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Harry didn’t deliberately leave the door to the showers unlocked. But he hadn’t been desperate to lock it, either, or to worry about someone coming in, the way he had been back in fourth year or fifth. During the war it had stopped being something that mattered enough to care about, next to all the other things that really mattered, and after—well, he couldn’t actually bring himself to mind any part of himself, anymore. Not the bad eyes, not the scar, not the spot halfway up his arm that ached on rainy days where the basilisk had bitten him. Something about nearly dying, maybe, or maybe because the horcrux was gone, out of him, but whatever it was, he just felt—settled in his own skin, glad to be alive and still not entirely sure how he’d managed it.

He did wince a bit when he heard the locker door bang shut over in the Slytherin corner. He wasn’t fond of the creepy salacious gossip items the Daily Prophet put out even when they weren’t true. He could just imagine the leering piece now—People would be surprised how compact the Gryffindor hero is, said one fellow Quidditch enthusiast at Hogwarts.

But he shook his head at himself. He wasn’t going to worry about it. If someone else wanted to make it their business, that was up to them. Anyway, he’d taken a header into a big marshy divot full of stinkflowers while he’d been out flying, and he’d only just loaded his hair up with Effacing Foam, so unless he felt like smelling like a combination of stinkflower and lemon curd for a solid week, now he had to let it sit and work.

Then Draco came out from the dressing room, down to a towel round his waist himself, and Harry relaxed again. It wasn’t like he and Draco were friends now or anything, but they nodded in the halls if they passed one another, and they’d exchanged a few words here and there. Mostly because it was ridiculous to be school rivals anymore, and weird to ignore each other, so there weren’t many other options. Nodding acquaintances it had to be, apparently, no matter how odd and vaguely wrong that felt.

“Potter,” Draco said, just so, and—well, he did glance; but everyone did when they had the chance, surely—Harry did himself, which was how he’d even noticed in the first place that he wasn’t exactly up to standard. And Draco noticed, too—he actually stared a moment—but he didn’t say anything at all, much less anything rude, just turned abruptly away towards the cupboard with the soap and things in it.

But then he stayed at the cupboard in front of the supplies for several minutes, like he was overwhelmed with the choice among three identical bottles of shampoo, and when he finally grabbed one, he came and turned on the shower right next to Harry’s. That was nearly an invitation to look, so Harry did, and then he stared, involuntarily, because fucking hell. And then he noticed Draco had tipped his head back and shut his eyes and put his face directly into the spray—like he wanted to make sure Harry had all the time in the world to look as long as he wanted, presumably to get the contrast rubbed thoroughly in his face.

He almost didn’t say anything—but then Draco actually reached down and gave himself a stroke, and honestly. “You wanker,” Harry said, more eyerolling than angry. “Really?”

Draco stepped out of the spray. He wiped the water off his face and pushed his wet hair back in two strokes of his hand. “No one asked you to look, did they?” he said, eyes glittering and intent on Harry’s face—like he’d just wiped off the years and turned back in time to when their greatest ambition in life had been to knock the other off his broom in front of the school and grab the Snitch first, before they’d both gone to war and come back with scars.

“I dunno, I rather thought you did,” Harry said, glaring back.

“You took me up on it quick enough, then,” Draco shot back. “I don’t mind, Potter. You can give it a pull, too, if you want to know what a big one feels like.”

Harry couldn’t believe—“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he said, the old familiar indignation rising, even though he couldn’t help thinking this is idiotic. But Draco deliberately stepped in towards him, getting closer, still glittering at him, and Harry almost could’ve worked up to punching him, and then Draco said, “You’re not sensitive about it, are you? There’s advantages, I hear. You could probably get someone to suck the whole thing,” and Harry said, “Why don’t you try it,” and then Draco had his hand on Harry’s hip and rubbed his massive cock deliberately right up against—

“Oh, fuck,” Harry said, shockingly hot suddenly, waves of heat running through his body. Draco caught his hand and pulled it down, to their cocks, and wrapped Harry’s fingers round them both, holding them together.

“God, you’re so small,” Draco said, his voice going ragged, and pushed hard into Harry’s fist—Harry could barely keep hold of them, fuck, and his hips jerked helplessly, rutting against Draco’s cock. He did look tiny, crammed up against that monster, or maybe it was that Draco looked huge, or both. Harry let his head fall back, gasping, and abruptly Draco shoved him back through the spray against the wall of the showers and went down on a knee and did get his mouth over the whole thing, oh God, and Harry banged his head back against the wall to keep from coming right away. Draco was sliding his tongue up and down his length, all over him, sucking hard, in pulses, and Harry dragged in air desperately, his fingers sliding over the tile wall and scrabbling on the grout lines as if he could hold on that way, last just a little longer—and oh, oh, he couldn’t anymore, his whole body shuddering.

Draco swallowed and pulled slowly off him, letting Harry’s cock slide out of his mouth, then stood up and kissed him. Harry kissed him back over and over, open-mouthed soft messy kisses, gripping Draco’s head to keep his hands from shaking.

“Turn round,” Draco said, sucking on his lip, biting at it. Harry turned round and Draco got behind him and pushed between Harry’s legs—and came jutting out the front, even that much of him still bigger than Harry’s softening cock, and Harry held himself up against the wall and pressed his legs tight around it and watched Draco’s cock thrusting ruthlessly between his thighs, enormous, hot, insistent. He felt almost dizzy with lust. He’d stopped minding, but he’d never liked it before. He’d never thought about being turned on that—

#

They were both supposed to be studying for N.E.W.T.s, but Draco wasn’t going to have to work a day in his life, and no one was going to reject Harry’s Auror application even if he had straight Trolls up and down the line. The studying mostly fell by the wayside after they started fucking twice a day. It took nearly an hour each time and a monstrous amount of lubrication, and it was worth the effort.

Harry hadn’t ever had much of a sex life before, not even a solitary one. He’d spent the last few years terrified he and everyone he loved was going to die horribly: a bit of a damper. But even aside from that, nothing he’d ever had was anything like being braced against a wall, staring down at his cock cupped in Draco’s hand, Draco leisurely stroking his thumb over the head and murmuring into his ear, “You’re meant to take it, you can see, there’s really no point your ever putting it in anyone,” while nudging his entire massive cock into him with excruciating slowness until Harry made a strangled noise in his throat and said, “Draco, you tosser, give me more already.”

Harry didn’t know why Draco had come back. He almost didn’t know why he had come back. Ron had gone straight to Auror training without the least hesitation, and Hermione had gone to Arcanium College at Oxford. He missed them both, with a sharp ache, but it hadn’t changed his mind. Ron had thought it was because of Ginny, and Harry had let himself think so, too, except a month before the start of term, Ginny had asked him to dinner and she’d said, “Listen, Harry, I need to tell you. I’ve decided I’m not going back.” She was going to Auror training, too. She would be coming of age in October, and Shacklebolt had waived the requirements for anyone who’d fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.

“Oh,” Harry had said, blankly, because he understood he was meant to say, in that case I won’t go back either, but the words hadn’t come. He wanted his seventh year, wanted it back along with everything else Voldemort had stolen from him, and this one thing at least he could get.

Or try to get. It wasn’t quite working. Even the professors looked at him puzzled sometimes; they never called on him in class, and half the time they handed back his papers without a mark at all, just some comments written here and there like they were giving advice to a colleague instead of a student. He wasn’t on the Quidditch team: they’d asked him, and he’d flown in a couple of practices, but it hadn’t seemed fair, somehow. He—he had too much of a killer instinct now, and the wrong kind. He’d knocked a fourth-year Beater a head taller than him clear off his broom the second time out, and then he’d completely forgotten to even look for the Snitch after diving to catch the boy. One of their Chasers, a third-year girl, had made a brilliant dash and caught it just in time to keep it from flying completely off the field.

She was the Gryffindor Seeker now, and Harry went flying on his own, just him and a Snitch, harmless and safe. And he had a dorm room all to himself, too, because Seamus and Dean and Neville had all gone as well. But at least it was the same room, his own bed with his trunk at the foot, and if the owl cage was empty, and the other beds, at night that almost didn’t matter: he was back in the only home he’d ever had, and it was still here. Voldemort hadn’t managed to tear it all down. Even if during the day Harry mostly felt like—like one of the ghosts, still wandering the corridors long past his time.

Having massively fucked-up sex with Draco somehow fixed things a little. It wasn’t the size difference by itself that turned him on, it was that it was the two of them, a matched set. Almost as if this was something they’d always been meant to have: a stupid juvenile rivalry stumbling into something different when they’d got old enough to figure themselves out, except Voldemort had interrupted and dragged them off the rails, and now they were putting themselves back on, Draco saying urgently, “You can feel it, you’re made for me,” with Harry panting open-mouthed, braced against the mattress on shaking arms with Draco’s cock sliding devastatingly in and out of him.

Afterwards they’d just collapse side by side together, panting and sweaty. Harry’s whole body was all one solid glow of satisfaction so intense he couldn’t bear to move, he just wanted to lie there and feel it. Draco didn’t seem in any hurry to get up, either. At first they tried talking about stupid meaningless things like the work they hadn’t done for class or some book they’d read or Quidditch, but somehow in the dark Harry found words coming about the grinding struggle of wandering helplessly trying to find a way to destroy the horcruxes, and the way it had felt to die, and one night Draco haltingly told Harry about Voldemort stroking his hair, and the way his mother had made him sleep in her room that night, on the floor next to her bed, and the next day Bellatrix whispering to her, her eyes darting over to him, his mother saying desperately he’s not even of age yet, like a six-month clock ticking—

Draco had to get up and be sick into the bin after that, and he crawled back into Harry’s arms shivering. They stayed together the rest of the night: they’d found an unused guest apartment on the third floor corridor by then, the door just past a heap of rubble that hadn’t been cleared away yet, and they’d been using it for convenience.

They didn’t wake up in time for class the next day, without the elephant-herd noise of a hundred other students all struggling out of bed to tell them it was time to get up. The first bell was ringing somewhere distantly when Harry sat up rubbing his face, and he couldn’t quite muster up the necessary alarm to make himself scramble, but if he wasn’t going to rush to make it to class, why was he even here at all?

Draco muttered, “Did we miss breakfast?”

“Yeah,” Harry said.

After a moment, Draco said, “Sod it all anyway,” and pulled him back down.

They finally got up an hour later, took turns in the loo, and went out. It was nearly time for Charms, and Draco had Arithmancy, and they both stood unenthusiastically in the corridor looking at each other and didn’t make a move to go, and abruptly Harry said, “Hey, help me clear this away, will you?”

“All right,” Draco said, and they cleared out the rubble together: it had come out of the wall of the apartment next door, which was now mostly a gaping hole in the side of the building. They shoved the stone into the apartment to get it out of the way, but after they’d finished with the corridor, they stood and surveyed the room itself: a giant had hurled a boulder through the wall, and it had landed squarely on the bed, splintering it to ruin.

“You have to wonder what the bastard was thinking,” Draco said bitterly. “‘My beloved Hogwarts, let’s smash it up just to get at a bunch of underage wizards and elderly professors,’ and for no reason at all. He had the Ministry, he had the whole sodding country, he even had you, dead or alive. And instead of sitting back and picking off the rest of the resistance, he goes and lays siege to the most highly defended magical fortress in Britain.”

“I don’t think he was thinking at all,” Harry said. “He was just—hating everything. Even Hogwarts, probably, by the end.”

They sliced up the boulder into blocks of stone and used them to build the wall back up, transfiguring the smashed rubble into mortar to patch it together. It was hard work, but Harry liked doing it, and he half didn’t want to interrupt when the lunch bell rang, even though he was nearly starving by then. He sighed and wiped his forehead. “I guess we’d better go down,” he said, but when he turned round, a tray had appeared on a low cupboard, the one undamaged piece of furniture, heaped with sandwiches and cake and tea, and a house elf was just vanishing into the hallway with a quick darting look.

They kept at it the rest of the day. Late in the afternoon, Filch came down the corridor with his lamp and poked his head in, frowning. Draco straightened up, somehow managing to go cool and regal despite the dust and globs of mortar all over his robes and his sweat-matted hair. “Filch,” he said, with a nod, as if there wasn’t anything unusual about the two of them hanging out in some random room patching up the castle wall, and after a moment scowling, Filch withdrew without a word and continued off along his rounds.

They finished mending the outside wall before dinner, showered off, and went downstairs to eat. Harry didn’t have the time to feel out of place at the Gryffindor tables tonight: he was too busy shoveling in a heaping mound of potatoes and ham. One of the kids—one of the seventh-years asked him a bit timidly if he was all right, because he’d missed Charms, and Harry said, “Yeah—I got caught up fixing part of the wall on the third floor. What did Flitwick cover?” and ended up talking more than he had in a month.

After dinner, he looked round for Draco, who looked over from the Slytherin tables, and they went back upstairs together and plastered over the stone. When they finished and there really wasn’t anything else left to do, Draco said conversationally, “Let’s go back next door. I’ve been thinking we should try sucking each other off at the same time.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” Harry said. Even when he had his full attention on the job, it was hard going. “Do you really fancy explaining to Pomfrey exactly how I ended up asphyxiated on your cock?”

Draco gave him a smug, vicious little smirk. “Too much for you, Potter?”

“Come on then, you bastard,” Harry said with feeling.

After about fifteen minutes of that, Harry was struggling to get a sorely needed breath when Draco let him slide out of his mouth and kissed his thigh and murmured against his skin, “Having a bit of trouble, are you?” He slowly and deliberately went back down and got Harry’s balls in his mouth, too, showing off, and Harry shoved his head down on Draco’s cock so far he couldn’t breathe at all and stayed there while he came in a frantic shuddering rush.

He dragged back off gulping for air, stars floating speckled over his vision, half-choking. Draco made a muffled moan around Harry’s cock before he slid off again, wiping his mouth, and then he sat up and wildly jerked off all over Harry’s chest. He fell down next to him limply after, panting. “God,” Harry said deliriously, and struggled to roll over onto his side, and Draco flung an arm around him and they kissed each other breathless all over again. They didn’t leave the room that night, either.

#

They stopped going to class, mostly. They did their homework, and Draco occasionally went to a lecture for Arithmancy or Ancient Runes, and they went to the Potions lab sessions because Slugworth would let them work on any useful stuff they wanted together—a large batch of Speed-Up Serum, or a Tincture of Muscle Relief, which turned out to be fantastically helpful when you’d spent four days in a row levitating the heads and limbs of shattered statues back together.

It was also fantastically recreational when Draco pushed him down on the bed and straddled him and rubbed handfuls of the stuff all over his back and thighs and arse until Harry was boneless and limp, and then fucked him ruthlessly, Harry gasping as his hips rocked back and forth as Draco’s cock pounded away at him, so easily. “See, you’re getting used to it,” Draco panted. “Soon you’ll be taking it with no trouble at all, I’ll just bend you over and give it to you anytime you like,” and Harry groaned and came all over the already-messy sheets.

The one awkward bit was after they lay there gasping for a bit together, Draco got up and went to the loo and gave a squawk of dismay. “What is it?” Harry said sleepily, trying to muster the energy to clean up and go back to his room.

“I can’t piss!”

Harry got up frowning and went in and found Draco standing over the toilet with his hands flopping around uselessly at the ends of his wrists, too relaxed to hold on to anything, including his own dick. After he finished laughing while Draco glared at him, he had to help him, and then Draco refused to even consider going to Madame Pomfrey unless it hadn’t worn off by morning, and Harry couldn’t exactly leave him there alone without his hands working, so he didn’t.

Draco was fine by morning, and Harry did indeed have it given to him with scarcely any trouble at all.

They’d moved into the room entirely by the end of the month, toothbrushes and clothes and books all migrating. Nobody gave them any trouble over it, but once they were actually waking up together in the same bed every day and spending their days working on the castle, Harry hadn’t any idea what they were doing anymore, except to be sure that it was completely mad, and so probably it was best if he didn’t think about it very much.

He went to Transfiguration one day so he could talk to Professor McGonagall after class, for advice on how to mend things—theoretically, you could fix something that had been broken by transfiguring it to something else and back, if you put together all the parts and added enough to make up for the broken bits, but so far they could only get it to work about one time in ten.

McGonagall frowned at Harry a little as if she’d just noticed he hadn’t been in class for the better part of the last few weeks. “In that case, you almost certainly require more vicious ingredients.”

Draco frowned at him a great deal when Harry brought back that piece of intelligence, and still more after Harry laid out his plan for getting them. “Can’t we get by with more expensive ones?”

“No.”

Draco groaned, but he came along the next day out to the Forbidden Forest. It was late autumn by then, the leaves all gone brown and fallen in thick muffling heaps over the ground. The half-bare branches whispered overhead, and the air was cold enough to make Harry glad for his thick sweater. Draco was wearing just his suit jacket and his Slytherin scarf wound neatly round his throat. “Aren’t you cold?”

“If that’s an offer to warm me up, you’ll have to wait until we’re inside again, away from all the things in here that want to kill us,” Draco said, looking around warily. “I didn’t survive the damned war just to get eaten by Ravening Voles or knocked on the head by Scrofleurs. Some of us didn’t grow up in a Muggle house with central heating, Potter, the Manor gets colder than this in winter on the inside.”

He sounded wistful about it. Why aren’t you there now, tried to come out of Harry’s mouth, but he didn’t let it.

 They found a half-strangled tree and chopped off a heap of Cruelest Ivy and wrestled the vines into one of their gathering sacks. A stand of Razor-Edged Pines gave them a sackful of needles, collected with thick gloves, and nearby they found some nicely poisonous Beckoning Yew berries, carefully avoiding looking at the alluring shiny colors as they picked.

Then Harry spotted what he thought was a Fainting Fungus, which turned out to actually be a Flaming Fungus instead. “Wrong number of spots!” Draco shouted at him furiously as they ran full-tilt away from the angry swarming pack of Heat Wasps that had been nesting in the tree above it. Harry jumped a brook on his heels and turned round and threw an open sack up as the swarm came arrowing at him, and levitated a wave of water into a tunnel in the air to force them into the bag.

“Got them,” he said, panting, as he tied the sack—very tightly.

“Wonderful, what are you planning to do with them?” Draco said, bent over gulping air, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. “I thought we were trying to repair the school, not chase everyone out of it.”

“Er,” Harry said, looking at the bag. It was hopping around angrily on the ground. “Maybe we’d better ask Hagrid what to do with them.”

“Harry, yeh can’t bag up wasps like that,” Hagrid said, a bit reproachfully, after Harry had gingerly carried the sack to his door. “They’ll be properly worn out after this. A quarter of the swarm might die off.”

“What a tragedy,” Draco said, eyeing the sack, which had mostly gone limp but occasionally still gave a hop.

Hagrid frowned over at him even as he took the sack away and set it down to rest on his hearth by the fire. Harry avoided Hagrid’s questioning look. “Sorry, Hagrid,” he said. “I won’t do it again.” They took the rest of their supplies back to the castle. It made the Transfigurations harder to manage, but the mending worked much more reliably: by the end of the day, they’d fixed up the entire row of gargoyles from the western wall, who all hissed gratefully before they flew back up to their perches one after another.

The next morning at breakfast a note dropped at Harry’s place: Harry, it’s been a while, come round for tea, will you? in Hagrid’s spiky hand.

Harry went out to the cottage that afternoon with a sense of fatalistic resignation. “Not many from your year back, eh, Harry?” Hagrid said heartily, with a feeble attempt at subtlety, as he poured the tea.

“No,” Harry said, swallowing. “On the bright side, it turns out all it took to make Malfoy less of a tosser was a war,” he tried.

“If yeh say so,” Hagrid said with enormous skepticism. “But jes’ ask yerself why’s he here, Harry. He hasn’t got a reason to have come back, has he?”

“I don’t either, Hagrid,” Harry said quietly.

“That’s different,” Hagrid said. “Yer looking for a rest, I reckon, and ’tain’t anybody who begrudges it to yeh, either.”

Harry stared down at his cup. “I’m seeing him.”

“Oh, aye?” Hagrid said vaguely, and then he sat bolt up in his chair. “Harry!”

“It’s—complicated,” Harry said lamely, by which he meant he wasn’t ever explaining to anyone how they’d got started in on it. “He’s—he’s different, Hagrid.” We’re both different, he didn’t say, but even so Hagrid was obviously a lot more worried, not less, when Harry left him.

When Harry got back to the apartment, Draco wasn’t alone, either: McGonagall was having tea with him in the sitting room, her mouth pursed and dubious. Draco had armored himself in a black suit and indifference, taking up a vaguely improbable amount of room on the sofa with his tea saucer held at a perfect level in his hand, but the look he darted at Harry was alarmed.  

“Er,” Harry said awkwardly on the threshold. “Hi, Headmistress.”

McGonagall was staring at him. Incredulity crept slowly but inexorably over her face as she then looked back at Draco, and then towards the door of the bedroom behind, before she came back round to him and said, “Harry,” with a wealth of what on earth is going on here.

Harry gulped. He went and sat down on the sofa right next to Draco—who shot him an even more alarmed look and clearly wanted to know what the hell Harry was thinking. Harry glared back at him—there wasn’t any help for it, what else did he want to do—and said determinedly, “Sorry we, er, took this place without asking.”

McGonagall was staring at them both now. Draco, who’d gone completely rigid, abruptly gave a small helpless movement like a shrug and put his arm round Harry’s back, as if he’d decided he might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. “Headmistress McGonagall was just asking about the repairs to the North façade,” he said coolly. “I was explaining the difficulty in matching the color of the weathered stone.”

“More accurately, I was asking why you seem to have slipped out of the entire course of education for which you are presumably here in order to carry on this campaign of repairs,” McGonagall said tartly. “Why both of you have,” she added, pinning them each in turn. “However, I’m now rather more concerned by the novelty of your domestic arrangements.”

“We’re of age, aren’t we?” Draco said. “It’s surely no one’s affair but our own.”

“I think your parents might well disagree, Mr. Malfoy!” McGonagall said, and Draco looked away, his mouth gone into a hard, flat line. “And as long as you are in this school, I do still have a supervisory duty!”

“We don’t belong in the dorms!” Harry said. McGonagall paused and looked at him. “We don’t. Not in the dorms, or in class, but we’re still here, and—we’ve got a right to be here, don’t we? Everything went wrong last year. So—fine, we’re not in the dorms, we’re not going to class, but we’re putting things back together. The way they should be. That’s got to be all right.”

He finished almost desperately, his heart pounding. Draco’s hand had pressed hard against his back, fingertips curling just round Harry’s side, holding on, and Harry could feel the tension running through his body. McGonagall had sat back, startled, and after a moment she sighed deeply, in a beleaguered way. “Yes, I suppose it must be,” she said, and Harry nearly slumped with relief. “However,” she added pointedly, as she stood up, “as unmarried adults are not permitted to cohabitate in school, you gentlemen will please add a second bedroom.”

“Er, right,” Harry said, and coughed. “Um, thanks, Headmistress.” She gave him a nod, shot one more narrow and skeptical look at Draco, and then swept from the room.

Draco collapsed into the sofa the instant she’d gone, his head falling back. “I don’t believe you,” he said fervently.

“What d’you even think she was going do? You really think she’d tell your parents on us? We could always just get married,” and it was a joke until it came out of Harry’s mouth, and then somehow it—didn’t feel exactly like a joke.

Draco gave an odd gasp and sat forward, leaning over his knees. “We should, maybe that would do it,” he said, and he was trying to joke, too, but it wasn’t working for him, either. He put a hand over his trembling mouth.

“Draco, why—why did you come back?” Harry said slowly.

“Well, I had to,” Draco said. “It was start of term, Father ordered my trunk packed and everything.”

Harry stared at him, and after a moment, Draco continued harshly, “He thinks it’s—fifth year, maybe. Something like that. Before Voldemort came back, anyway. He goes round the house with a stick, pretending it’s a wand, pretending to cast spells. We tried to get him a new one, but he wouldn’t touch it. He just left it in the box. The solicitors told me that I’ll need to have him declared incompetent and take over the estate within a year if I don’t want things to get into a mess. More of a mess. I told him…I told him I’d do it if he didn’t pull himself together. He just told me to get better marks this term.”

He looked away and abruptly tried to go light and offhand again. “Of course, if I told him I was marrying a halfblood, and by the way it was you, that might snap him out of it, if anything…” It got away from him, and he stopped, his face crumpling.

Harry swallowed. “Well. We could…try telling him we’re engaged,” he offered, and it wasn’t quite a proposal, but it wasn’t not, and Draco shuddered all over and turned on Harry and kissed him ferociously, and Harry put his arms round him and kissed him back.

They broke off and stared at each other helplessly, stuck for a moment, like neither of them could quite believe they were going this way, or knew how to do it—and then Draco gulped and put his hand on Harry’s leg with a suddenly intent look and jerked him flat, and Harry’s heart started pounding all over again as he slid with it along the sofa. Draco prowled onto him. “I suppose you’ve got to marry me, don’t you,” Draco said, low and hungrily, dragging his mouth along the line of his jaw, shoving Harry’s trousers down. “You can hardly do anything else.”

“Oh, God, yes,” Harry said, straining to watch as Draco put the head into him. He panted it desperately along, the whole massive thing disappearing into him in a single, sweet, inexorable push, his thighs spread wide. He sank backwards gasping as Draco came up hard against him. “Yeah, yes, oh God, Draco, I’m—I’m never—”

He couldn’t manage to get the words out himself, his throat just closed up in embarrassment, but Draco groaned desperately and said it for him, “Yes, you’re never—you’re never going to fuck anyone ever again, you’re done giving it to anyone—” He groped for Harry’s hand and put it over his cock, and Harry palmed it, rolling his hand over the stiff small length and closing his grip around it, squeezing the whole thing tight. “That’s it, just bring yourself off straight away. Come on, you know there’s no sense in your trying to make anything of it. You’re going to be taking it from me, like you’re meant to, the rest of our lives—”

Harry was gasping, jerking himself in short fast pulls. He came shuddering into his own fist, and after he finished shaking, he opened his hand to let Draco see his softening cock lying limp over his fingers.

“Merlin, look at you,” Draco said, almost brokenly. He pulled completely out, long enough to rub his shockingly huge cock aggressively over Harry’s wet spent one. “Hold on to the arm.” Harry braced himself on the sofa, and Draco pushed all the way back in, a perfect, glorious, monstrous stroke that made Harry’s skin prickle all over and burst into fresh sweat.

“Oh, fuck yes,” Harry said loudly, clutching at the upholstery, and Draco hung there gasping a moment and then did it to him again. “Yes. Like that. Just like that, Draco, please.”

“Yes,” Draco said, his hands tight on Harry’s thighs. “Yes, Harry. You can feel it, can’t you. You’re right where you belong.”

# End