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Hot and Cold

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The first rule of Auror training was simple: be prepared.

Harry was absolutely, completely, totally prepared. It was just a shame, he thought, trying to catch his breath – and his balance – after the unexpected Portkey journey, that what he was prepared for was lunch – rather than this.

He had an inkling as he checked out his surroundings – a gloomy forest, dusted with snow, and featuring one hundred per cent more Draco Malfoy than was comfortable – that his first Auror practical exam was not going to go as well as he'd hoped.

On the plus side, though, apart from Draco Malfoy, the place seemed deserted, so he was hopeful he'd at least get out of this with his life, if not his dignity, intact.

Harry took a deep breath – and regretted it, as his lungs turned to ice. "Bloody hell, it's cold!" he spluttered, and hugged the slightly greasy bag packed with toasted sandwiches to his chest. Heat – and melted butter – oozed through his thin hoodie. It would have been unpleasant if he'd been back in wizarding London where it was hot and muggy, but here, where it was fucking freezing, it was cheese-scented bliss.

Malfoy's right eyebrow rose so high it practically took off into space, and he put down the large leather bag he was carrying, all the better to cross his arms in a narked manner. "I hope there's something useful in that bag," he said, every word a chip of ice off the old Malfoy block. It was the first thing he'd said directly to Harry in months.

Harry shivered and attempted not to hug the sandwiches closer. Malfoy had a curiously penetrating stare, as if he could see through the bag, right into Harry's guilty, ill-prepared soul. He thought that even if he'd been wearing his invisibility cloak, it wouldn't have shielded him from Malfoy's evil eye.

"Useful-ish," he said, trying to brazen it out, and failing not to flinch at Malfoy's disgusted snort.

He wished he did have his invisibility cloak with him right now. Along with any of his textbooks. Or notes. Or anything at all, really, other than the clothes he stood up in – and two toasted sarnies, which were cooling rapidly under the chill of Malfoy's gaze.

He hoped the test – whatever it was – would be quick to complete. Auror Robards had told them that he'd rescue any of his trainees who didn't return after twenty-four hours, and the thought of potentially being stuck alone with Malfoy for that long was . . .

There weren't really words to describe how much Harry didn't fancy it. Malfoy might find out that Harry—

"Well, are we going to see what the task is – or are you just going to gaze longingly at me until we both freeze to death?" Malfoy inquired with exquisite politeness.

"You're staring at me more!" Harry said, in a panic; surely the git hadn't guessed his guilty secret already? He tried to compose his face, but gloomily suspected he was only making things worse.

Malfoy's gaze turned curious, and his lips twitched, as if he wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or not.

He was probably just shivering, Harry told himself firmly, and tried to pull himself together. They were wasting precious time – and if Malfoy, who was already as white as the undisturbed snow that coated the branches of the trees around them, actually turned into an icicle, Harry would definitely fail the exam.

The question was: what was the exam? "Can you see any instructions?" Harry asked, spinning around and trying to suppress the thought that if he'd been partnered with Hermione, they'd have probably already finished the – whatever it was.

Malfoy took a cursory glance around. He still had his arms crossed, but now he looked as if he was trying to hug himself, rather than score points. "Unfortunately not."

All Harry could see were trees, and clearings between the trees, and more trees. If there was something specific they were meant to do, then Auror Robards was being particularly subtle about it. A faint sense of unease shivered through him. "You do think this is our exam, don't you, and not some kind of trap?"

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, as if he were talking to an idiot. "It was Auror Robards' Portkeys that brought us here."

Harry bit down on his instinctive rude reply; the last thing he wanted to do was stand about and argue with Malfoy, now Malfoy was deigning to speak to him. Besides, he didn't want to make too much of a fuss; he rather suspected he'd been trying to use the coin-shaped Portkey to pay for lunch when it had activated. "Let's do a perimeter search of the area and see if we can turn anything up," he said instead, falling back on basic Auror training.

"There isn't a perimeter," Malfoy said, half under his breath, "it's a fucking wood," but he picked up his bag and stomped off before Harry could start to argue.

They'd barely taken ten steps before Malfoy said, achingly polite, "Now, I know that blue is my colour, but if you decided, say, to cast a heating charm to stop us both freezing to death as we walk, I promise I wouldn't stop you."

Harry remembered another important thing about the sandwich shop. A thing he'd been hoping to conceal from Malfoy for – well, the next eternity. "Too high and mighty to cast your own spells, are you?" he prevaricated.

Malfoy's blue-tinged skin mottled with red. "I suppose compassion for someone like me is beyond you, Potter," he said freezingly, "but perhaps you're unaware that I haven't yet been able to purchase a new wand. Mother lends me hers when I'm in class, but I can't take it with me all the time."

Oh, bollocks. How had he not known that? "Um, it's not that I don't want to use my wand right now," Harry mumbled, looking at the ground.

"You do have it, don't you?" Malfoy asked, his tone incredulous.

"Well . . . not as such," Harry said wretchedly, quickening his pace so he didn't have to meet Malfoy's eye. "Don't worry though, it's perfectly safe!"

"Safe? "

"I'm sure Ron will take very good care of it," Harry said defensively, hating how fucking stupid he was sounding.

Malfoy didn't even need to say anything; he just stopped dead, and when Harry looked back, he was simply standing there, all Malfoyish and judgemental, staring at Harry in an extremely Malfoyish way.

"It's not my fault!" Harry said, in reply to the silent accusation that he was a wanker. "Monsieur Croque has a 'leave your wand at the door' policy these days. How was I to know this would happen!"

"Oh, wonderful," Malfoy said, now deigning to speak. "That's just perfect, that is. Well done, Potter. I suppose—"

"Give it a rest, Malfoy," Harry said wearily, and to his mild surprise Malfoy actually shut up, pressing his lips together so hard they turned white. It made an interesting contrast to the blue.

They trudged on a bit longer, but it didn't take long to establish what had been obvious from the start: they were in an uninhabited forest, with no sign that the Head Auror had ever been there to set up their exam. It was creepy. And it was getting darker.

Great, Harry thought, just great, and he snuck another look at Malfoy. His head was bowed, and every now and then a muscle in the side of his face twitched, as if he were holding a conversation with someone inside his head. A rude conversation.

"You're staring again, Potter," Malfoy said, and turned to stare at him in a very knowing, sardonic way.

Harry almost hurt his neck, he looked away so quickly, but he tried not to rise to the bait. Besides, Malfoy was really shivering. "You look really cold," he said, unable to stop himself turning back in concern, and winced when Malfoy glared at him like Harry had just suggested chopping off his leg.

"Yes, thank you, Potter," Malfoy said. "How kind of you to notice. After I die, be sure to tell all your friends how heroically concerned you were about me. It will make you look good in their eyes, which is, naturally, the main thing."

That struck Harry as unfair. "This is not my fault!"

Malfoy shot him another look of poisonous dislike, only spoiled by the way his teeth were chattering.

Harry halted and attempted to take his jumper off, to give to stupid, T-shirt-wearing Malfoy, but Malfoy spun on his heel and yanked it back down. "I don't want your things, Potter," he said. Petulantly.

"Worried you might catch something?" Harry snapped, but Malfoy didn't reply, just set his jaw.

Harry attempted to simultaneously not get cross and think of a plan. It didn't take much skill for a wizard to survive somewhere cold or barren. All he – or she – needed was a wand.

This was not a helpful thought.

"We should probably head back before we get lost," Harry suggested.

"Fine," Malfoy snapped, and they turned, Harry sneaking further glances at Malfoy as they walked. He didn't look like he was enjoying himself, his skin almost transparent with cold. Harry was thin himself, but Malfoy had aristocratic slenderness down to a fine art; he had the sort of figure that had witches taking a second look – and then a third, when they realised it was Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater turned good, who was even now making reparations for his mistakes by training to be an Auror.

And once Harry himself had noticed Malfoy in that way – he couldn't stop noticing. He was driving himself mad.

Malfoy had been popular back at school, but now, if anything, he was even more popular. It was infuriating! Harry had to increasingly remind himself not to grind his teeth when acquaintances – when friends – told him what a changed man Malfoy was, that Harry should give him a second chance. They weren't to know that Harry had tried to talk to Malfoy more than once – to force that second chance on him – and been rebuffed.

Malfoy was an absolute fucker – but that didn't mean Harry wanted the jumper-refusing fucker freezing to death. If only he had his lesson notes! "Do you remember how to treat hypothermia?" he asked, in case it came to that.

"Application of gentle heat to head, neck, chest and groin," Malfoy said through chattering teeth. "Do you never listen, Potter?"

"We don't have any heating charms," Harry mused, and then inspiration struck. Maybe he had prepared for the exam. In a sense. "The sandwiches! They're still a bit warm." Why hadn't he thought of it before?

Malfoy shot him a look that suggested he'd lost his mind. "Potter, if you think I'm about to shove a cheese sarnie down my pants, or press one to my neck, then you're obviously the one suffering from hypothermia. It induces idiocy, I'm told, although in your case it's rather hard to tell."

This was a bit rich coming from a wand-less, coat-less, jumper-less icicle, Harry thought.

"Besides, wouldn't it be better to eat them? Who knows when we'll get our next meal," Malfoy said, stopping and holding out a commanding hand.

It was logical, and they'd reached a small clearing in the trees – as good a spot as any to pause and eat – but . . . "We could always use the heat first and eat them when they're properly cold," Harry suggested.

Malfoy snorted. "I am NOT eating a sandwich that's been down your trousers, Potter."

Harry spluttered, but Malfoy took no notice, just eyed him increasing dislike, before trying to snatch the bag from Harry's hand. Harry jerked it back and had a brief, wistful daydream that he had his wand and could hex off Malfoy's head – and he could see his own wish reflected in Malfoy's eyes. It would certainly make things simpler.

Instead of offering violence, however, Malfoy simply looked away, dropped his bag with a thud and sat down on it, wrapping his arms around shaking knees. So Harry sucked up his irritation and passed Malfoy a sandwich.

They ate in silence and without enthusiasm, Malfoy wrinkling his nose and licking his fingertips fastidiously, and Harry felt moved to remark – rudely, "So what's in your bag, Malfoy? If it's fur robes and a portable heater, I'm going to . . . to . . ." He couldn't think of a threat good enough.

Malfoy sniffed. "None of your business, Potter."

Well, Harry liked that. It was the work of a moment to grab one of the straps of the bag Malfoy was sitting on and heave.

Malfoy fell off, landing in a small snowdrift with a string of curses that Harry didn't think nice, well brought up boys were supposed to know. He rose, with vengeance in his eyes, but Harry had already unzipped the bag.

"Malfoy. What the fuck?" Harry asked, staring inside it. It was, as he'd suspected, a magical bag, containing far more than it appeared to. However . . . "A lilo?" he inquired, staring at the large, pink inflatable. "Going somewhere nice on holiday, are we?" He didn't even have to try to make it sound sarcastic; the words accomplished it all by themselves.

"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy said, with barely contained rage.

"No, really," Harry said. "You mock me for my sarnies, but tell me why you thought that" – he had another rummage – "a couple of beach towels and—"

"No, don't touch that; don't you know a beach hut when you see it?"

"—a pot of sunburn-prevention potion would be useful in our Auror exam?" Harry blinked. "Beach hut?" He yanked out the miniaturised hut and set it on the ground. He watched it for a second. "It's not—"

Malfoy yanked Harry's arm so hard it felt like it was coming out of its socket, but before he could protest the hut was expanding like a rocket, its gauzy walls hurtling towards them as they dashed back under the cover of the trees.

The hut fit in the clearing.


It was a bit of an eyesore, in vivid stripes, but it had walls, and a floor, and it would keep the threatening snow off their heads.

And it wasn't as if they had much choice about it; they could skulk outside, just in case this was an exercise in concealment, and have to be defrosted by Auror Robards when he turned up to rescue them, or they could make use of the fuck-off 'look at me' tent and possibly not have to have their toes magically reattached later.

"You are such a dickhead, Potter. We'll never get it back in the bag without our wands," Malfoy said despairingly.

Well, that solved the dilemma. Harry strode towards the hut, finding the door and slipping in, Malfoy close on his heels.

It was dark inside, and slightly warmer – but only slightly. Harry could feel a temperature-control charm valiantly doing its best, but given that this was a beach hut, it was a bit like a Muggle lighting a match and hoping it would heat the whole room. Harry turned to glower to Malfoy. "Remind me again why you have this?"

Malfoy stood very tall, like a ghost in the gloom of the tent. "Didn't you hear Auror Robards say that training was 'hotting up'? And yesterday, that the exam was going to test us to 'boiling point'?" he said loftily. "I merely put two and two together to make—"

"A beach holiday?" Harry asked, trying not to roll his eyes.

Malfoy tilted his chin and looked down his nose at Harry. "How the hell was I to know that he was employing cliché rather than making a strong hint!" he snapped. "At least I was half prepared – which is frankly one hundred percent more than you were!"

Rather than continue to look at Malfoy and get increasingly wound up – because neither of them were covering themselves in glory here – Harry looked about for the bag and began to pull out the remaining items. When he had reached the bottom of the bag – with no help at all from Malfoy – he turned around, ready to say something sharp, and felt his lower jaw sag. "Um, what are you doing?" he said, when he'd regained the power of speech.

Malfoy half-turned, his hands at his belt. His shirt was already on the floor in a crumpled heap. His eyes glittered. "I'm hardly going to sit about in wet clothes, Potter, just because you were kind enough to push me into a snowdrift, am I, now?"

"No-o," Harry said, "but are you sure that taking off all your clothes is going to warm you up? It was only a small snowdrift," he added, as one of Malfoy's eyebrows rose inexorably.

"I do apologise, Potter," Malfoy said with aching sarcasm. "I am making you uncomfortable. I will keep the sodden clothes on until they freeze to my skin, rather than offend your virgin sensibilities by exposing my knees."

Harry felt himself go purple and hoped that it was gloomy enough that Malfoy wouldn't notice. He felt unequal to this situation. Malfoy was alarmingly attractive half undressed, and only this morning he'd jerked off in the shower before training to thoughts of—

Malfoy snorted, his eyes glittering, and started to rebuckle his belt. "Fucking prudish Gryffindors and their ludicrous sense of—"

Help! Harry thought, but he was a grown man, and so he snapped, as if he meant it, "Don't be stupid, Malfoy. Take your fucking clothes off."

A deep and meaningful silence stretched out between them as Malfoy didn't move, just stood there, hand on his belt, looking at Harry – who was trying very hard not to twitch.

It wasn't fair! And it was entirely Malfoy's fault! A few weeks ago he'd spent a whole class making cutting remarks that could only be aimed at Harry, and Harry had arrived home in a towering bad mood, wishing he'd said something in reply. He'd thought up the perfect response – and if he'd had a wank while thinking about the look of defeat that would have appeared on Malfoy's face, then what of it? It didn't mean anything. And it didn't mean anything when he did it the following day, either, or the day after that.

Except, with Malfoy looking at him again as if he'd developed a new talent in Legilimency, it didn't seem like the cleverest habit to have got into.

"Oh?" Malfoy said. "I should take my fucking clothes off? Well, if you insist," he continued, his eyes locked on Harry's face as he made short work of the belt, unzipping his trousers, pushing them down his legs and kicking them off. "What now, oh chosen one?" he said – and there was an unmistakable challenge in his voice.

Oh god. There was no way in hell that Malfoy was implying what Harry was trying very hard not to think. He attempted to pull himself together. "Um," he said, unable to stop his eyes from flicking downward, to take in Malfoy's surprisingly toned chest, long muscled legs and – Harry swallowed – very tight black boxer shorts.

It was dark in the hut, but not nearly fucking dark enough.

Malfoy's underpants looked very well filled for someone who was supposedly freezing to death.

Harry swallowed, and his eyes met Malfoy's, which were sparkling with . . . malevolence, possibly. It was hard to tell, because he immediately looked away, trying to focus on something – anything – that wasn't Malfoy. He'd been dreaming about intimacy with Malfoy for weeks, his desire to force Malfoy to make amends blurring into erotic fantasies, but he was uncomfortably aware that dream Malfoy was a lot more – predictable.

He certainly would not have predicted that Malfoy would be the least bit interested in . . . Oh god. Was he? Or was he just being typical Malfoy, trying to get under Harry's skin in the cruellest, most humiliating of ways?

"No?" Malfoy said – in a voice that invited punching, as far as Harry was concerned. "Nothing springs to mind? Then perhaps I'll just lie down on the fucking lilo under a towel and try not to shiver myself to death." He paced over to the lilo, spreading out first one beach towel, and then a second, like sheets, and slipped between them. The top one wasn't big enough, and barely came up over his waist. "Other people," he continued, propping himself up on one elbow, "might choose to share their body heat with their hypothermic Auror partner, but I can quite understand why you would prefer not to with me."

Harry, trembling with irritation and anticipation, was kicking off his shoes before his fear got the better of him, and though his confidence quailed when he actually approached Malfoy – and the lilo – he couldn't think of a way to back out now without looking like a coward.

Malfoy said nothing – just watched as Harry, who couldn't decide whether he felt hot or cold, approached, and then snorted as Harry made to get in next to him.

"What?" Harry said testily.

"Were you asleep during our cold-weather survival lesson, or is your brain just asleep now?" Malfoy said, silky smooth. "It's going to be hard for me to share your body heat, you dolt, if you keep all your clothes on."

Harry swallowed hard as the inevitability of sharing what was basically a bed with Malfoy loomed. Was Malfoy taking the piss? The hut was warming up a bit, and he was clearly not in imminent danger of frostbite. Was he just trying to get at Harry? Or did he really want to . . .?

"Not scared, are you, Potter?" Malfoy asked, and Harry nearly took his ears off with his hoodie, he pulled it off so fast, yanking his T-shirt off in quick succession. He turned his back on Malfoy to drop his trousers – it was pretty dark now in the hut, but his own eyes had already adjusted to the light level, and he was taking no chances that Malfoy would get an eyeful of the way his half hard cock was tenting his Y-fronts.

Harry managed to shuffle backwards the few steps to the makeshift bed and pull the towel over himself, in enough of a tangle to conceal his erection. He lay there for thirty seconds or so, very much not touching Malfoy and trying very hard not to breathe, or move, or look at anything other than the ceiling. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Malfoy broke the silence by saying – very close to his ear – "Well, go on then, Potter. Warm me up."

His mouth went instantly dry, and his heart started beating so rapidly that it felt like he had a snitch in his chest, trying to break free. He felt completely paralysed. Malfoy had not just said that, like something out of one of Harry's wildest wet dreams. Surely he hadn't said that. And surely he didn't mean it that way. This was Malfoy.

Oh god, Harry thought, unable to turn to face Malfoy, his courage completely deserting him.

"Or don't, then," Malfoy said, his voice hardening, and this seemed to free up Harry's limbs. It seemed more likely, all of a sudden, that Malfoy was just being a total git.

Harry turned on his side, taking refuge in anger, and said belligerently, "I don't know how!"

Malfoy snorted. "For god's sake, Potter, use your imagination."

Harry used his imagination, and it didn't help at all. He tried to shift his lower body away from Malfoy as surreptitiously as he could, without actually falling off the sodding inflatable. "Um," he said, trying desperately to think of something even halfway appropriate. There was no way this – this whatever it was – was going to end well. What were those cures for hypothermia again? Application of gentle heat to head, neck, chest and . . . and . . .

And groin.

Harry shuddered. Malfoy was too close, and he was looking at Harry, and if he just inched closer then—

"Well?" Malfoy said with impatience.

Harry reacted – panicked – and, without thinking, reached out with his right hand and pressed it on Malfoy's neck. It seemed the safest place to apply heat.

Malfoy jolted. "Salazar's balls, your hand is fucking freezing!" he spluttered. "What are you doing?"

"What you asked!" Harry protested, snatching his hand back.

"For fuck's sake, Potter," Malfoy said, as angrily as if Harry had kicked his favourite crup. "Pressing your cold fingers on me is hardly going to help, is it?"

"All right! All right!" Harry said, finding comfort in familiar irritation. "I'm not exactly toasty myself, dickhead."

"You've certainly got enough hot air, so why don't you shut up and put it to some good use?" Malfoy said, lying back flat and turning his head away from Harry, exposing his neck.

Harry gazed at the column of creamy skin and swallowed hard. His cock twitched, straining against his underpants. Utter humiliation loomed on the horizon. But – taking great care to keep his lower body away from Malfoy – he half-leaned over him, bending down and blowing a long, warm breath against Malfoy's neck, just below his ear.

It felt like the most intimate thing Harry had ever done, and he had just enough time to panic that he'd stepped over some invisible line when Malfoy exhaled hard in an unwilling-sounding moan. The noise zinged right to Harry's cock and his mouth went completely dry. He shifted uncomfortably, resisting the urge to reach down and rearrange himself, and manfully exhaled once more against Malfoy's skin, his lips so close that they were almost touching him. It was very quiet all of a sudden, and it dawned on Harry that Malfoy was holding his breath.

Harry's cock throbbed so much it was almost painful, and he could hear his blood whooshing in his ears. He was tempted to roll on to his front so he could grind his cock into the makeshift bed, but he tried to keep a grip on himself and instead licked a short stripe up Malfoy's neck.

He really did panic then; this was beyond intimate, and it was Malfoy he was doing this to, and he had no idea what Malfoy thought about the whole business. He hadn't leaped up to punch Harry, but then he hadn't rolled over and snogged him senseless either.

"Malfoy . . ." Harry said hesitantly.

"Don't stop, you idiot," Malfoy said, low and fierce.

Harry took a ragged breath and repeated the lick, blowing over the cooling saliva, drawing a tiny choked noise from Malfoy's lips. Harry couldn't stop trembling, terrified beyond all reasoning, but he grasped what little courage he had left and crossed the line between pretence and reality: he bent his head down and kissed Malfoy's neck.

Malfoy made a startled, soft noise that didn't sound like an objection, so Harry did it again, alternating licking and kissing until Malfoy was breathing fast and heavy and there was no doubt in Harry's mind that what he was doing was OK.

It felt incredible; and when Harry fastened his mouth to Malfoy's neck, sucking a bruise to the surface, Malfoy actually groaned, making small, quick gasps that had Harry almost out of his mind with arousal.

It was all too much – but not nearly enough. Harry wanted – oh, how he wanted. But he didn't know what he wanted, or how much Malfoy was willing to give. He wet his lips. "Um," he said. "What . . . Shall we . . .?" he stammered incoherently.

"Oh god, Potter," Malfoy said, as if he was going mad, "whatever tedious question you want to ask: yes. It's fine." He turned his head and lay back, eyes closed and chin very high. "Don't forget I'm dying," he added with a snort. "If maintaining the fiction helps you concentrate."

"The fiction?" Harry repeated, suddenly unsure.

Malfoy opened his eyes and looked at him incredulously. "Really, Potter?"

Harry, heart pounding, didn't know what to say or do with himself. He felt like he'd been transported back in time to fifth year, his head nothing but Malfoy Malfoy Malfoy, but his feelings a mess. He hadn't thought he was the sort of man who'd be able to have such casual intimacy; he hadn't thought Malfoy was the type either.

Not that anything could ever be casual where Draco Malfoy was concerned; not for Harry.

Malfoy's eyes glittered. "For fuck's sake, then, if I must," he said, obviously misunderstanding Harry's hesitation. "Oh no, Potter, I am so overcome by cold that I am throwing off my covers against all my survival instincts," he continued, his voice heavy with sarcasm, and he tangled his legs in the towel and kicked, dragging it down his body.

Harry's gaze followed the towel helplessly, any words he wanted to say sticking in his throat when he saw Malfoy's boxers and the extremely – extremely – impressive tent in them.

"And come to think of it," Malfoy continued, relentlessly, "that snowdrift you pushed me in has soaked me right through my trousers, and the chill against my skin is just unbearable." And he reached down, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers and starting to pull them off.

Harry lurched forward, grabbing Malfoy's hands. He cleared his throat. "Um," he said, not moving – and not letting go.

Malfoy looked at him calmly, not moving either, but a muscle twitched in his cheek.

Harry felt like he was on the edge of a precipice, the wind whistling in his ears, and his whole body was telling him to jump. Oh Merlin, he wanted this so much. Felt like he'd always wanted this. And there was Malfoy, staring at him with eyes dark with lust, offering himself on a plate.

Harry jumped – hooking his own fingers into the waistband of Malfoy's boxers and dragging them down, Malfoy letting his own hands fall to his sides and lifting his hips obligingly.

Malfoy's cock sprang free with some difficulty. Harry swallowed hard. It wasn't beyond the bounds of normal, but it was bigger than he'd ever seen outside of the porn he and his housemates had illicitly passed between them – at least nine inches, and thick. Malfoy's pubes were fine and short, as if he'd cut them back, and his balls were fat.

As Harry watched, Malfoy's cock twitched once, and then twice, a dribble of liquid oozing from the tip. He felt his own cock join in, in sympathy; the front of his pants felt damp.

Harry – so hard it almost hurt – shifted on the makeshift bed and bent down over Malfoy's cock, darting his tongue out to lick up the pearl of come, before drawing back.

Malfoy, and there was no other word for it, writhed, and made a noise so low and helpless that Harry felt his balls tighten as if he was ready to come.

It was almost impossible to believe that this was Malfoy in front of him, spread out and waiting for him. Harry suddenly felt that he had to get some pressure on his cock before he went mad, so he shifted on the lilo, straddling Malfoy and lowering himself flat on him, supported by his forearms. He could feel the ridge of Malfoy's cock against his, separated only by the thin fabric, and when he worked his hips, his own dick throbbing in time with his heartbeat, he heard himself groan.

Malfoy obligingly turned his head in invitation, and Harry sunk his face into Malfoy's neck with heady pleasure, overcome by the way Malfoy hissed when he nipped at the tender skin, then moving up to suck the bottom of Malfoy's earlobe.

Harry couldn't stop his hips from moving, grinding against Malfoy, each movement ripping a choked noise from Malfoy's throat. But then Malfoy moved, pushing him back on to his side and following after him, until they were face to face. Harry shivered at the loss of contact and ran a hand tentatively down Malfoy's side, watching his throat. Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed, and Harry ducked down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the hollow at the base of his throat, working his thumb in lazy circles around his hip.

Malfoy squirmed and reached up with one hand to tangle his fingers in Harry's hair. He yanked hard, and Harry found himself face to face with Malfoy, who was trembling and angry and whose lips were parted and face flushed as if he couldn't control himself, and who was glaring, but not quite.

Harry wasn't sure he liked that; in his fantasies Malfoy had been hard and angry at first, but melted into something soft and willing. His heart ached painfully. Malfoy opened his mouth further as if to speak, but Harry, nervous of what he might say, dropped his hand lower, and Malfoy faltered. As Harry's hand trailed through Malfoy's pubes he was completely silent, not even breathing, though he gasped when Harry ran a finger over his balls and followed the path up his cock.

When Harry swirled his thumb over the slick head, Malfoy gasped again, pressing his lips together hard. So Harry did it once more, before making a fist and taking Malfoy in hand.

Malfoy was silent at first, his lips trembling, as Harry worked his hand up and down slowly, his hand moving slickly with Malfoy's copious pre-come. He felt huge and hot in Harry's hand, each stroke making him wetter and harder, and Harry bit his lower lip, trying not to squirm. Malfoy's hand was still tight in his hair, his eyes still focused on Harry's face, and Harry tightened his grip and moved his hand faster, pumping fast and firm.

Malfoy's mouth fell open as if he couldn't help himself and he made a low, choked moan, his expression suddenly desperate.

Harry slowed, enjoying the way Malfoy's eyes widened and his throat convulsed, before stopping entirely, reaching lower down to cup one of Malfoy's balls and gently squeeze.

Malfoy bit off a moan, fingers tightening painfully in Harry's hair, and Harry brought his hand up to his mouth, spitting into his palm. He returned his hand to Malfoy's cock, oiling it up with his saliva, and this time Malfoy really did groan, a low, wanton sound that had Harry needy and aching.

Once Malfoy had started moaning, he seemed to be unable to stop, making heartfelt, needy sounds that increased in intensity with each movement of Harry's hand on his cock. His eyes fluttered half-shut, widening again when Harry sped up, wanking him the way he liked to be wanked himself: firm and fast and slick.

This was better than any of his fantasies, Harry thought feverishly. Even if Malfoy didn't touch him, didn't return the favour, he didn't think he'd ever, ever experience anything hotter.

Malfoy started shaking and mewling, muttering, "Oh god, oh god, oh god," over and over, his eyes fixed crazily on Harry's.

Harry kept the same steady rhythm, and Malfoy's dick seemed to swell even harder in his fist, each pass over the head milking another drop of pre-come, eliciting another whimper from Malfoy.

Malfoy juddered, his hips jerking frantically, and he half-collapsed against Harry, a string of "Ohgodohgodohgodohgod," falling from his mouth as his cock pumped string after string of wetness into Harry's hand, some spraying hotly against his chest and a drop hitting his chin.

Harry kept stroking gently as Malfoy shuddered against him, riding out the last drops of his orgasm and beyond, until Malfoy batted his hand away, panting like he'd just been running for his life.

It was . . . it was so fucking hot, Harry thought, and tried not to mind that his own dick was the hardest it had ever been and there wasn't much chance that Malfoy would take care of it for him. This would be enough fuel for his fantasy shower-wanks for the rest of eternity.

"Hm," Malfoy said against his skin. His voice sounded hoarse and unlike him. "Your turn now, I think, Potter."

Harry felt his stomach muscles clench convulsively. It occurred to him, all of a sudden, that there was a great risk he'd come in under ten seconds. He tried not to panic, but Malfoy was already rolling away from him and sliding down his body.

Harry clenched his buttocks when Malfoy mouthed a kiss to the head of his cock through his underpants. He was already so fucking close, and the feel of Malfoy's hot breath through the fabric had already half undone him.

Malfoy did it again, face right in Harry's crotch, mouth grating the fabric against the sensitive head. He reached up with one hand and pinched Harry's left nipple – hard.

Harry, who had been teetering on the verge of orgasm, his entire body clenched to try and hold off, gasped – and came hard in his pants, his dick and his nipple throbbing and throbbing, twin points of ecstasy.

"Did you just?" Malfoy asked as Harry panted hard. He sounded amused.

Harry deigned not to answer that; just stared at the ceiling and tried not to die.

Malfoy slipped a hand under the waistband of Harry's pants, and Harry jerked as his fingers grazed his oversensitive cock. Malfoy ran his finger in the pool of come that had formed on Harry's skin and . . . and – Harry couldn't help but look – brought his finger up to his mouth and sucked it clean.

"Hm," Malfoy said and then reached back down and ran his knuckles over the front of Harry's pants, making Harry buck.

Malfoy paused, then pulled aside the generous slit in Harry's Y-fronts, running a finger over Harry's overheated flesh. "There's a hole in your pants, Potter," he said, sounding increasingly sure of himself. "Is this some Muggle nonsense?"

Harry couldn't find his voice to explain that it was perfectly normal, so Malfoy could fuck right off if he was going to take the mick, but Malfoy's finger was still stroking his cock through the hole, and although he'd come he was still hard.

"I wonder . . ." Malfoy said speculatively, then reached in and pulled Harry's cock out through the hole.

Harry felt curiously exposed – still wearing his pants, but his cock bobbing free. "You . . . you don't have to," he stammered as Malfoy eyed it speculatively.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow and then looked back at Harry's cock. "Not bad," Malfoy said. "It seems a shame not to try it out properly."

Not bad! Harry opened his mouth to tell Malfoy where to stick it, but what came out was a strangled cry as Malfoy dropped down and swallowed his cock.

Harry was so sensitive it almost hurt, and he couldn't stop his hips from jerking, his thighs from trembling. But Malfoy just put his weight harder on him, pinning him down, his mouth inexorably moving up and down, his tongue probing the slit on each pass, the suction warm and tight.

Harry could hear himself talking gibberish, but he couldn't stop – the world had narrowed to his cock and Malfoy's talented mouth. To the heat, and the tight, and the curling need that made him clench and clench and clench, each tightening building his orgasm, intensifying the sensation.

Time fell away, measured only by the thudding of his heart and the soft, wet sighs that Malfoy was making. Harry tightened his hands in the towel he was lying on, his entire body rigid as Malfoy carried on and on, and his orgasm built and built.

He teetered on the edge of almost unbearable arousal until it seemed impossible that he could feel any more turned on and not die, and still he didn't come. He was really cursing now. His balls ached. His thighs shook uncontrollably. He could barely breathe, each breath a shallow gasp.

And then he came – bucking into Malfoy's mouth with a shout, once, twice, and again, and Malfoy let him, swallowing him down, swirling his tongue as Harry plunged into wave after wave of orgasm.

After, Harry lay back feeling entirely boneless, limp as a dishrag, and Malfoy shifted to lie beside him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and looking unbearably smug.

Harry – feeling tired and sated and not wanting to think too hard about anything – pulled Malfoy towards him and kissed him.

For a brief, unpleasant moment, Malfoy was still and unresponsive, and Harry's insides lurched. But then he kissed back, hard and furious, as if he were angry, but softening, breathing a soft, "Oh," into Harry's mouth when Harry reached up to cup the side of his face. Harry melted, and the kiss went on long and tender, Harry entwining his limbs with Malfoy's and pulling him closer.

Eventually, Harry realised Malfoy was trembling. "You're cold," he said, in concern, pulling away. "We should get dressed. Your clothes should be drier now, maybe."

Malfoy snorted, but rose, pulling on his clothes while Harry tucked himself back into his pants and did the same, pausing when he came to his hoodie and passing it instead to Malfoy. He didn't know why Malfoy was still trembling from the cold, really; the hut had heated up considerably, and Harry himself felt overheated both inside and out.

Malfoy looked at him – long and hard – and then put the hoodie on. Then he ran his hands through his hair and straightened his clothes, before quickly repacking his bag. "Ready, Potter?" he said inexplicably, and held out his hand.

Harry frowned, but took it – and only had time to register that Malfoy was holding something cold in his palm before something took hold of him and jerked, and before he knew it he was blinking in the sunlight of Wizarding London with his Auror classmates around him.

Ron barged forward, Harry's wand in his hand. "What took you so long?" he asked curiously. "I worked out you must have got stuck with the ferret, but the task only took me and Hermione ten minutes, so we've been expecting you back for ages."

"Er," Harry said, his mind working nineteen to the dozen.

"Everything go OK, Mr Potter?" Auror Robards said, appearing suddenly at the front of the group.

Malfoy cleared his throat. "It all went very satisfactorily," he said politely, stepping forward, and he handed Robards a sealed letter.

Harry peered at it. Someone had written, in a clear hand on the outside: Some tests will be easy. Simply collect this letter and return by Portkey to deliver it to your assessor. GW.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy," Robards said gravely, and opened the envelope to pull out two Pass certificates, which he handed over. "And what do you think the point of this exercise was?"

"Preparation, sir," Malfoy said, his tone bland, and he reached up to idly rub at his neck.

Harry tried not to go bright red when he saw just how large and obvious a love bite he'd left on Malfoy's pale skin.

"Well done," Robards said, raising his eyebrows. He turned and addressed everyone. "Sometimes the tests I set you will be hard – and sometimes they will be easy. They will always, however, be unexpected. So if you felt at all unprepared for this exam, then let this be a warning to you for next time. Now we're all here, class is dismissed. Go and do whatever you young people do on a Saturday." And he turned on his heel, Apparating away. Most of the others followed him, shooting puzzled glances back at Malfoy and Harry before they vanished. Only Ron and Hermione remained; Ron still had Harry's wand in his hand and a hundred-thousand questions in his eye.

Harry took his wand with a sheepish grin, and Ron opened his mouth to speak – only to be yanked away, flailing, by Hermione, leaving Harry alone once again with Malfoy.

They looked at each other, the sunshine beating down on them. Harry could feel sweat prickle at the base of his spine and something odd but not unpleasant churn in his stomach.

"You . . . you knew!" Harry said, not quite sure where to start, but focussing on the safest bit first, when Malfoy failed to speak. "You planned this!"

Malfoy looked at him pityingly for a moment, and then grinned. It was a very wicked grin. "Oh, I didn't plan all of it," he said. "The snow was a bit of a surprise, so I did have to improvise a bit more than expected. It was lucky that I happened to arrive at the exam site first so I could scope things out." He paused and picked up his bag. "And to tell you the truth, I didn't intend this to be more than a one off. But, well . . ." He faltered, faintly awkward, as if there was more he wanted to say but wouldn't.

This irritated Harry. "How did you even know that I wanted to – to—?" he asked.

Malfoy laughed. Laughed! "Oh, come on, Potter, you've gone red every time you've even looked my way for the last few weeks. You always just used to glare. It didn't take a genius to work out what you were thinking."

Harry felt himself go red again at this unfair and accurate accusation. "But why would you want to – to get in my pants all of a sudden?" he said, jamming his hands in his pockets and attempting a hard stare.

Malfoy's expression turned incredulous. "All of a sudden?" he repeated. "Fuck me, Potter, you're denser than I thought." And his face went pale and stiff, as if he'd said more than he meant to.

Harry digested this in silence. "Really?" he said eventually.

Something in Malfoy's tight expression slipped, revealing something unexpected: vulnerability. "So, dinner tonight, then, Potter?" he said, trying to cover it up.

Harry thought that Malfoy had answered the question quite well, without even meaning to. "That would be lovely," he said, and added, quietly, "Draco."

For a brief moment, Draco's face looked like the sun had finally come out from behind the clouds. He pulled himself together and gave a short nod, pulling a card from his pocket with his address on. "Pick me up at seven. Wear something I won't be ashamed to be seen in public with," he said, in an attempt at nonchalance, and Apparated away.

Harry stared into the blank space where Draco had been for long moments, then turned his face up to the sun, eyes shut against the glare, and smiled – a warmer, happier smile than he had for months.