that. Who’s the second best kisser?”
Hermione glances over at Ron, who’s deeply involved in a game of wizard chess with Blaise, which Neville and Millicent are spectating. “Well, I’ve only kissed one other person here.”
Pansy is not doing her best job of looking uninterested. Draco suspects he isn’t either, but no one is really paying him any attention. “Hermione, please don’t tease me.”
“You have to answer too if I tell you,” Hermione says, which Draco is absolutely loving from her. Perhaps this won’t be a go-home-at-midnight party after all. “I’ve also kissed Harry.”
Pansy lets out a screech as Harry, who is sprawled on the couch, leans his head back to look over at Hermione, who looks like she’s beginning to regret her honesty. “What ‘Ermione?”
Hermione gives Pansy a deeply unimpressed look. “Pansy’s asking who’s the best kisser and she says I can’t say Ron and you’re the only other person here I’ve kissed.”
“Oh!” Harry says, grinning at her. “You’re a good kisser too.” Draco feels something awful happening in his body, some unhinged combination of jealousy, arousal, and fondness that he would tamp down if he had any kind of control over it.
The fact that Draco is in the throes of a disastrous, multi-year crush on Harry is the real free-radical in their newfound post-war inter-house unity. Harry had made overtures to him at the beginning: awkward, stilted conversations that seemed like they wanted to be apologies, and Draco had done similarly. As quickly as they could, they’d become the kind of friends who don’t say anything to each other directly, which is honestly great and fine and better than Draco ever could have expected, ill-advised crush non-withstanding.
Draco would actually like to hold some kind of conversation with Harry, but he has the strong feeling that neither of them have the social skills to pull it off and moreover, that it’s all the better for Draco’s dignity if he refrains from attempting it. Harry forgiving him his regretful forays into wizard fascism is one thing; Harry reacting well to the fact that Draco wants to climb him like a tree is another story, one perhaps better left unbroached.
“Okay, Pansy, fess up,” Hermione says, turning to her.
Pansy shakes her head and asks the hard hitting questions. “So how, exactly, did you kiss?”
“Not in our agreement,” Hermione replies breezily, in a way that makes Draco suddenly so, so sure that the answer is threesome. “Spill.”
Pansy gives her one long, calculating look, before shrugging. “Honestly? Probably Harry. Cutest kiss I’ve ever had.”
Draco mentally re-files Pansy as ‘Traitor Bitch’ and takes another pig in a blanket from the tray before realizing that not only does he need to permanently disown Pansy for kissing Harry, but also for saying that Harry is a better kisser than he is. “Pansy, how bloody dare you.” Both Hermione, Pansy, and Harry look over at him, which is far more than he really bargained for, but he soldiers on. “Did our fourth year Yule Ball snog mean nothing to you?”
Pansy gives him one of her most withering looks. “Draco, you’re a homosexual and you kiss girls like one too.”
Draco gives her the two finger salute. “Everyone! Announcement! Pansy’s a homophobe.”
“I’m bisexual, you freak,” she says, turning back to Hermione and Harry. “Draco’s an idiot cocksucker.”
Draco realizes with a little chagrin that this is not, in fact, the first of these parties in which he and Pansy have called each other names. Hermione has her eyebrows fully in her curls and seems very unsure whether or not they’re actually fighting. Harry, on the other hand, looks like he’s very amused but is trying his hardest to look serious.
Draco does wish that Pansy would avoid calling him a cocksucker in polite company, but then would have to admit that he considers this polite company. Considering that the last time they’d gotten together, Millicent had shared the entire tale of the time she got on the wrong end of a vomiting jinx and tried to convince the hot St. Mungo’s Healer to take her on a date while actively hurling, he doesn’t think it really counts.
“This is how Slytherins express love,” Draco offers. “Blaise, tell them I’m a good kisser.”
Blaise doesn’t look up from his chess game, but, as Draco suspected, he’s entirely aware of the conversation that’s been unfolding behind him. “He’s a good kisser.”
“Thank you Blaise,” Draco says. Blaise begins another sentence with “and also more than talented at-“ which Draco nips in the bud by throwing a pig in a blanket at the back of his head.
“And shit at sucking dick,” Blaise amends, which Draco would find less personally embarrassing if Harry wasn’t still looking at him like he’s been involved in something very charming.
“Okay, what are you all talking about?” Ginny asks, poking her head in, Luna floating behind her. They’re both very casually holding what appear to be kiwis and a variety of spoons for reasons he can’t begin to parse. “Who’s shit at sucking dick?”
“Draco,” Blaise, says, moving a chess piece across the board. It picks up one of Ron’s pawns and bludgeons it against the board with a few performative screams.
“He’s just saying that because I’m great at sucking dick and I threw a pig in a blanket at his head,” Draco clarifies, knowing that he’s flushed quite pink and is probably only going to get pinker.
“Stop throwing my pigs,” Ginny says. “I left for one second. How did you get here?”
“We’re figuring out who is the best kisser and Hermione and I both said Harry,” Pansy says, which makes Ginny give Hermione an appraising look.
“Oi!” Ron says, crossing his arms, chess game now entirely forgotten.
“She said I couldn’t say you!” Hermione protests. She looks moderately mortified. Draco is impressed at how quickly this is turning out to be the most generally embarrassing discussion they’ve ever had, rivaling even the time that Blaise let slip that his professor crush was Snape, beginning a bout of hysteria that lasted for at least a half an hour. “I said you. Draco, I know you were eavesdropping, tell Ron I said it was him.”
Draco is becoming quickly aware of the fact that his strategy of mainlining mixed drinks and listening to other people’s conversations, while his favorite party activity, is perhaps not as clandestine as he’d previously assumed. “She did say you first. Only under duress did she say Harry.”
Ron looks unconvinced, and Hermione crosses her arms. “What would you have said then, Ronald?”
Ron looks very guilty and Draco thinks that whatever trouble he personally gets into having Pansy as a best friend pales in comparison to the trouble one might get into by having Hermione Granger as a girlfriend.
“The people need to know, Ron,” Ginny says, which Draco is loving from her. Draco’s favorite thing is when the Gryffindors turn on each other, which they’ll do for a laugh at even the slightest provocation.
“I don’t have to answer this,” Ron says, which makes him look even more guilty.
“Alright, we’ll do it the hard way,” Ginny turns to the room at large. Sometimes, Ginny is Draco’s favorite. “Who has kissed Ron. Fess up.”
There’s a long, interesting silence that feels like Draco’s favorite muggle game, Cluedo.
“I think it’s me,” Harry says, raising a very tentative hand.
“Threesome!” Draco says, which, again, causes everyone to look at him, which wasn’t really his intention at all.
“Harry, exactly how many Weasleys have you kissed?” Ginny asks, turning the full force of her inquisition on Harry.
The tips of Harry’s ears are turning a quite appealing red. “Four?”
“Four!” Hermione says, as Pansy exclaims, sounding very impressed, that Harry is a tart. Draco is feeling like maybe he should have found an opportunity to storm out, if only so he won’t have to make his face do normal things for the rest of this conversation. Harry is now looking both moderately pleased with himself and moderately embarrassed, which is such a immoral little expression for him that Draco feels he is in danger of needing to pull a throw pillow into his lap. He preemptively grabs a cushion, scowling as Pansy notices him do it and does something with her mouth and eyebrows that communicates that Pansy’s almost positive what he’s done and that she’s going to ruin his life about it as soon as they’re done cross-examining Harry.
“I haven’t slept with four,” Harry says magnanimously. “Only kissed four.”
Ginny has crossed the carpet and is kneeling in front of Harry. She takes his face in her hands. “Harry James, you have to tell me which of my brothers you’ve kissed. Is it Percy? Please tell me it’s not Percy.”
“Not Percy,” Harry says, casting nervous glances at Ron and Hermione for assistance. They’re both looking at him as if they’ve realized that they have absolutely no control over this situation and are leaving him to the dogs ie. Ginny and Pansy.
Luna perches on the arm of the couch next to where Harry is lounging, enclosing Harry in a moderately benevolent cloud of questioning. “Is it Bill? I’ve always thought Bill was rather handsome.”
“Hey! Not you too!” Ginny says to Luna, who smiles serenely. “No one else I’ve dated is allowed to kiss my brothers. New rule.” Ginny whips out her wand, pressing it to Harry’s throat, which Draco is dismayed to realize he also finds rather hot. “Fess up, Potter.” Draco is disconcerted by how much of this reminds him of how he has historically treated Harry.
Harry looks rather pouty, and Hermione is trying to convince Ginny that holding Harry at wandpoint is not a fun and friendly party activity, when Harry waves her off. “George and Charlie.”
Pansy screams, the rest of the room erupts into pandemonium, and Ginny bonks Harry over the head a few times with a pillow. He takes it rather good naturedly. Why he looks so at home being manhandled is a line of thought Draco cannot possibly emotionally investigate.
“How! At what point!” Ginny says, giving Harry two more whacks with the pillow. When she appears quite finished, Luna brushes Harry’s mussed hair very gently off his forehead, which is also setting off Draco’s threesome alarm in a very serious way.
“On a dare and very weird hookup,” Harry explains.
“Potter’s slept with three Weasleys,” Draco volunteers, which makes Millicent erupt into giggles.
“Malfoy if you say threesome again I’m going to hit you with a pillow,” Ginny says, and Draco mouths ‘hot’ at her, which takes her so by surprise that she dissolves into laughter. It is rather enjoyable that all the Gryffindors think he’s such an uptight cunt that anything fun he does automatically amuses them. It’s been bringing out the best and worst in him. “Okay, alright. Harry’s a huge slag. Has anyone else here has kissed Harry?”
Draco does expect to be in the minority of people who haven’t kissed Harry, but he is absolutely floored, flummoxed, and gobsmacked to find that after a very tense twenty seconds he is the only person in the entire room without his hand raised. Harry also seems to have noticed this, and is looking at him as if Draco is going to somehow save him from the shocking results of his slutty, slutty, shenanigans.
“Am I,” Draco begins bravely. “The only one who hasn’t kissed Potter.”
“It appears that way,” Blaise says, which draws Draco’s attention to the fact that Longbottom has his timid nerd hand up, which is an affront, even if Draco does rather like Neville and his soup making abilities. They’d been on quite friendly terms after an in-depth rose-conversation they’d had a few weeks ago, but Draco demotes him back to sworn enemy.
“How come even Longbottom has kissed Harry but I haven’t!” Draco announces. None of this, absolutely none of this is fair.
Draco recognizes the look on Pansy’s face as Highly Meddling and Dangerous and realizes that he has made a terrible mistake. The obvious choice would have been to gloat that he’s the only one who hasn’t stooped to kissing Potter, as he most certainly doesn’t secretly want to. He has fumbled the tease, because he does want to kiss Potter, so, so badly that it makes looking at him for too long absolutely unbearable.
Pansy smiles at him. It is not her most pleasant smile. “Draco, did you want to kiss Potter?”
“No,” Draco chances, knowing already that it does not sound believable. He is dumb. He is so dumb. He may be the dumbest idiot to ever exist.
“Uh huh,” Pansy says. “We’ll return to you. Longbottom, how did you kiss Harry?”
“I don’t see why everyone has to call me by my last name,” Neville says, which Draco thinks is fair, considering that his last name is Longbottom, which almost sounds like a dick-size brag but somehow just misses the mark. It’s no Oliver Wood.
“Yeah Neville, why did you kiss Harry?” Hermione asks. Draco recognizes the desperate efforts of someone trying to steer the discussion far, far away from the threesome she’s definitely had with her two most beloved friends.
“That’s between Harry and I,” Neville says manfully, then, at the combined glare force of Hermione and Pansy, crumbles. “Well, I was asking him how you’re supposed to know if you’re bisexual or just think blokes are good looking, because I’d never actually kissed a bloke, and he offered to kiss me so I could find out.”
Ginny is holding her hand to her heart, looking somewhere between genuinely moved and nearly hysterical. She’s still kind of sitting on Harry, which is bringing Draco’s ambient jealousy up to a persistent hum. “And are you queer, Neville?”
“Bi,” he says, which no one takes with all that much surprise. Draco also strongly suspects that even very straight lads might be a little bisexual for Harry, which he thinks may have been what happened to Ron.
Draco briefly considers pretending that he’s never kissed a boy and would like to do some personal research re: Harry Potter’s mouth, but Pansy knows far, far too much about his gay awakening for him to ever get away with it. It had been one rather exciting month around the time Durmstrang visited Hogwarts, where he, by hook or by crook, had managed to enchant three separate Ukrainian boys. They were good boys. They still send him very, very strong booze and invite him to go skiing sometimes.
As Draco ponders these possibilities, Neville is squaring his shoulders and seems to be giving a bit of a coming out speech. “I was going to come out to you all more formally, but I suppose this is as good a time as any. It’s still really new for me, but I want to be honest with you. Even though I’ve been really nervous about this and didn’t know how I wanted to do it, I knew you would all support me and that helped so much.” He looks very touched to see all of them gathered there. “It was a very nice kiss. It was good of you to do, Harry.”
“No problem, mate,” Harry says cheerfully. “Congrats on not being straight.”
“Congratulations, Neville,” Hermione adds, as Luna shoots a bunch of rainbow glitter out of their wand onto the carpet.
“As touching as that is—and it was kind of touching actually, very nice, Neville—” Pansy turns her attention away from Neville, who looks markedly less nervous once everyone stops looking at him. “I have a few remaining questions. Blaise, what the fuck?”
Blaise looks entirely unconcerned. “What? He’s very hot. We all know that. We have always known that.”
“Have we known that?” Draco asks, and then wonders if perhaps he’s protested too much. Luckily, everyone seems to be more interested in agreeing with Blaise, who looks very vindicated. Harry looks as if this is the very first he’s heard of this, and is taking it less like a compliment and more like Blaise has told him they’re cancelling Quidditch.
“Last Christmas, some mistletoe, one very nice kiss,” Blaise finishes, raising his wine glass as Harry continues to go crimson.
Pansy looks like she’s trying very hard not to be charmed by Blaise and not succeeding. This is fair, Blaise is very winning. “Alright, Millie, what’s your excuse?”
Millicent has the gall to look not even the least bit embarrassed or guilty. Draco always looks embarrassed or guilty, it’s practically his resting face. “We had a picnic, it was sunny. It happened very fast.”
“Why on Earth were you having a picnic?” Hermione asks.
“Seemed fun,” Harry explains. “You lot were all on holiday so Millie and I made plans.”
“I think that’s very sweet,” Luna says. “I’d love to come next time. I love picnics.”
Draco glances over at Ron, who looks like he’s having a bit of an episode about the whole thing. Draco doesn’t like being on the same emotional level as Ron Weasley, but he’s concerned that this is just what the situation calls for.
Ginny gives Luna a long look. “Is that a euphemism for kissing Harry?”
“No,” Luna says. “I just like eating cut up strawberries outside.” They smile, leaning down to kiss first Ginny, and then Harry very sweetly on the forehead. “And I don’t need an excuse to kiss Harry, you know that.”
“Apparently neither does anyone else,” Draco says loftily, which he thinks is a good way to remind everyone exactly where he stands in all of this.
“Draco, have you even said more than seven words in a row to Harry?” Pansy asks, which feels off topic in a way that Draco suspects will become imminently worrying, beyond just being a tremendously unfair thing to ask him.
“Yes,” he says, holding his cushion quite protectively in his lap.
“Since we all became friends. In a row.” She has her arms crossed over her chest and is giving him a Look.
Draco is hoping that his brain will call up a shining example of a time that he and Harry exchanged pleasantries, but all he can remember is the last time he talked to Harry, which was when they found themselves alone in the kitchen together. Harry had said “soup’s good,” Draco had said “oh quite,” and then they’d both stared at each other in terror before hightailing it into the living room.
“That’s what I thought,” Pansy says. “So considering all of this ample evidence, how, exactly, would you have managed to kiss Harry?”
Draco can feel himself getting pinker and pinker and senses that there is no end in sight for his embarrassment. The most evil, scheming and devious part of his brain is hoping that there’s a way he can swing this situation so he can kiss Harry while pretending that he has no interest in kissing him. The rest of his brain is very concerned that there’s no way he’s going to be able to kiss Harry without significant personal embarrassment and is more concerned still about the fact that he may be willing to risk the majority of his dignity for one measly kiss. “Well I don’t know,” he says. “I just think as a tremendously beautiful and interesting person, it’s always shocking when I haven’t kissed someone.”
Pansy purses her lips at him. It’s only his expert reading of her facial expressions that allows him to detect that she does think he’s being a bit cute. “Alright, who has kissed Draco?” She raises her hand, as does Blaise, but the rest of the party looks tremendously relieved to not have to put their hands up again. “Very shocking.”
Draco scowls, wondering exactly which part of this he should be offended by. “Well Pansy, I can’t imagine what you’re hoping to prove by that, considering I am not a giant slag, unlike some people.”
“Hey!” Harry protests. “It’s not my fault that I keep getting kissed.”
“This is not a problem anyone but you is having, Potter,” Draco says imperiously. His misdirection campaign is going fantastically. “You’re the common denominator in all of these kissing situations. You are the kiss-ee. The reigning king of slagdom.”
“What I’m trying to prove, Draco,” Pansy interrupts. “Is that you want to kiss Harry and you’re not doing a half as good a job of pretending you don’t as you think you are.”
Draco places his hand very delicately on his chest, his other hand holding his cushion protectively. “Me? Surely not.”
“May I repeat, you are not doing a good job of pretending that you don’t want to kiss Harry,” Pansy says.
“Yes I am,” Draco says, then frowns. If he survives this party, he’s going to take a long bath and contemplate the series of unfortunate choices that landed him in this situation. This was not the plan. The plan was to be coerced into kissing Harry in a way that allowed him to remain cool, collected, and entirely blameless. “Yes I am,” he clarifies, “Because I don’t want to kiss Harry? I am not interested in kissing Harry. Under no circumstances would I be interested.” He finds himself looking at Hermione, who looks moderately stunned and like she feels a bit sorry for him, which is the last way any member of the Golden Threesome should be looking at him. “Anyway, now that we’ve settled that, everyone go back to your party games. Ginny, why do you have those kiwis? For what reason?”
Invoking Ginny had to have been his third or fourth error. He should have invoked Luna. Classic rookie mistake. “Malfoy, I think you should just kiss Harry since you clearly want to so bad,” Ginny says, very evilly. She hasn’t even bothered to answer his kiwi question.
“I think I made it very clear that I, in fact, don’t want to,” Draco says. He is not in control of this situation. It’s possible that he has at no point been in control of this situation.
“Draco, just so you know, you’re making this look worse for yourself,” Pansy says. Draco is aware on some level that she might be trying to do him the most backhanded favor in the history of all favors. Either that, or she is a trickster spirit who feeds only on chaos. He legitimately has no idea which.
Draco, who has been looking just about everywhere other than Harry, finally looks at him. It’s horrible. Everywhere that his face isn’t brown, it is bright red, namely the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks. He looks so cute and terrified that Draco entirely forgets what he’s supposed to be saying and to what purpose.
“We shouldn’t make them kiss if they don’t want to,” Hermione says, and Draco has entirely lost track of whether or not he agrees with her.
“No, we should definitely make them kiss,” Ginny repeats. “Draco, come kiss Harry.”
Draco keeps expecting Harry to say something like ‘no Ginny, I don’t need to kiss Draco,’ or ‘ha ha Ginny, that’s a very funny joke you have made,’ but he’s just staring at Draco like a startled unicorn. Somehow, ‘startled unicorn’ is a devastating expression on him. Why he has his lips slightly parted Draco can’t even begin to imagine.
Draco is beginning to feel more than a little warm. Does he have a fever? Perhaps he has a fever. Perhaps he can say ‘No Ginevra, I can’t kiss Harry, for I have a fever.’ When he opens his mouth to do this, no words come out.
“I think Draco’s chickening out,” Blaise comments lightly to Millicent and Ron, which is just the last thing anyone needs. Draco may be a terrified coward, but he does so hate being reminded of it. He can be brave for ten seconds. There’s no reason he can’t be brave for ten measly seconds, and then afterwards he can return to his cowardly existence of eating all of the party snacks, only ever wearing cashmere, and reading a lot of saucy westerns.
“I’m not chickening out,” Draco says, setting his emotional support boner cushion on the floor. He is standing up. He is setting his glass down on an end table. He is crossing the carpet and he’s crouching in front of Harry and then he’s staring into Harry’s appallingly green eyes and he is going to kiss him, in front of all their horrible, horrible friends.
Draco knows that he needs to ask Harry if its alright to kiss him, but the idea of saying the words is so heinous that he nearly stands back up and walks straight out the door. Against his better judgement, he takes two calming breaths and stays exactly where he is.
“Potter,” he begins. He can do this. If there’s anything Malfoys are good at, it’s high stakes social rituals. “May I kiss you.”
Someone makes a choking noise. He has no idea who. He hopes very much that it’s not him. Harry is still bright red and staring, a curl falling very artfully into his eyes. Harry’s nose is a little crooked from a sub-standard Episkey. It’s entirely possible that Draco is the one who broke it, and it looks so rugged it should be illegal. Draco had known this, but up close it’s so much worse. Draco is so, so, so utterly fucked. This is the last thing he needs. Why is Harry so hot? What evil, vengeful god made Harry so hot?
“Sure,” Harry says, and Draco is moderately vindicated by the fact that Harry’s voice sounds at first like it’s not going to work.
“Right,” Draco says. If he thinks about this for a single moment longer he’s going to bolt, so he rests both knees on the carpet and leans in to kiss Harry, coming in too fast and knocking their mouths against each other.
Absolutely not, he thinks. He is not about to give Harry a mediocre kiss, especially not in front of everyone, especially when he would rather literally die than ever try to instigate something like this ever again.
Draco pulls Harry back in with a guiding hand on his jaw, much more gently this time, their mouths soft when they meet. How Harry is so warm, Draco will never never know. Harry’s stubble is rough against Draco’s palm but his hair, when Draco slides a hand into it, is silky. He can’t even bring himself to be truly offended that it’s silky, because he’s touching it, and Harry is kissing Draco back. They both have their eyes open, which Draco had thought would be better somehow, but is so, so much worse. Harry’s eyes are a deep, vibrant green, and he looks like he’s concentrating very hard on the kissing, which makes Draco want to crawl on top of him and sexually destroy him.
Harry places a tentative hand on Draco’s forearm, and Draco curses his adoration for long sleeves. Then again, if Harry was touching his bare arm, he might faint. He realizes, slowly, that they have been kissing for perhaps too long and that Draco is far, far too into it. But how to stop? He doesn’t really know. Harry is so pliant and eager and his lips are so soft. Draco wants to reach a hand up under Harry’s T shirt so badly it’s almost painful, and he feels as if he is only one wrong move from ending up in Harry’s lap holding him by his shirt collar.
Someone, probably Blaise, wolf whistles, and Draco’s brain rematerializes as he figures out, after a few tense seconds of trial and error, how to stop kissing. He knows he’s bright red and that everyone is watching them, but he can’t take his eyes off Harry, who is looking at Draco with that same expression of intense concentration, like he’s working through a particularly difficult problem. He has kind eyes, Draco realizes belatedly, It’s terrible.
“Well,” Ginny says after a few moments of very alarming silence. “That just felt like watching the first thirty seconds of amateur porn. I don’t know why I thought that was going to be a normal thing for us to do. Who wants a kiwi?”
Millicient raises her hand to receive a kiwi, which Ginny tosses over to her. She also tosses one to Hermione, who drops it, and Neville, who doesn’t even attempt to catch it and has to go rescue it from under a chair. In this minor kerfuffle, Draco finds a way to return to his eavesdropping armchair and places his emotional support boner cushion firmly back in his lap, where it is sorely needed. Firmly planted in his chair, he leans very far over to nick an entire bottle of liquor from the floor. He brings it to his mouth, taking a long swallow before cradling it gently in his arms. He’s going to have wank material for the next year, possibly next year and a half, he thinks mournfully. It is pathetic that sharing an extended kiss with Harry Potter while all their friends watch is the sexiest thing that’s happened to him in months, but in his defense, it was fairly sexy.
Draco snogging Harry in the middle of the living room has increased the weirdness potential of the party by the power of at least three. In the ensuing minor chaos, Hermione instructs them all on the best way to peel a kiwi and Millicent shares with everyone that she eats the kiwi peel, which no one likes. Then Luna breaks out a bit of absinthe and they all take some very gross anise shots while Blaise, who knows how to make fancy cocktails, keeps saying the words ‘absinthe rinse’ and ‘Sazerac,’ as if anyone is listening to him.
At this juncture, Ron has put on the wizard wireless, Pansy keeps finding new things to scream about, and Luna is holding one of Draco’s hands very gently in theirs, telling him something about his aura. Draco is trying very, very hard not to look at Harry. If he looks at Harry, he is terrified he’s going to kiss him again. He has so little self control to begin with and he doesn’t think, slightly absinthy, he will be able to resist.
“You are deeply in love,” Luna says. “See this heat spot up here?” Luna raises their free hand to hover first over Draco’s chest and then up directly over his head. “This means you’re in love. Or that you have an important meeting next week. Sometimes it just means you have a meeting.”
“I might have a meeting,” Draco says, feeling slightly panicked. He has a very, very strong feeling that across the kitchen, with his hand all the way in the chip bag, Harry is staring at him. He can’t confirm this, because it would break his no-looking-at-Harry rule, but he knows what it feels like when Harry is staring at him, because it’s actually a very normal experience for them.
Luna nods. “Of course, that makes sense. It’s a very nice aura. Very yellow, a little green. Some pink!”
This is the only level of conversation that Draco is going to be able to sustain for the rest of the party. “What else is it telling you?” He asks Luna, determined to prolong this as long as he can, when he, mistake of all mistakes, glances over at Harry.
Harry absolutely is staring at him, and when Draco catches his eye, he jerks his head towards the kitchen door. Draco can’t imagine that Harry is insinuating what he thinks Harry is insinuating, but then he does the weird head jerk again, stands up rather awkwardly and leaves the kitchen. Great, Draco thinks. He’s a complete fucking weirdo and I still definitely want to fuck him.
Draco looks over at Luna, who is examining a bit of air by Draco’s left ear and appears to have missed this exchange entirely.
Draco can’t imagine what Harry wants, but he suspects that he’s about to find out. Perhaps, Draco thinks with significant interest, he would like to kiss again. It’s possible that Harry would like to have a good ‘ol punch around for old times sake, which Draco has to admit he might find a bit hot as well, considering the circumstances. Draco absolutely can not believe this is actually happening. He doesn’t know if he’s overjoyed or needs a lobotomy. It’s that kind of crush.
“Have to use the loo, be back,” Draco says. Luna smiles and waves him off, taking a dainty sip from the absinthe bottle. Harry is not in the hall directly outside the kitchen and he is not in the living room, weird sitting room, dining room, hallway, or meeting room, so Draco is left with no option but to tentatively take the stairs. He makes it up one flight and is looking around for answers when Harry appears out of a bedroom doorway, looking very flustered.
Why Draco is attracted to a man who wears so much wrinkled clothing he’ll never know. Draco is deeply concerned that he’s attracted to him not in spite of the wrinkled clothing, but that it adds to the overall impression, which is that Harry is very rumpled and masculine and may need to be taken care of.
“Hey,” Harry says. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Once Draco notices this, it occurs to him that he has no idea what to do with his hands either.
“Hello,” Draco says. “Can I help you?”
Harry nods. The furrow he has between his eyebrows could not be more charming. He looks like he’s having a difficult time doing whatever he’s trying to do. It’s this more than anything that makes Draco positive that Harry is about to try and kiss him again.
“Can I-“ Harry stops. “So we-“ He looks stricken. “Merlin’s tits.”
“Yes?” Draco offers.
“Yes?” Harry asks. Draco nods. “Great,” Harry says, and then pushes Draco back against Grimmauld Place’s very green wallpaper and kisses him.
Harry tastes very absinthy, which he hadn’t before, and is pressing his entire body against Draco’s, holding him quite forcefully against the wall. It’s a very Gryffindor way to kiss someone, so much like he’s trying to do it the most and the best he possibly can. How had Pansy described kissing Potter? Cute? Draco can’t imagine describing this kiss as cute. Devastating, he comes up with, finally. Yes, that’s it.
Harry has his arms wrapped around Draco’s neck and he’s kissing him like he’s trying to memorize Draco’s entire mouth, which Draco wishes, so desperately, that he didn’t find so hot. Where is the technique, he wants to ask. Where is the subtlety? Draco has always considered himself to be the kind of person who needs to be taken out to dinner and seduced. Turns out, as Harry presses his cock against Draco’s thigh, he’s apparently completely happy to be ravished against a random wall.
Draco sneaks his hands under Harry’s shirt, running his fingers across his stomach and over his chest. Harry is both muscular and soft, which hurts every one of Draco’s feelings and also makes him very hard. Harry moans a little when Draco pinches one of his nipples, and Draco is suddenly seized by the realization that they’re extremely making out in a hallway in a house that contains every single one of their friends. Draco removes his hands from under Harry’s shirt, which makes Harry whimper in a very appealing way that Draco is determined to not be distracted by. He takes Harry’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together and breathing hard out of his mouth.
“We’re in a hallway,” Draco says.
“Yes,” Harry says. He doesn’t seem terribly bothered by this.
“I want to suck you off, but I’m not doing it in a hallway. You have a bed here. Where is it,” Draco asks. He can’t believe he’s saying any of this, but here he is, being brave again.
For a long moment, Harry just stares at him like he’s forgotten how to speak English. He has his mouth open again for no discernible reason, and it’s making it very hard for Draco to think straight. Draco realizes that he’s willing to do just about anything for this to continue, up to and including figuring out how to hold a conversation with Harry Potter. Wonders never cease.
“Yeah, yes,” Harry says, as if he’s only just then remembered how to string a sentence together. “Definitely. Let’s go.”
In order to lead Draco to his bedroom, which has clothes all over the floor and an absolutely bizarre collection of items on every surface, Harry has taken him by the hand. He’s done it very casually and possessively and it’s doing a very evil, twisty thing to Draco’s heart.
They step over an obstacle course of jumpers, what appears to be a dumped out bag of books, and various empty mugs in order to get to the bed.
“Sorry it’s a mess,” Harry says, sitting down on the edge of the bed, which is not made, but is covered with a nest of cozy-looking blankets and quilts. He pulls Draco over so he’s standing between Harry’s legs, and tilts his head up to look at him. “I didn’t prepare.”
Harry’s mop of hair is at Draco’s touch height, and he finds himself with his hands buried in Harry’s curls. Harry lets his eyes go a little closed as Draco plays with his hair, a far too familiar gesture for the amount of time they’ve been making out, which is about fifteen minutes total.
“Oddly enough, I also didn’t expect to be doing this and so all things considered I think I’m keeping it together rather well. And I don’t really care if your room is messy,” Draco says, which makes Harry smile. “Would you get on the bed for me?”
Harry grins at him and lays down, reaching an impatient hand out to Draco. “Are you just going to stand there all night?”
“I am maybe one singular second behind you,” Draco says, crawling in after him. Harry’s bed is very squishy and he is absolutely flabbergasted that this is just something he gets to know now. “Take your shirt off.”
Harry smiles teasingly and Draco’s brain briefly goes blank. “You first.”
Draco considers protesting, but decides that he’d rather just remove his own clothing and get Harry naked faster. “Fine,” Draco says, pulling his cashmere sweater over his head. He resists the urge to fold it, because he knows Harry would tease him mercilessly, and instead gently lowers it off the side of the bed before undoing his button up. Harry is watching him hungrily, like he’s doing something very hot and minorly amusing. Draco has the suspicion that Harry has somehow clocked that he would like terribly to be folding his clothing as he removes it.
“You’re particular,” Harry says, as Draco takes off his button up and drops it off the side of the bed.
“Yes,” Draco says. He’s feeling quite accomplished for not folding either item, like he’s passed a tiny test he’s made for himself. “And you’re a slob.”
“Yes,” Harry says, looking quite content with himself. “You like it though.”
Whatever Draco was going to say in response has fled his mind. “Well,” he manages finally. “I don’t hate it as much as I thought I might.”
Harry laughs, which Draco doesn’t think he’s ever made Harry do before. Draco’s crush on Harry, which has been growing steadily larger and more unwieldy all year, is reaching truly horrifying proportions. He is never going to recover. He is going to be like this forever: gaping fondly at Harry when he laughs.
“Why,” Draco begins. “Are you like this?”
Harry laughs even harder. “Like what?”
“I don’t know,” Draco says. “Like if a blueberry muffin was a person. A very intense blueberry muffin.”
“A blueberry muffin with minor anger issues that it’s working on,” Harry offers, which Draco can’t handle, at all, in any way.
“Can you please just take off your shirt. You’re torturing me,” Draco says.
“Am I?” Harry asks, but he does take off his shirt, and then for good measure wriggles out of his trousers and his pants. Harry is covered with curling dark hair and his legs are even longer and more toned that Draco was already concerned they would be. Draco considers himself a garden variety hot person, but this is fucking ridiculous. It’s actually a good thing that Harry wears bizarrely fitted shirts and pants, Draco realizes with horror, because he would be too hot otherwise. “Good enough for you?”
Draco feels a little lightheaded, but overall very appeased. It’s absolutely bonkers that he’s had sex with Blaise Zabini and that wasn’t the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to him. What a day. What a world. “This is the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Draco says, as if he’s commenting on the weather, and it makes Harry laugh, which has pretty much become Draco’s entire mission.
“I thought you would have higher standards about this kind of thing,” Harry says, touching himself idly as Draco watches.
“They’re high,” Draco clarifies, and then leans down to take Harry’s cock into his mouth. Harry makes a beautiful little noise when Draco does, shifting his hips to thrust into Draco’s mouth. Draco really does want Harry to suck him off too, but, as he undoes the buttons on his trousers and wraps his free hand around his own cock, he has a feeling that that’s just not a very practical goal for tonight.
“I kinda thought,” Harry begins. Draco thinks he’s quite brave for trying to start a sentence right now. “That you maybe didn’t like me very much? I think maybe that’s not true. I’ve been rethinking that. I think maybe you do like me?”
Draco looks up at him, taking a long moment to swirl his tongue over the head of Harry’s cock. He’s not the most coordinated with one hand on his cock and the other holding himself up, but he is really doing the best he can. Harry doesn’t seem to mind.
“Could we have the heart to heart after I make you come?” Draco asks, and Harry nods very reasonably, reaching down to run his fingers through Draco’s hair. Harry’s hand feels very nice, and even nicer when Harry tugs a bit on his hair when Draco takes him back into his mouth.
Harry leans back against the pillows, his breath unsteady as he watches Draco suck him off. Even half-closed, his green eyes are bright and intense, and Draco keeps wanting to look back up at him as his breathing starts to go ragged and he squirms against the sheets.
Draco has had one or two one night stands in his life and he’s already concerned that this feels like a whole lot more than that. Harry brushes his knuckles over Draco’s cheek and smiles at him and Draco thinks, with equal amounts of concern and elation, that this feels like maybe he wants it to happen every day forever and that there’s a distinct possibility that he could arrange that.
Draco pauses to spit on his hand and then realizes that he could have Harry suck on his fingers instead, at which point he kind of loses track of things as he first shimmies out of his trousers and then climbs on top of Harry, placing two fingers on Harry’s bottom lip. Harry, who has been watching the entire production with a gentle amusement, darts his tongue out to meet them.
“Go on,” Draco says, sliding his fingers into Harry’s mouth. It is a little indecent, how good Harry looks, with his lips closed around Draco’s knuckles. “Blink if you had a threesome with your two best friends.”
Harry, like he wasn’t expecting to, laughs around Draco’s fingers, which doesn’t ruin the illusion as much as it should. He repositions so he can kiss first Draco’s palm, then his wrist, then the back of his hand, and his knuckles. “I don’t have to answer that,” he says. “Which just means yes but I’m pretending not to tell you.”
Draco nearly chokes. “Gross.”
“No, it was nice,” Harry informs him. “You’re better at kissing than your friends, though. Blaise doesn’t try hard enough because he knows how hot he is.”
Draco is delighted that Harry has hit upon the exact compliment that Draco will treasure for the rest of his days. Draco leans down to kiss him again, even better now that they’re in Draco’s favorite place, a bed, with all of their clothes off. Draco is absolutely floored that he ever thought this was a go home at midnight type of event and he’s feeling very comfortable coming to the conclusion that the Gryffindor-Slytherin parties are the best idea that anyone has ever had, ever.
Harry pauses, reaches out, and a bottle of lube zaps rather comically into his hand from where it had been buried somewhere in the nest of blankets.
“Why do I think everything you do is hot?” Draco means to think, but accidentally says, which just makes Harry laugh. Maybe, instead of being horrible at saying anything to each other we’re actually, secretly very good at saying things to each other, Draco thinks and mercifully does not say.
“Have you always been funny and into me or do you just have no filter right now?” Harry asks, looking, if Draco isn’t mistaken, both a little flustered and a little smug.
“Some combination,” Draco says, as airily as he can while Harry wraps his lube-slick hand around Draco’s cock.
It’s taking all of Draco’s mental energy not to just immediately go to pieces as Harry touches him. Harry is still smiling at him, a lazy expression that Draco has general plans to kiss off his face once he’s done really savoring the clever thing that Harry is doing with his hand. Harry reaches for Draco’s hip, running his thumb over the hard line of Draco’s hip bone and Draco moans, a little louder than he’d really intended to. He remembers once again that they’re having sex during a party that all of their friends are attending. This is, truly, not a problem Draco has ever had in his life.
“Potter,” Draco says. Frankly, he thinks he should be congratulated for not just throwing caution to the wind and moaning Harry’s first name into his ear as their first time ever addressing each other as such. “All our friends know we’re fucking. They definitely— They definitely know we’re fucking and we’re never going to live it down.”
“I’m pretty sure I don’t care at all about that, to be honest,” Harry says. Irritatingly enough, he doesn’t sound like he isn’t so hard he can barely think straight, which Draco is going to fix as soon as he’s finished processing this thought. “They’re all nosy prats and they can mind their own business for once in their lives.”
“Oh,” Draco says, because Harry seems to be insinuating that he doesn’t really care if people know he’s slept with Draco, which runs counter to all of his previous fantasies involving Harry, which mostly involved being his sexy, sexy secret lover. “Really?”
Harry is looking at him like he’s amusing again. “Do you think we could have the heart to heart after I make you come?” he asks, in a pretty piss poor imitation of Draco’s clipped drawl.
“You don’t sound like me, that was terrible,” Draco says, with a much softer delivery than he’d normally go for. He’s not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to sustain banter, which is usually the last thing to go for him.
“But you knew exactly who I was supposed to sound like,” Harry says. Draco is so, so turned on and furious about the fact that somehow, Harry has learned how to smirk.
“I used my context clues,” Draco says, and then realizes that instead of sitting on Harry’s thighs and letting Harry jerk him off and win their arguments, what he really needs to do is pour a bit of lube onto his palm and regain the upper hand, so to speak.
“Mmm. Why do I feel like you’re jerking me off right now because I beat you in that argument,” Harry says, arching his back as Draco strokes him.
“Hand jobs are a game and I’m winning,” Draco says, which makes Harry laugh.
“I think it’s a team sport,” Harry says, his eyebrows furrowing. “I think in the game of handjobs we’re on the same team.” He stops talking to let out a ragged breath. “Yeah, I don’t think I can fully argue this while you’re touching me.”
Draco preens, just a little, and then leans down to kiss Harry again, because they aren’t a team sport at all, and Draco is definitely, definitely winning.
“I can tell you still think you’re still winning,” Harry grumbles, and Draco laughs against his mouth and then kisses him harder, biting down on Harry’s bottom lip. Harry whines into his mouth, shifting his hips up.
Draco wants to tease him for being so needy, but he can’t seem to figure out how to stop kissing him. Draco maneuvers his hand so he can hold himself up and still play with Harry’s curls, which feels like the most urgent priority somehow, second only to touching his dick. Draco is unbelievably aware of the fact that Harry still has a steady hand on his waist, which is maybe the hottest part of the whole thing.
This is so, so far from how Draco expected this night to go. Draco had wanted Harry for so long and so abstractly, like a secret he fed and fed but never thought could ever be anything. It had ended up being so simple, just kissing him like he meant it, and now Harry is gasping underneath him, hard in Draco’s hand. It is appearing, very unexpectedly, like he may need to thank Pansy.
Harry’s cheeks are flushed and he’s breathing very quickly through his open mouth, his chin tilted up. Draco leans in to kiss his neck, up near his ear and then down to his collar bones. Harry has his eyes squeezed shut and that means Draco can really look at him, at the way his curls splay across the pillow, at the muscular line of his shoulders. He is too beautiful, and it’s not fair. He’s too beautiful and he’s clutching Draco’s hip very hard and making quiet, breathy noises that are driving Draco insane. Draco has been on the lip of orgasm for at least a minute and every single second that he stares at the furrow in Harry’s brow brings him closer to the edge.
Draco is holding it together by some minor miracle until Harry strokes him just a little bit faster, and he comes across Harry’s chest. Still gasping, he kisses Harry’s neck again, teasing a moan from his mouth as he slides his hand over Harry’s cock. Harry is pliant and trembling, and when Draco twists his wrist he stills with a moan, coming into Draco’s hand.
Draco slides off of Harry, laying on his side and placing his very sticky hand directly on Harry’s stomach. Harry, his eyes closed and his breathing still ragged, opens an eye to level a look at Draco. “Is there a specific reason that I’m covered in come and you’re not? Or is this just how you are.”
Draco smiles and leans in to press his nose against Harry’s cheek. “Would it surprise you to hear that this is how I am?”
Harry is doing a very good job of tamping down a smile, but not quite a good enough job for Draco to not know that’s what’s happening. “Next time, I’m coming all over your gorgeous face.”
“Merlin,” Draco says, for lack of a better response. The idea of Harry coming all over his gorgeous face is, admittedly, fairly appealing, though Draco would not admit it, even under oath. He can’t remember the exact details of the dumb and vulnerable things he said to Harry when he was getting off, but he already feels a little embarrassed about at least half of them. “So to be clear. Next time?”
“I mean, if you want to,” Harry says, turning his head so their eyes meet. He has a hopeful expression on his face that makes Draco want to absolutely die.
Draco can not believe he’s being asked this and tries to diplomatically communicate the facts of the situation. “I don’t mean to make things more bizarre than they already are, but, to be clear, I have wanted to sexually destroy you for a year. Perhaps longer. I don’t have to say, but it could be longer.”
“Yeah, I definitely didn’t know that,” Harry says, looking both perplexed and charmed. “I thought you were like. I don’t know. Just weird and bad at talking.”
“I’m not weird or bad at talking,” Draco says.
Harry gives him a look that says he very much doesn’t believe that. “I think you’re very weird and very bad at talking,” Harry says. “I think you’re also funny? Also very hot. Obviously. Everyone knows that.”
This is very much news to Draco. He has a fairly good idea of how many of their friends think he’s hot, and it’s actually not all of them. “I think you may be surprised to find how many of our friends don’t actually think I’m obviously hot. I think you may find that this is actually a you problem.”
Harry shrugs. “I mean, that’s fine. You think I’m hot, so I feel fairly comfortable admitting that I think you’re hot.”
Draco finds he doesn’t really know how to argue with that.
“As you know, I’m kind of a kissing expert. And it was a good kiss. Too good.” Harry narrows his eyes at Draco, which is such a cute expression for his face that Draco has to take a very calming breath. “I may be a fucking idiot, but you kissed me like you wanted to do it again.”
“Why is that such a hot thing for you to say?” Draco asks, reaching over to touch the curve of Harry’s jaw.
Harry looks briefly pleased to be touched and then immediately unhappy. “Are you getting come on my face right now.”
“No,” Draco says, because he’s actually wiped his hand completely on Harry’s stomach and it’s really mostly clean now. Harry does some wandless cleaning magic on both of them that Draco is actually very impressed by, and then turns on his side so he can fling an arm across Draco’s waist, tugging him close.
Draco wants to be more disapproving of the fact that Harry is clearly a sap who wants to cuddle after sex, except that he is absolutely going to deign to curl up against Harry’s chest, which is now very clean and very warm. “Do you think our friends have noticed we’re gone?” Draco asks, mostly into Harry’s chest hair.
“Yup,” Harry replies. He’s running a hand over Draco’s back in a way that reads as both extremely tender and mildly possessive, which, if it continues, is going to ruin Draco’s life completely.
“Is there a possibility that I can stay up here forever instead of going downstairs and having the most awkward confrontation imaginable?” Draco asks, when what he’s really asking is if he can stay the night. He knows if he stays the night he’s going to be in love with Harry forever, but he’s very concerned that at some point that has already happened. Draco doesn’t think that Harry is in love with him yet, but he thinks they’ve made astoundingly good progress for one night.
“Well. We’re going to want breakfast eventually,” Harry says, nestling his chin against the top of Draco’s head.
Draco has accidentally stayed for breakfast before, as they all have, passed out on various couches and armchairs if Apparating or Flooing home seems too terrible to bear. Usually, it results in a communal brunch usually featuring multiple fruits and breads.
“I suppose so,” Draco agrees. He knows that all things considered, there is a very high probability that the next time Pansy sees him she is going to scream at the top of her lungs, and that there is no small chance that that will happen tomorrow at the breakfast table. He thinks that after eight hours asleep in Harry’s arms, he’s prepared to have a sense of humor about it.