Up until two minutes ago, it had been just another tussle with Malfoy.
Harry had said something to piss him off, Malfoy had attempted to hex Harry, throwing himself bodily at Harry when he’d missed and then howling in pain when Harry’s fist connected with his jaw.
Then Harry had pressed Malfoy face first into the wall to subdue the wild thrashing and badly aimed punches.
And he’d whispered something poisonous into Malfoy’s ear to further instigate him.
And then his hand had, quite accidentally, brushed Malfoy’s cock. Scratch that – Malfoy’s erection.
At which point Malfoy had gasped and strained, pushing his boner against Harry’s hand.
And so now, suddenly, Harry finds himself pushing down Malfoy’s grey trousers, reaching in, and pulling out his rosy, weeping cock, pulling down the foreskin none too gently, and running his thumb over the sensitive glans, his other hand holding his rumpled white shirt bunched up around his thin waist, his knuckles grazing the soft, warm skin of Malfoy’s belly.
Malfoy whimpers, pressing his arse into Harry’s crotch as he arches into the wall and Harry grits his teeth at the friction, his own cock reacting with speedy alacrity and filling up at the contact.
“Fuck,” Malfoy breathes, his head falling back onto Harry’s shoulder, his body quivering. “Potter.”
In reply, Harry simply grips the length of his cock and strokes, once, twice, before pausing. Malfoy bucks forward into his hand, cursing under his breath when Harry pulls away his hand.
He spits loudly onto his palm and then Malfoy is moaning as Harry starts stroking his cock again, not bothering with slow, lazy strokes, instead pumping his fist in lightning quick movements that reduce Malfoy into a gasping, quaking, swearing mess.
The castle is silent and still, and the darkness outside the nearest window is absolute, nearly solid, the Forest rustling quietly to itself. Harry’s own breathing speeds up as his hand flies over Malfoy’s cock and his arm tightens involuntarily around Malfoy’s flat stomach.
Within seconds, Malfoy is coming hard, cussing steadily and jerking uncontrollably, Harry looking over his shoulder as the spurts of come hit the wall, the sticky white fluid coating his fingers warmly and dripping lazily off his wrist. Harry lets out a soft moan through clenched teeth, trying his hardest to get his own hips to stop bucking. He doesn’t know what’s worse – that he’s thrusting his hard-on against Malfoy’s bare arse or that he was seconds away from actually coming in his pants against Malfoy’s bare arse.
He leaves Malfoy there in the semi darkness, with his pale forehead pressed against the wall, thin shoulders rising and falling rapidly as he pants, and before he knows it, he’s running through the sleeping castle, not stopping until he reaches the Gryffindor common room. When his quick survey of the room reveals he’s alone, he pulls out his cock, and brings himself off, leaning against the wall with one hand, the dying embers spitting in the grate behind him. When his orgasm hits, he is brought to his knees with the sheer force of it.
The next day, at breakfast, Harry finds himself unable to keep his eyes off Malfoy; the way his blond fringe falls sideways and forward over his inscrutable, almost colourless eyes, the pointy chin, the pink tongue that flicks out to wet pinker lips, the elegant stretch of his neck, the sharp jut of his collar bones, the smooth sphere of his Adam’s apple – all things that Harry has seen a hundred times before, but which suddenly seem to jump out at him, taunting him... inviting him.
He watches as Malfoy neatly wipes his mouth after every bite, sipping small mouthfuls of pumpkin juice, idly peeling an orange as he listens to Parkinson, his head tilted dutifully towards her, looking anywhere but back at Harry.
By the time they’re in Potions, Harry’s insides are blazing. He can’t place what it is that’s eating him up but the very fact that Malfoy is absolutely fucking refusing to meet his eyes is maddening.
Slughorn wheezes in ten minutes late and puts up instructions on the board while apologising. Harry is still glaring a hole through the top of Malfoy’s glossy head when the git finally looks up, his exasperated expression making it clear that he knows Harry has been staring at him all morning, and sighs, rolling his eyes.
Then he gets to his feet, gives Harry a pointed look and wanders off towards the back of classroom, ducking into the little storage room, his movements so fluid and inconspicuous that not even his partner notices his absence.
Without hesitation or second thought, Harry reaches over and neatly pushes the bowl of salamander eggs to the floor.
Ron sniggers, Hermione tuts and Harry jumps to his feet with an insincere apology before making his way to the dimly lit, chilly room that Malfoy has disappeared into.
He hurries in through the arched doorway and walks past countless shelves stocked with jars of fairy wings, eel eyes, newt spleens and a whole myriad of other potion ingredients, winding his way through the maze of dusty bottles and receptacles until he finds Malfoy at the back, standing on tip toe, reaching for a slim bottle of castor oil.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and Malfoy turns, not looking the least bit surprised to see Harry standing less than two feet away.
“Whatever for, Potter?” he asks, sounding irritatingly patient.
“For--” Harry pauses, gritting his teeth. “For last night.”
Realisation dawns across Malfoy’s face, and he simply stands there, his eyes glittering in the flickering light of the lone, sputtering torch on the wall.
“Not a single dishonourable bone in your body, is there?” he says softly, one corner of his mouth lifting in a small smirk.
Harry doesn’t know what to say so he simply glares.
“Potter,” drawls Malfoy. “The way I remember it, our little scuffle last night ended with me having an incredibly intense orgasm. Last time I checked, one doesn’t apologise for giving another an orgasm.” He pauses, his eyes dancing. “They do usually wait around for the favour to be returned, though.”
Harry rocks back onto his heels, his breath leaving him in a stuttering whoosh.
Malfoy smirks once more before sinuously closing the space between them so that suddenly Harry is practically nose to nose with him, close enough to see the flecks of darker grey in the pale silver eyes, the impossibly long blond eyelashes, the tiny, barely noticeable bump at the very top of the bridge of his otherwise perfectly straight nose, the miniscule beauty spot below his left eye, light brown and round.
Harry finds himself unable to look away from that little brown freckle. In the otherwise spotless, pale skin, it stands out invitingly, as if begging him to lean in and taste it.
“Potter,” Malfoy whispers suddenly and his citrusy breath whooshes across Harry’s face, warm and fresh, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end while something dangerous shoots through his veins like electricity.
Harry winds one hand into the fine, golden hair and pulls Malfoy’s head back, exposing the vulnerable stretch of his pale neck. There’s a slightly choked gasp from Malfoy as his warm fingers grip Harry’s forearm but Harry actually sees his pupils blow wide, hears his breath speeding up. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his mouth onto Malfoy’s roseate pout.
There’s none of the initial, chivalrous modesty of a close mouthed, chaste peck. Both young men open their mouths at once, tongues immediately entwining, teeth clamping onto wet lips, fingers tightening around handfuls of hair and robes.
Harry walks forward until he has Malfoy pinned against the shelves. He tastes of sweet oranges and Harry can’t get enough of it as he hungrily licks around inside his mouth. Suddenly feeling recklessly bold, he slips his hand under his robes and snaps open a couple of shirt buttons so he can push his hand in and smooth his fingers over the satiny skin of Malfoy’s side, making him judder.
Harry tightens his hand in his hair and Malfoy moans into the kiss, angling his head so Harry can push his tongue even deeper into his mouth, pressing into him, his body warm, his hands soft against the back of Harry’s neck as he combs through his wild hair.
Heart sprinting, Harry tries to remember the last time he felt adrenaline surge through him with such violent glee. He can’t remember his cock getting so hard and heavy this quickly ever. And he cannot understand why he’s suddenly watching a series of mental images flash by, all of which involve using Malfoy’s body in a way Harry couldn’t have imagined ever wanting to before.
He shoves one thigh between Malfoy’s legs, his breath catching at the feel of Malfoy’s erection, and the slight man throws his head back and keens, grinding down onto Harry’s thigh in a way that suddenly has his vision swimming, and his hips snapping forward.
“The smallest classroom in the old Charms corridor.” Harry’s voice is a harsh rasp as he jerks his hips forward. “Know which one I’m talking about?” He skates his thumb upwards and by chance grazes a pebbled nipple.
Malfoy whimpers, leaning into his hand and nodding, his eyes closed, his head bouncing on the shelves behind him with the force of Harry’s rutting.
“After the last lesson,” he breathes into the side of Malfoy’s neck, before licking a stripe up the pale column, tasting the brackish, enticingly fragrant skin. Malfoy shudders, arching against him and nods again.
Harry releases his hair and pulls his hand out of his shirt before reaching up and grabbing the bottle of castor oil. He suddenly pulls back, holding up the bottle in front of Malfoy with a fatuously gleeful smirk, taking in the Slytherin’s state.
Malfoy’s face and neck is flushed, an angry red line across his cheek from where Harry’s glasses had cut into his face. His hair is standing on end; his eyes are wide and his mouth wet and slightly open. The unbuttoned gap in his shirt reveals pearly white skin and a hardened, very tempting pink nipple. With a trembling hand he reaches for the proffered bottle.
“See you then,” Harry says softly, turning around and walking out, grabbing the jar of salamander eggs on his way, gritting his teeth at the woeful jerk of his cock.
Harry deliberately walks slowly, looking around the dark, dilapidated corridor that still retains a lingering smell of singed hair and smoke, with its huge chunks of missing walls, and an enormous gaping hole right in the middle of the corridor floor, so that you had to sidle carefully around its perimeter, back pressed to the wall, if you wanted to get to the classroom at the end. The vacant alcoves where statues and suits of armour had once stood are now thick with dense spider webs, and the torch brackets, soot still clinging to the wall around them, sit empty and cold. It’s due for repairs in the following summer, and nobody, not even the ghosts visit this part of the castle anymore. It’s one of the few pockets around the castle that’s not been restored yet.
Harry lets himself into the tiny classroom, the desk below the blackboard slightly askew, the chair behind it lying on its side, the tables few, all of them in need of repair, piled into a heap in the corner. Malfoy is standing by the window, his back to him, the twilight making the very tips of his light hair shine silver.
When he hears the door being opened and then spelled shut, Malfoy turns around, sweeps gracefully up to Harry and after carefully taking his glasses off, kisses him hungrily without preamble.
Harry, for one, can’t bring himself to object. He slams Malfoy into the stone wall, his glasses flying out of his grip as he pins his hands above them, enthusiastically kissing him hard, digging his teeth into those soft, pouty lips, roughly jabbing his tongue around.
When they break apart for air, Harry turns him around and presses his erection into the small of his back, eliciting a gasp from Malfoy, and then a strangled moan as he bites into the side of his neck, his hands making quick work of the buttons on his shirt.
“You wanted to return the favour, didn’t you?” Harry murmurs into his hair, running his hands up Malfoy’s heaving chest, loving the way the other man shivered under him.
“Yes,” Malfoy breathes, turning his head and biting his way up Harry’s jaw. “If only you’d stop being so fucking noble and let me, Potter.”
Incited, Harry bites over the same spot on his neck once more, digging his teeth in deep, sucking the flesh into his mouth.
“Potter!” Malfoy cries, and then presses his arse back into Harry’s crotch.
“Fuck,” Harry growls and before he can convince himself not to, he’s ripped off Malfoy’s outer robes.
When the white shirt is hanging off one arm, he yanks at the belt buckle, roughly pulling down trousers and pants until Malfoy is standing there with his temple pressed into the wall, clothes pooled around his feet, panting quietly over his shoulder, watching Harry’s face. His arse is spotless and milky white, taut, round and one of the most beautiful things Harry has ever seen.
“Still think I’m being noble?” Harry taunts even as he runs his palms over the soft flesh almost reverently, grazing the crack with his thumbs.
“Well, I can’t feel your cock in my arse yet, so yes." Malfoy pushes into his touch. When Harry doesn’t reply, he smirks slowly and his eyes glow with smugness.
Meanwhile, Harry has to lean bodily against the Slytherin so he doesn’t buckle at the knee. His cock... in Malfoy’s... arse?
He has to hurriedly undo his fly then because his cock strains so hard against the material that it’s more painful than pleasurable.
“You want me to fuck you, Malfoy?” he says softly, running the tip of his nose against the purple bruise he’s left on the pale neck before him. Malfoy hisses through his teeth.
“Potter, do you think I would let you manhandle me, strip me naked and bite out a chunk of my neck unless I didn’t desperately want your golden cock inside me?” Malfoy’s voice is way too steady and sure for Harry’s liking. “Yes, I want you to fuck me; why else do you think I’m still standing here with my arse out?”
Harry doesn’t answer, opting instead to lick over the hickey and count to ten in his head so he doesn’t come without even touching himself.
“Okay, seriously now,” Malfoy hisses now, leaning into Harry’s tongue and bucking his hips back. “Do you even know how to fuck someone? Do you actually even want to fuck me? Because I didn’t come here to wait around, Potter, I don’t have all fucking evening – aargh, fuck!”
He clenches his arse around the slick finger Harry has thrust into him and arches back, whimpering.
“Please, don’t stop on my account,” Harry grits. “You were saying?”
“Move your hand, you fucking berk!”
Harry starts pushing then, groaning at the squelch of lube as he moves his finger in and out of Malfoy’s desperately clutching arsehole. It takes some effort for each backward pull because that’s how hard Malfoy is gripping around his finger, wordlessly egging him on, bucking backwards.
“More,” the git demands, and so Harry pushes his finger sideways to accommodate another, leaving a string of fresh bruises across the length of Malfoy’s shoulder.
“Enough,” he snaps, reaching back and stilling Harry’s hand by curling long fingers around his wrist, before reaching back with both hands and, oh fuck, pulling his arse cheeks wide apart. “Put your fucking cock in me, idiot. God, with all this dilly-dallying one would think you don’t even really want to – oh fuck, mother of Merlin, Jesus FUCK!”
“One more word out of you, Malfoy,” Harry breathes furiously, his blood pounding at his temples, the phenomenally tight channel of Malfoy’s arse around his cock making him feel faint with pleasure. “I swear to god, I will fuck you unconscious – and I’ll fucking leave you here with my come leaking out your arse for someone to find, you fucking bastard!”
At the last word, he pulls out and slams back in so hard, he hears Malfoy’s teeth chatter with the force.
“Yesss!” Malfoy sibilates, pushing his hands against the wall so he can press back into Harry.
Harry proceeds to fuck him with a cruel, merciless force and all Malfoy does is goad him on further still and it’s fucking infuriating.
“Harder, you fucking ninny! You think I’m made of glass? Or are you just that fucking incompetent?”
“Shut your face, Malfoy,” Harry warns, grabbing him by a fistful of hair and yanking his head back so roughly that he feels a few hairs snap out of his scalp.
“Make me,” he chokes out.
With one hand clenched in his hair, the other holding his arm in a bruising grip, Harry manoeuvres Malfoy upto the dust covered desk, roughly bends him over it, and twists both his arms backwards. Holding them like reigns, Harry begins a brutal, rhythmic pounding, now free to admire the smooth expanse of Malfoy’s back, the perfect curve of his arse, the gorgeous creamy white globes, and his desperately clenching arsehole.
He watches his cock disappear into his pink hole, the rim dipping in with every inward push, the way the tight muscle seems to be trying to hold him in with every outward pull and his mouth waters.
He can’t hear a thing - not the wild, hoarse screams from the skinny man below him, not the satisfying smack of skin on skin, not the harsh grate of wood against stone as the heavy table scrapes forward with every thrust. There’s only the euphoric rushing sound in his ears, as if he’s flying at top speed, and pleasure of epic magnitude burns over every inch of his body, his balls tightening painfully, his cock leaking steadily so that with every press into Malfoy, some of the precome leaks out of him, running down his crack onto his silky looking balls bouncing against the edge of the table.
“This what you were hoping for, Malfoy?” Harry hears himself gasp, his voice sounding from somewhere far. “Being fucked open like a whore, fucked so hard that you probably can’t sit or walk or move for the next week?”
Malfoy simply lets out a garbled sob, his wrists twisting in Harry’s grip, his back dipping.
“Hope – you’re – enjoying – this - you – slimy – evil – prick!” At the final word Harry lunges forward on such a violently hard thrust that Malfoy’s feet lift off the floor and he slides forward on the table, his keening wail and sudden flurry of clenching signalling his orgasm, the sensation serving efficiently to send Harry falling right over the edge along with him.
He comes so hard he’s almost afraid of the intensity, shutting his eyes tightly, clenching his teeth hard, releasing Malfoy’s arms so that he can grab his hips instead, pulling him onto his cock, riding out the waves of his climax, his whole body shuddering.
When he finally opens his eyes, the world takes a moment to right itself and then he hears the ragged panting beneath him, interspersed with moans, feels the wet heat around his limp cock, feels the sweat dampened skin plastered against his own chest.
Slowly, his whole body suddenly aching, Harry straightens up and watches as his cock slips out of Malfoy and is followed by a dribble of come.
His already quaking knees buckle at the sight and he sinks to the floor, his knees hitting the stone painfully.
Groaning, he turns and leans back against the desk, lifting his arse off the floor so he can pull up his pants and trousers. Next to him, Malfoy’s legs are trembling.
“You alive?” Harry asks him, his voice barely audible from exhaustion. He holds out a hand and his glasses zoom towards him from somewhere near the door.
“And kicking,” is the weak response, before Malfoy is sliding off the table, loose-limbed and exhausted, his legs folding under him, his torso falling heavily off the table so that he’s suddenly sat next to Harry, hissing as he turns around and places his arse gingerly onto the cold floor, leaning back against the desk like him.
Harry chuckles triumphantly.
“Sure you’re alright there?” he asks lightly. Malfoy however sighs and then leans his head back with a content smile, arms crossing across his chest as he massages his shoulders.
“That,” he says, “was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Potter.”
Harry rolls his eyes.
“Fuck you, Malfoy,” he says innocuously, getting to his feet and straightening his robes, hand combing his hair, spelling himself clean.
“Sure,” Malfoy replies. “But maybe a little later? You really outdid yourself just now. Excellent work.”
Harry simply stares down at him. Malfoy opens his eyes and looks up at him, brazenly spreading his legs out so Harry can see the sticky mess of drying come on his stomach, his crotch and his thighs, his cock hanging damp and limp.
Harry’s mouth goes dry and his cock actually twitches.
“Care to make this a regular thing?” Malfoy asks casually, now leaning forward and straightening his shirt that’s hanging behind him, bringing the sleeve around and pushing his arm in. “Merlin knows this was brilliant - I mean, for our first time. Imagine how good we’d get with practice.”
He speaks nonchalantly, as if discussing meeting up to study together. Grimacing slightly, he gets to his feet, moving slowly and holding on to the desk for support, a faint hint of a wobble in his knees.
“Kneazle got your tongue, Potter?” he asks when Harry simply stares at him in silence, watching as he mimics Harry’s cleaning spell, pulling up his pants and trousers, tucking himself back in neatly, Summoning his tie and robes from across the room.
The way he’s talking, Malfoy sounds like he makes this sort of arrangement regularly, offering himself up to people to be fucked without second thought.
A surge of ugly jealousy surges through Harry which he ignores staunchly.
A second surge of something wild, untamed and hungry soars through him next and he feels his cock stir again in response.
“Tomorrow, same time,” he says, wondering for a fleeting second if he’d gone irreparably mad.
Malfoy nods, looking pleased, leaning against the desk, heels of his hand resting on the edge, robes and tie thrown over one arm, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. His fine hair falls forward over his pale eyes, bouncing lightly against his forehead as he nods, his lips pouted forward on a small smile, still swollen from their kissing. The love bite on the crook of his neck stands out in a stark magenta, and Harry wants desperately to tease it further with his tongue.
More reluctantly than he cares to admit, Harry turns around without another word and makes his way to the door. He undoes the locking spell and is halfway out the door when Malfoy speaks again.
“Was this your first time with a bloke, Potter?”
Hand on the doorknob Harry pauses, considering, wondering whether to even grace Malfoy with an answer.
Finally, he nods, pulling the door shut behind him.
“Colour me impressed,” Malfoy drawls softly as the door clicks shut.
Nearly three months later, Harry, bizarrely enough, is left wondering what his life was like before he started sleeping with Malfoy.
He couldn’t remember a time when the highlight of his day wasn’t burying himself balls deep into Malfoy’s spectacularly tight arse. He couldn’t believe he spent all day wondering what he could do that would make Malfoy moan in that particular way, or make those particular, unbelievably sexy sounds.
He’d never spent all of his lessons staring at Malfoy with anything but hatred, except now, he stared with a kind of craving that built until his insides felt like they’d melted into a pool of boiling want that burnt him from the inside out, the fire only put out once he was able to get Malfoy into his arms again.
He couldn’t remember feeling as restless as he did when he had to go a day or two without touching Malfoy, with Ginny or Cho.
And he couldn’t remember Ginny’s or Cho’s mouth ever tasting as sweet as Malfoy’s did.
The only redeeming factor to the madness was that Malfoy seemed to want him just as much. He returned all of Harry’s discreet, prolonged staring, he kissed Harry with the same sort of fervour that Harry felt buzzing through his own veins and he opened himself up for Harry with a sort of eagerness that Harry only hoped he wasn’t imagining.
He seemed to become just as agitated when they had to go without seeing each other, touching each other, for more than a couple of days, and Harry would come in to find him pacing restlessly around their classroom, at which point Malfoy would quite literally fling himself at Harry, pressing small kisses across his face and neck, trembling anxiously in the tight circle of his arms.
Harry didn’t know what to think of the ludicrous, nearly surreal turn that their, initially purely physical, arrangement seemed to have taken. They’d gradually developed a cautious, hesitantly cordial accord which had slowly snowballed into something disconcertingly real, that had insidiously crept its way deeper and clawed in tighter until they both seemed to have lost control of how they felt or what they did.
Harry now spent a lot more time thinking about Malfoy than he cared to admit. And he wondered if Malfoy thought about him at all. It felt ridiculous and sentimental and every time he found himself getting sappy, he’d just turn his mind instead to the more physical, less emotional, act of how he’d fuck Malfoy until his cock hurt.
Every moment in the day that he spent thinking of Malfoy, he’d decide he wasn’t going to do anything more than just fuck him into oblivion and get on with his day. And then he’d see Malfoy waiting for him and it seemed physically impossible not to kiss him lingeringly, to not taste his skin all over or not hold him close after they fucked.
Harry was also sleeping through most nights now, the vials of Sleeping Draught on his bedside table lying untouched and collecting a steady layer of dust. He couldn’t remember the last time his insomnia had led him to wander aimlessly through the sleeping castle, much like on the night he’d first brought off Malfoy, or through the still, dew drenched grounds, his breath clouding before him, or to simply lie awake staring at the canopy of his four-poster, counting the number of seconds between each of Ron’s rumbling snores.
His nightmares were now slightly less pronounced, less detailed, the shadowy, red-eyed figures now halfway mingled through with images of delicate fingers laced through his, flushed flesh under his hands, grey eyes fluttering shut, kiss-swollen lips being bitten in ecstasy...
They’d not ventured to meet anywhere but in that tiny Charms classroom with its single desk and Harry couldn't find words to describe just how much he enjoyed watching Malfoy’s face as he fucked him. The lust-darkened silver eyes unshuttered, the way they rolled back into his head, the way his mouth fell open in a moan, or the way he grit his teeth and cursed. He loved the way his slender throat strained as he threw his head back, and his delicious, uber sensitive nipples, the nearly invisible line of downy blond hair that ran from his navel down to his fantastic, rosy cock.
He’s come to enjoy Malfoy’s wry, quicksilver wit, his impatient intelligence, and has come to admire, and sometimes resent, his clever observations.
“You don’t seem be to be interested in the she-Weasel anymore,” he’d said idly one evening as he’d neatly knotted his tie up, watching his reflection on the grimy window pane, glancing at Harry’s as he spoke.
Harry’s stomach had instantly clenched. Ginny and he had given it a go over the summer after the War. It hadn’t worked out.
It just wasn’t the same with her anymore. She’d found him distant and preoccupied. He’d wondered how she expected him to be anything but preoccupied after everything they’d been through.
Harry hadn’t answered Malfoy for a while. And then, “She’s with Dean now.”
“Is that why you’re no longer interested? Or is she with him because you’re no longer interested?” He’d smirked, but had surprisingly let the topic drop when Harry hadn’t responded, instead quietly pulling his robes back on and smoothing out the creases with his pale, dextrous-looking fingers.
Harry had also come to find terribly attractive Malfoy’s effortless grace, the long limbed, slender body, his virtually translucent skin, and that little brown freckle on his cheek that was nearly as distracting as the rest of his stunning body.
He’d come to learn, after one particularly astonishing incident that Harry wouldn’t forget until his dying day, how deliciously randy, how wonderfully filthy Malfoy got when he was drunk.
It happened one Saturday evening; they’d both gone down to Hogsmeade with their respective group of friends, and Harry had watched from across the room as Malfoy, sat with the other Eighth Year Slytherins, forwent Butterbeer or one of Rosemerta's colourful cocktails and had opted instead for tumblers of neat Firewhiskey.
Harry had noted the way he’d made eye contact, very deliberately licked his lips and swayed out of the pub two hours, and many, many Firewhiskeys later.
By the time he’d managed to come up with an acceptable excuse and extricate himself from his own table and sprint out of the village and all the way to the castle, he was afraid he’d find that Malfoy had gotten bored waiting for him.
He’d burst into their classroom clutching a stitch in his side, panting hard and with an erection that was seeping right through his pants and jeans.
With a hastily snapped locking spell thrown over his shoulder, he stopped short and blinked when he realised he was looking around an empty room.
And then he’d heard a low, breathy chuckle from behind him that had sent a frisson of want up his spine, and had turned around to find a very naked Malfoy leaning against the wall behind the door, his erection bobbing shamelessly before him.
“Malf--" he’d managed to choke out before the skinny wanker had silenced him with a deep, extremely hot kiss that was liberally laced with Firewhiskey.
“I want you to come on my face, Potter,” Malfoy had growled and Harry had gasped quietly, his cock turning hard enough to cut through concrete. Malfoy had simply dropped to his knees and fumbled with Harry’s fly, his usually neat movements now nearly unforgivably clumsy. “Gonna suck your fat, long cock,” he’d mumbled when he’d finally managed to pull out Harry’s adamantine erection. “And then you’re going to come on my face.”
And then he’d proceeded to drive Harry to the brink of insanity and had maybe even pushed him over for a bit.
He’d sucked on Harry’s cock, cheeks hollowing, applying suction until it was nearly too much . He’d prodded his tongue into the slit and sucked out the precome with inimitable zeal. He’d wormed his tongue under the foreskin before neatly pulling it down and moaning wantonly as he’d licked. He’d slurped noisily as he’d laved the heavy, straining bollocks, making obscene sounds that had made Harry pull on his own hair like a mad man. He’d swallowed noisily around the head, squeezing with his throat, and had clutched and stroked the wet shaft with both hands, making wild little noises, growling and moaning, the whole time.
Twice, he’d had nearly overbalanced and fallen right on top of Malfoy. With a determination that had nearly drained his soul out of him, he’d stood upright on jelly legs and sworn hoarsely as the boy in front of him had fucked his own face with Harry’s cock, his lips red and distended around his cock, cheeks bulging and chin gleaming wet, until the agonising pressure in his balls had finally been released with a force that was nearly catastrophic.
He had watched as Malfoy pulled back with his eyes closed, pointing Harry’s cock towards his face, poking his tongue out and catching some come as it had spurted in thick, pearly jets out of Harry and onto Malfoy’s gorgeous, pointy face and soft, dishevelled blond hair. Malfoy had painted his own face with long, white stripes of Harry’s semen, across his cheeks, his sweaty forehead, his upturned nose, his plump, reddened lips. He’d panted in excitement, his free hand wanking his own cock furiously.
And Harry had come harder at the sight, crying out pathetically, his orgasm going on and on, his lungs aching with how hard he’d fought to breathe, the sight in front of him something he couldn’t have described even with a million words.
Malfoy had groaned, swaying on his knees, licking around his mouth, catching a few drops of come that had trickled down the bridge of his nose and off the tip, before leaning in and suckling the tip of Harry’s cock, pushing back the foreskin hard before releasing it, making Harry’s whole body burn with overstimulation, before he’d pulled his mouth away, thrown his head back and screamed, coming in a single, endless stream over his own fingers and Harry’s wobbling, jean clad legs.
Gasping for air, he’d opened his eyes, met Harry’s gaze and had given him a smile that had made Harry’s knees buckle. Literally.
Falling onto his knees, Harry had cupped his face, kissing him deeply, hungrily, until Malfoy had moaned yearningly against his tongue and Harry’s nostrils had filled with the smell of his own come.
By mutual agreement, they’d decided not to tell anybody about their relationship to avoid any sort of confrontations. They went about their day as usual, sometimes meeting in a deserted corridor between lessons for a quick, fervent snog, on occasion a hurried hand job, and then met in their classroom afterwards and had sex that was preternaturally good.
Now, not for the first time, Harry wonders where the fuck this is going, even as he probes around inside Malfoy’s burning hot, clenching channel with three fingers and way too much lube.
“Deeper,” Malfoy breathes, his blunt nails digging into Harry’s shoulders, his breath ghosting up his neck. “Potter, please, deeper.”
Harry indulges him, pressing one hand into the small of Malfoy’s back and reaching further into Malfoy with his other, pushing and curling his fingers up...
“God!” Malfoy jerks bodily as Harry finds his prostate, and presses his damp forehead into Harry’s neck, whimpering softly.
“There we go,” Harry says soothingly, pressing kisses up and down the side of his face, running his free hand gently through Malfoy’s silky hair and down the length of his back, massaging the hard little nub inside him relentlessly until Malfoy sobs and clenches tightly around him to make him stop, his hips jerking erratically.
He’s sat on the edge of the desk, naked, with one leg curled around Harry, who’s standing bare-chested in front of him, and his other leg pushed wide apart, toes curled tightly. His bum rises off the table with each gentle thrust of Harry’s fingers and his hands clutch desperately at Harry’s sweat dampened skin.
“I’m really close,” he says softly, pressing open mouthed kisses up Harry’s neck, along his jaw, pausing at his mouth.
Harry looks down at him, at the way his fringe falls into his lust blown eyes, the way warm breaths huff out of him, the slight wobble of his chin belying his calm tone.
“I know,” he replies with a smirk. But still, he relents, giving Malfoy’s prostate a last squeeze that makes him hiss through grit teeth, and pulling his fingers out.
“How were you not sorted into Slytherin, Potter?” Malfoy asks with a groan, throwing his head back, spreading his knees out as wide as possible. “I swear I can feel the evil seep out your pores sometimes.”
Harry undoes his fly and pulls his furiously twitching, aching erection out. “I nearly was,” he says, lifting Malfoy’s bum with one hand, feeling along his crack with the head of his cock.
"Really! What happened there?" Malfoy's eyes gleam even as he slants his hips out towards him.
"I asked to be sorted into Gryffindor," Harry replies, finding his slick opening and pushing in steadily with a soft grunt. Malfoy clicks his tongue and huffs derisively before throwing his head back with a debauched moan as he's breached all at once.
He watches closely at the way Malfoy’s expression turns into one of pure bliss, the silent scream his mouth opens into, the sparkling grey eyes rolling steadily back before he squeezes them shut; how his back bends impossibly, the way his fingers curl around the edge of the desk, knuckles going white, the sweat beading at the end of his hair, dripping the down back of his ear and trickling down his neck.
Harry hooks his arms under his knees and holds his legs wide apart, fucking him in long, lazy thrusts, his movements controlled, and his focus unwavering as he changes angles until he finds the right one.
Malfoy cries out, clenching and unclenching erratically around Harry.
“Not yet,” Harry tells him gently, pressing a kiss on that irresistible little beauty spot on his cheekbone before dragging his mouth across his face and onto his mouth.
Malfoy moans beseechingly into Harry’s mouth but obeys at once, quickly closing a hand around the base of his own cock, squeezing hard, pulling at Harry’s bottom lip with his teeth.
“Are you going home for Christmas?” Harry asks, thrusting in deeply and then stilling for a moment to stave off his own climax.
Malfoy’s eyes fly open in confusion, and he looks at Harry as if he were wondering if he was dreaming. Then he suddenly looks irate, his teeth bared at Harry.
“And you couldn’t think of a better time to ask me this?” he snaps furiously.
“Are you?” Harry presses.
Malfoy falls backwards with a whine, lying flat on his back, his arse clenching ruefully as if urging Harry on.
“No,” he says finally, his voice muted. “I don’t really want to go.”
And just like that, Harry’s own decision is made.
“Okay,” he replies, and resumes thrusting. Malfoy moans, and then sits back up, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders, long fingers pushing into his hair.
“Are you?” he pants, his hips jerking, tongue tracing the curve of Harry’s shoulder.
“Not anymore I’m not,” Harry replies shortly, not meeting his eyes. Malfoy doesn’t respond, simply clinging on to him tighter, his panting broken by the force of Harry’s thrusts.
He begins placing wet kisses up Harry’s neck, biting down at particularly hard thrusts, muffling his moans in his skin, his slight body lurching.
“Potter,” he whispers, his breath playing around Harry’s ear, making him erupt in gooseflesh.
“Look at me,” Harry growls. In an instant, Malfoy’s eyes bore into his own and Harry sees a kind of warmth in them that he’d never thought possible. He leans in and kisses Malfoy, deep, hard, lifting his shapely legs higher and rising onto the balls of his feet to deliver sharp, merciless stabs against his prostate.
“God, Potter,” Malfoy breaks the kiss to throw his head back, making a desperate, piteous sound that seems to emerge right from the depths of his thin chest.
“That’s what they call me,” Harry murmurs, pressing a line of kisses up his throat, pausing to lick tenderly over his Adam’s apple.
Malfoy snorts, gasps, and then thrashes uncontrollably, his toes unfurling and curling involuntarily.
“Come for me,” Harry says softly, licking the shell of his ear. With a startled, pained cry, Malfoy arches and comes, his cock erupting all over his own chest and stomach, all over Harry’s chest and stomach, come dripping down in warm rivulets, his arse clamped tight around Harry, his whole body seizing helplessly. “That’s it,” Harry murmurs, pulling him close, gently kissing his tightly shut eyes. “You’re so fucking hot when you come, Malfoy,” he whispers and Malfoy wails at his words, hips jerking frenetically, shudders ripping through him every other second as he continues to come in long, sticky ropes, nails scrabbling over Harry's back. “Fuck.”
Holding Malfoy’s quaking body close, Harry finishes with a few last brutish thrusts into his pliant body.
“Fill me up,” Malfoy pants, cradling Harry's head to himself, his breathing sounding almost painful as he bites Harry’s ear lobe between breaths. “Oh! Fill my arse up with your come, Potter. Fuck your come into me.”
And God, Harry fucking loved it when Malfoy said stuff like that, the filthy, sin-tongued bastard.
And so, groaning helplessly, Harry does as he’s told, his orgasm ripping ferociously through him, his hips never stilling as he releases load after load into Malfoy, bright, multi coloured spots dancing behind his closed eyes.
They stay like that for a while, Harry wrapped around Malfoy who was, in turn, holding him tightly – holding him up, for Harry’s thighs trembled from the intensity of his orgasm, and from sheer exhaustion, and it was Malfoy’s unyielding grip around him, and his tiny little kisses that he peppered on Harry wherever he could, that kept him standing.
“So, you’re not going home for Christmas either?” Malfoy finally asks drowsily, stirring in Harry’s grip.
“Yeah,” Harry replies shortly. He doesn’t know, nor care, why he’d landed on this decision. And he doesn’t want Malfoy to dwell on it either.
Malfoy doesn’t say anything further however, instead laying on his back once more, his arms hanging limply over the sides of the desk, sighing softly.
Harry pulls out, cleans them both up, and dresses in silence before he looks at Malfoy lying there motionless.
“Put some clothes on, would you,” he says. “It’s fucking freezing.” After a second, Malfoy opens his eyes and rises slowly, hopping off the table lightly, almost smiling.
He turns away, bending down and picking up his clothes off the floor where Harry had thrown them, Harry’s throat going dry as, immediately, his eyes land on Malfoy’s wet, loosened opening, and the shiny dribble of come that slowly trickles its way down the back of one pale thigh as he straightens up.
Malfoy yelps when Harry suddenly kneels behind him, pushing his legs apart.
“P – Potter?” he stammers in surprise when Harry bends him over the desk with steady pressure on the small of his back and prises his arse open. “Oh, god,” he whispers weakly, when Harry begins to lap at his arsehole. “Potter – oh fuck!”
Harry’s head spins as he greedily licks Malfoy open, sucking hard and bringing his teeth down over the sopping wet, puckered flesh again and again until Malfoy cries out.
Pushing the tips of both his thumbs into him, he pulls his hole open as wide as he can and easily slips his tongue in, slurping desperately, searching for more bitter-salty semen before leaning back and moaning at the sight of the undulating, pink inner walls of his rectum.
He’s hard again already and dripping a dark spot in his trousers and Malfoy’s hand is clenched painfully in his hair. Impatiently tugging his glasses off, Harry pushes his face in until his nose is bent against Malfoy’s crack and his tongue is buried so deeply inside him that his jaw starts to cramp. For the next several minutes, Harry functions on autopilot, hungrily devouring Malfoy's hole inside out, until Malfoy's knees are buckling and his thighs are trembling.
Until finally, with a steady litany of curses Malfoy shudders under his hands and comes vigorously, his arse clenching shut around Harry’s tongue. Harry eats him right through his orgasm, mouth opening wide, saliva and come slicking his chin and streaming down Malfoy’s crack. When he finally reduces his ravenous feasting to short, tiny licks, Malfoy shifts and turns shakily to face him, an expression of utter shock on his face.
“Potter,” he whispers, and Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what is happening to him. He only knows he’s obsessed enough with Malfoy that he’d just eaten his own come out of his soft, quivering, gulping arsehole.
“Fuck,” Malfoy says dropping to his knees and kissing Harry hard, licking his chin in broad strokes. Harry kisses him back, pushing his tongue into Malfoy’s mouth, eliciting a moan from him.
“I can taste you,” he whimpers against Harry’s lips.
“Do you taste yourself?” Harry asks perversely and Malfoy whimpers again, nodding frantically and then leaning forward until Harry is flat on his back.
With quick, efficient fingers, Malfoy pulls his cock out and swallows it whole.
Harry swears loudly and just like that, with one giant thrust into Malfoy’s sinful gob, he comes down his swallowing throat.
They lie together, panting, Harry fully dressed, Malfoy still completely naked, his head resting on Harry’s stomach.
There’s an air of disbelief between them - disbelief, and wonder, at this newly achieved level of intimacy. Harry half can’t believe he’d just had his tongue in Malfoy’s arse, and he cannot fathom why he so desperately wants to do it again. In three months, he’d never once thought to do it and now he cannot think of a reason to not do it every spare second of the day.
“Sometimes, you actually manage to surprise me, Potter,” Malfoy says softly before getting to his feet and dressing in silence.
Ron and Hermione stubbornly refuse to understand or accept Harry’s decision to stay back for Christmas.
“It’s the first Christmas after the War,” Hermione says looking dismayed, on the third day of the same argument. “You can’t be here all alone.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone, ‘Mione.” Harry rolls his eyes. “There’s always a bunch of people here, even some of the other Eighth Years aren’t going”.
“Mum will throw a fit,” Ron threatens. “You can’t not be with all of us during Christmas.”
“I can’t--” Harry pauses. “I just need some time and... be with myself, you know?”
“You’ve been doing plenty of that lately.” Ron frowns, raising one eyebrow. Harry’s gut clenches. He’d told them he’d been taking walks when they’d asked after his daily disappearances.
“Ron, I just need some time to recover,” he replies swiftly. “It’ll be... too hard.”
“Is this about Ginny having invited Dean over for Christmas?” Hermione asks softly, closing a hand over Harry’s.
Harry jumps at the chance. He nods sadly, averting his gaze. “Among other reasons,” he says. Ron clears his throat uncomfortably.
“I need to have a word with a certain sister of mine,” he grumbles.
“Ron, don’t!” Harry jumps in quickly. “She’s... happy. And she deserves to be. And Dean is good to her,” he says. “He’s better for her.”
Ron doesn’t look convinced but nods solemnly anyway, and Hermione squeezes his hand looking woebegone.
And so the evening before Christmas Eve, he bids them goodbye, standing on the top step at the entrance while they walk down to the Thestral drawn coaches, winding their way along the path that’s been cleared through the snow.
When he turns to go back inside, he spots Malfoy at the entrance to the dungeons, kissing Pansy’s cheek, looking at Harry over her shoulder and pursing his lips over a smile.
Stomach flip flopping and hiding a grin of his own, Harry strolls upstairs nonchalantly, looking over the banisters at Malfoy waving to Pansy, Blaise and Goyle just as Harry had been doing a minute ago.
Less than five minutes later he has Malfoy naked and on all fours in the Charms classroom, rimming him hard.
“Oh god,” Malfoy moans, his channel gulping hungrily around Harry’s tongue, pulling it in further. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, Potter!”
Harry releases one arse cheek to press a finger into him alongside his tongue and Malfoy reaches back, holding himself open with both hands.
Harry has to pull back for a quick moment and reach down to squeeze his cock mercilessly so he doesn’t come all over himself just from looking at Malfoy holding himself wide open, his forehead pressed to the floor.
He eats him assiduously, orally stretching out the stubbornly tight channel until Malfoy’s rim is sloppily wet and loose, his own jaw is numb and his knees are unbearably sore.
He gets to his feet groaning in pain, and pulls a trembling Malfoy up with him, gently guiding him to the desk. And then he takes one look at the bruised knees with the skin dented from being pressed against the cold flagstones for so long, on the other boy and pauses.
“Shit,” he mutters, running his thumbs over the painful looking, reddened knees. Malfoy grits his teeth at the touch.
“Come on,” he says desperately, tugging Harry forward.
“Hold on a sec.” Harry lifts Malfoy off the desk, Summoning his own wand.
He concentrates hard, and then twirls his wand, pointing at the desk, and just like that, it turns into a high, very lumpy looking double-bed, covered in clean, white sheets that albeit smell, inexplicably, like porridge. With another flick, he sends the bed sliding across the floor until it lines up against the opposite wall, fitting neatly under the window.
“Such a gentleman, Potter,” He saunters forward then throws himself onto the bed, managing to be graceful even as he sprawls out. “And look, a view,” he drawls, kneeling and looking out the window, stiff cock bouncing between his legs. Then he turns to look at Harry with a coy smirk. “Now come fuck me, Mr. Chivalry,” he says softly, getting on hands and knees once more.
Harry grins, strips and climbs on, manoeuvring him onto his back instead.
The mattress, though lumpy and oddly shaped, turns out to be incredibly comfortable, and certainly a welcome improvement after weeks of fucking on hard, unforgiving surfaces.
Harry revels in the feel of every smooth inch of Malfoy under and around him, the stutter of his heartbeat against his chest, and leans over him, kissing him gently through his orgasm.
Afterwards, they lie there together, at first side by side, not touching, suddenly conscious of being in an actual bed together. And then Harry makes an impatient sound and rolls over, lacing his hand through one of Malfoy’s, his other arm bent at the elbow and supporting his head as he looks down at him.
Malfoy’s skin is so pale that Harry can see the blue-green veins running up the sides of each slender finger, the nails shiny and neatly trimmed. The hairs on his arms are a fine gold, barely visible, the Dark Mark shrivelled and faded, and his narrow shoulders are smooth and rounded. His collarbones jut out sharply, tinged slightly pink now from being sucked on a while back. Harry can also see clearly, even in the dwindling light of late twilight, that way the faded Sectusempra scars on his chest and neck gleam softly.
He counts every rib, teases rosy nipples into hardened nubs with his tongue and tickles Malfoy’s navel; he lets the now softened pink cock rest warmly on his hand, runs his hands along long thighs and pushes his hand under one knee, hooking a leg over himself. He buries his face in the fragrant, silky blond hair, sucks on a fleshy earlobe and presses his mouth over the fluttering pulse on the side of his throat.
Malfoy in turn presses into Harry’s touch, not speaking, making small sounds of contentment, tracing Harry’s scar with his tongue, finger-combing his wild hair off his face, nibbling on his lips, nuzzling his neck, running his palms over the broad chest, pausing to circle a finger around the round cicatrix that the pendant-Horcrux had left in the centre of his chest, leaning down and placing a sweet kiss over it, caressing the sharp hip bones with his thumbs and greedily gripping Harry’s bare arse.
Harry doesn’t want to talk - he doesn’t want to break this spell that seems to have fallen over them. He doesn’t want to discuss it, not with Malfoy, and definitely not with himself – this utterly bizarre tenderness they’re sharing. He settles his chin atop Malfoy’s temple and quietly breathes in his scent. His heart thumps softly in his chest, and there’s a pleasant humming all over him.
“How many people have you been with, before me?” Malfoy asks suddenly, after a long stretch of silence during which darkness falls steadily outside, snow whispers against the window pane and Harry lights his wand and renews the Warming Charms. When Harry looks down he doesn’t see jealousy or malice, he sees harmless curiosity.
He shrugs. “Just Ginny.”
“You two must have fucked a lot for you to get this good,” Malfoy says, looking amused.
Harry grins. “Was that an actual compliment, Malfoy?”
“It was an observation,” Malfoy says stiffly. “You’re good in bed – it’s a simple remark, don’t look into it,” he scowls when Harry continues to grin.
“You’re not half bad yourself, you arrogant arsehole.”
Malfoy’s scowl fades a bit and he looks smugly pleased, closing his eyes and resting his cheek on his palm, his other hand pressed to the back of Harry’s neck, thumb idly drawing circles.
There’s a beat of silence.
“And you?” Harry asks nonchalantly.
“Me what, Potter?” Malfoy asks flatly though Harry can tell he bloody well knows what he’s talking about.
“How many? Before me,” Harry specifies anyway, rolling his eyes.
Malfoy doesn’t open his eyes and does not answer at once.
Finally he speaks softly.
“Nott and I were together for a couple of months in fifth year,” he says. “We never actually fucked though,” he adds as an afterthought.
Again, a brief pause.
“Rodolphus Lestrange,” he finally says, his voice shaking and Harry breathes in sharply.
He pulls back so he can look at Malfoy’s face properly. It’s shuttered completely, and he stares stonily back at Harry.
“You mean, your—“ Harry starts incredulously.
“My aunt Bella’s husband.” Draco nods tightly. “My uncle. The very same.”
“You – you slept with him?”
“It wasn’t a romance, Potter,” Draco snaps, pulling away, turning over onto his back.
“He sort of... forced himself, alright?” He grits his teeth, and Harry feels like he’s been punched in the gut as he scrambles onto one elbow so he’s leaning over Malfoy.
“Aunt Bella never even fucking looked at him,” he says bitterly, looking away. “In all probability, she was fucking the Dark – Voldemort,” he says at the last moment, visibly shivering. “So one night, he got blind drunk and came into my room and I was still asleep when he– I used to drink a Draught before bed every night because I could never fall asleep otherwise because– and he— he was... inside me before I was even awake and when I told him to stop, he simply got rougher so I just...” He was trembling now. “But I kicked him out the next time he tried and then he went for Mother.” Malfoy throws an arm over his eyes and Harry suddenly wants him to stop talking, he doesn’t want to hear any further. “So to keep him away from her I asked him... I told him to use... to just come to my room anytime he wanted to... So he did. And it always fucking hurt so I used to lube myself up and just wait and he thought that was my way of telling him I enjoyed it... So he got more regular... It was just for a couple of weeks, though. And then Father found out, and so that was the end of that.” He stops talking abruptly. Horrified, Harry just lies there, his stomach writhing queasily, his heart pounding painfully.
He suddenly is stuck by how Malfoy is panting slightly and feels like he’s been on the receiving end of a confession, like Malfoy had been carrying this around for so long that he’d blurted it all out without second thought.
Harry feels a steady fury building through him, his blood boiling in his veins, his temples throbbing with how hard he’s gritting his teeth, his hands balling into fists.
“He raped you,” Harry says and his voice doesn’t even sound like his own. It’s an enraged hiss.
“Brilliant deduction.” Malfoy’s lip curls and he moves his arm off his face and Harry sees with further mounting horror that his eyes are wet.
Harry reaches out and pulls, crushing Malfoy to him. Malfoy resists violently at first, trying to pull away, snarling angrily, kicking and shoving fruitlessly, all nails and teeth, until Harry simply holds him tighter.
And then he just melts, pushing his face into Harry’s neck desperately, his body quaking, gulping noisily in a valiant attempt to curb his tears as he clutches at Harry, pressing into him.
“I didn’t enjoy it, I swear,” he murmurs fervently in a low, distraught voice and Harry is filled with fresh alarm. “I wished him dead every single fucking day.”
“Of course you didn’t fucking enjoy it,” Harry says roughly, feeling as if Malfoy’s ribs might crack under his unyielding, punishingly tight grip.
Malfoy pushes further against Harry, as if trying to fuse himself into Harry’s body, his very flesh, and Harry lets him, holding him as close as he physically can, wrapping both arms and legs tightly around his pale, quivering form, cradling him possessively.
After the longest stretch of silence yet, Malfoy speaks.
“He was garbage compared to you, don’t worry” he says lightly, and Harry is further incensed at his effort to make light of the matter. “I never even got hard once. And he’d thrust and grunt like a wild hog for no more than half a minute before he came,” he snorts and Harry abruptly pulls back, noting the way the grey eyes widen in surprise at the rough movement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Harry says fiercely. “Stop trying to fucking joke about it.”
Malfoy’s nostrils flare and he glares sullenly.
“How did...” Harry desperately wants to sound out his sudden flare of doubt. “How did you let... me.”
“For Merlin’s sake.” Malfoy rolls his eyes with a sneer. “Don’t you dare go all Gryffindor on me, I don’t have the fucking patience for that, Potter,” he spits.
Harry waits, his heart still racing.
Malfoy sighs. “Potter, I wanted you to fuck me,” he says seriously. “Every single gay wizard in England wants you to fuck him.”
Harry snorts but doesn’t respond, simply pulling Malfoy back against him.
Another pause, and then-- “I hope I didn’t hurt you that first time we—”.
“You didn’t, don’t flatter yourself,” Malfoy snaps against his Adam’s apple.
“Anytime you don’t want to—” Harry swallows, unable to believe what he was saying. “Anytime you want to stop—”
“Potter, no, please.”
The words are drenched in an emotion Harry can’t really figure out – a sort of wild agitation, a sudden panic. Malfoy stiffens in his arms, his fingers clench onto his shoulder blades and Harry can feel the sudden increase in his heart rate.
He feels and hears several steadying breaths being pulled in and blown out against his collar bones.
“Don’t think like that, alright?” Malfoy speaks softly, soothingly, as if trying to calm a wild horse, warm hands rubbing Harry’s back gently. “Don’t think you’re forcing me into anything.” He pulls back. “Because you’re not. I want this.”
Harry looks at him, at his pink tinged, wide grey eyes, his trembling lower lip.
“How can you, after... how can you let me--”
“It’s not the same with you,” Malfoy says in a rush, interrupting him, looking irritated. “You can never... You’d never... You saved me, you arsehole!” he says almost accusingly. “I’m here because of you... I’m alive because of you.”
His eyes are burning, on the verge of shuttering, but his words ring honest in a way Harry has never heard from him before. His heart flutters madly. Malfoy is actually grateful to him.
“Are you doing this as some sort of repayment?” he asks hesitantly, and Malfoy clicks his tongue irascibly.
“Of all the dunderheads...” he mutters to himself, glaring. “No, Potter. I’m not whoring myself out to you as a fucking thank you,” he says aloud nastily, now back to his normal charming self. “I’m sleeping with you voluntarily because you make me come every day, sometimes several times a day and I can’t help but enjoy that. And that time you first brought me off, I slept through the night after two fucking years - and have continued to, most nights since then. So – mmmfffpp--” he tries to continue, protesting weakly as Harry slips his tongue into his mouth, before returning the kiss fervidly, clutching at fistfuls of Harry’s hair.
“Shut up for a second, would you,” Harry says irritably, pulling back for a second, and then kissing the wry grin off Malfoy’s face.
This time, they fuck with a sort of raw, unbridled need for each other, both of them desperate to just reassure.
Harry knows he’s terrible with words, and he doesn’t know, he’ll never know, how exactly to tell Malfoy that he never has to fear again, that from now, and forever, he is safe – he is Harry’s and he is safe. He lunges over Malfoy, hips moving incessantly and untiringly, his breath huffing in warm bursts, his teeth grazing milky white skin until they bloom rose, his tongue filling every nook of Malfoy’s mouth until he goes limp in Harry's arms from lack of oxygen. He rams into him, his cock going deeper with every stroke, as if at some point he’d go deep enough that he’d never pull out again.
Malfoy, in turn, holds him fiercely, moving fluidly beneath him almost as if he were dancing, straining to maintain eye contact even through the relentless pounding on his prostate, his kisses almost feral in his endeavour to convince Harry of his apodictic, abject consent. His every breath comes out a moan, and his sharp gasps make Harry break out in gooseflesh. He holds the base of his cock, squeezing so hard that his knuckles are white as bone, trying desperately to make it last longer, squeezing Harry’s cock in a ruthless clench of his sphincter every single time he pushes into him.
It’s the kind of sex that has them both trembling and exhausted and in tears by the time they’re done. Malfoy pulls Harry down on top of him, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck, murmuring into his hair, pressing kisses onto his face, sniffling softly. Slowly they arrange themselves back to how they’d been lying before, fronts pressed impossibly close, legs entangled, arms locked around each other, cocooned within conjured, warmed blankets.
“Stay here,” Malfoy breathes. “Don’t leave.”
Harry presses his mouth to his forehead; he wants to tell him that he’ll never leave, that he wouldn’t dream of it, but Malfoy is sighing softly into Harry’s chest, his eyes closed.
“You make me feel safe, Potter” he whispers, already drifting off, almost unaware that he’s speaking out loud. “You keep me safe.”
Boxing Day, Harry hums tunelessly on his way back to the common room, heading for a quick shower. He steps through the portrait and freezes, barely managing to hitch on a smile as Ron and Hermione hurtle at him.
“We couldn’t bear the thought of you all alone here,” Hermione says softly, hugging him tightly. “Where were you, it’s not even time for breakfast yet.”
“Let him breathe, ‘Mione,” Ron says, slapping Harry on the back. “You should have seen your face just now, ha!” He grins.
“It’s good to see you guys,” Harry says automatically, and some part of him means it too.
“Look!” Hermione moves her hair aside and Harry sees the delicate pearl earrings he’d sent her for Christmas. “They’re gorgeous, and I love them!”
Harry smiles. “They look great on you.”
“Did you have a good Christmas?”
Harry looks at her, and then at Ron biting the head off a Chocolate Frog. Words bubble hysterically up to his mouth, and he’s suddenly dying to tell his best friends about Malfoy and what have been the best two days of his life.
He wants to tell them how he’d woken up three mornings in a row now with Malfoy in his arms, and how brilliant it felt and how it was almost frightening to look at him lying there, naked and tousled, sleeping peacefully because, fuck, how could anyone be so damn beautiful?
He wants to see what they think of the fact that Malfoy and he had spent Christmas Eve holed up in what they’ve now started to refer to as ‘their room’, playing chess and practice duelling, laughingly putting up mistletoe and baubles that they’d nicked from the main castle, and actually talking between bouts of incredible, torrid sex.
And how on Christmas morning, when Malfoy had straddled Harry, riding his cock slowly, lazily, his body warm and pliant atop him, Harry had realised with mounting panic that he may not be able to live without him.
He wants to show them the exquisite pair of gloves Malfoy had given him for Christmas, jet black and made of pure dragon hide, lined with sable fur that was softer than anything Harry had ever touched. He’d gasped as he’d tried them on, groaning at the incredible feel of them, flexing his fingers and gushing at Malfoy like a fool, mussing his hair and kissing him quickly. They fit perfectly, were charmed to repel liquids and dirt and looked incredibly expensive, and Malfoy had looked more pleased than Harry had ever seen him.
Until, of course, Harry had handed him his gift, wrapped in clichéd silver and green, something Malfoy seemed to approve of judging by the way his eyes had lit up. He’d unwrapped it with uncharacteristic care, grinning as he’d chimed a, ‘Wow, it’s heavy, Potter!’, and had stiffened in shock when he’d laid eyes on the glass fronted case of the set of pure silver Potions knives. Nestled in rich, black velvet, the blades had gleamed nearly as bright as Malfoy’s widened eyes as he’d looked up at Harry with his mouth agape before shooting up off the bed and slamming into Harry with the force of a small car, murmuring his gratitude in a low growl against Harry’s lips, the wooden case of the knives digging into Harry’s back.
Harry wants to tell them how Malfoy and he had walked along the perimeter of the forest after the Christmas Feast, and how they’d held hands, for god’s sake. He wants to describe in vivid detail how Malfoy had looked with his pale hair sticking out from under his black cap, his skin seeming paler than normal in contrast to the dark wool, his eyes shining, his cheeks flushed red, the cold turning his nose a ridiculously adorable share of pink. How he’d laughed and stuck his pink tongue out to catch some snow and how some tiny flakes had caught in his abnormally long eyelashes. And how Harry had tackled him onto the freezing, snow laden ground and had kissed him for several long minutes before Malfoy had loudly declared that his arsehole was frozen shut, and how he, Harry, had laughed until he’d cried, and had all along felt happiness of such startling intensity that it terrified him.
He wonders if he should tell them of the three hours they’d spent in the Prefect’s bath after that, entwined in the steaming hot water that Malfoy and he had laced with an ungodly number of scents and oils and bubbles while sniggering like first years. And of how they’d just kissed for those three hours, slow, deep and so fucking hot. And the way they’d sat with Malfoy in the V between Harry’s legs on the steps, his smooth back pressed to Harry’s front, his fingers curled around Harry’s arms around his waist, both of them chest deep in the water, and how he’d let his head fall back onto Harry’s shoulder, sighing contently as Harry had sucked and licked along his neck.
He’s helplessly in love with Malfoy and he wants to tell them how close he’d come to telling him that just a few minutes ago as they’d parted at the end of the old Charms corridor on their way to their respective dorms and how he’d chickened out at the last second in case his confession wiped off that aggravatingly perfect smile off Malfoy’s face.
“Yeah.” Harry clears his throat. “Yeah, Christmas was good,” he says instead.
There are talks of a party for the seventh and eighth years on New Year’s Eve and Harry notes with grim disappointment that several of the seniors return to Hogwarts over the next couple of days. He’d savoured the privacy he and Malfoy had shared in those two days when the castle was nearly empty and beautifully warm and ornately decorated.
Ron and Hermione hadn’t left his side since their unexpected return and he and Malfoy had to resort to exchange increasingly desperate messages on their charmed Galleons that Harry had dug out of his and Ron’s trunk a few weeks ago.
“This is very advanced magic,” Malfoy had said admiringly on the day Harry had given him the coin a month earlier. He’d been lying on his front on his cloak that they’d spread out on the bare floor, leaning on his elbows, his buttocks bare and inviting. “We’re going to cover Protean Charms only next term. And you say Granger managed it in our fifth year?”
“Yeah,” Harry had replied, his eyes fixed on the white swell of Malfoy’s arse as he’d gotten dressed.
Finding it impossible to meet during the day, they both snuck out after their roommates fell asleep, hurrying down to the classroom where they held each other as if afraid to let go, rising early the next morning and slipping back into their respective dorms.
“Let’s just tell them,” Harry says now, the night before New Year’s Eve. He’s on his back with Malfoy’s head on his shoulder, face burrowed under his chin, a leg and an arm thrown across Harry's middle, Harry’s arm securely tied around his thin waist. “Malfoy.”
Both of them are still covered in a light sheen of sweat but Harry strengthens the Warming Charm and pulls the covers up around them anyway.
“I don’t know, Potter,” he finally says, his voice muffled. “Seems like a lot of work.”
“Explaining to people.”
“We don’t need to explain anything.”
“That’s not how they’ll see it. You think Granger won’t ask questions? You think Weasley won’t recover from the coronary he’ll have and then demand that you pick either him or me?”
“Ron wouldn’t do--”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Alright, so maybe he’ll flip out at first but then--”
“And then what, Potter? He’ll buy us matching ties?”
“You’d wear matching ties?”
“No, I see it now. Anytime we step out together, we wear matching ties.”
“Step out together?”
“You plan to stay indoors for the rest of your life, like a vampire?”
A pause, and then-
“Just where do you see this going, Potter?”
Harry gently pulls away and sits up, leaning back against the headboard that always rattled noisily when they fucked too hard. Malfoy rolls onto his front and leans on his elbows, hands clasped before him as he looks up at Harry with one dark blond brow raised expectantly.
“Where do you want it to go?” Harry asks seriously, Summoning his glasses from somewhere amidst the bundle of his clothes, and jamming them on.
“I believe I asked first.”
Harry doesn’t reply, simply looking down at Malfoy thoughtfully.
“We can’t sneak around forever,” he finally says carefully.
“No, we can’t,” Malfoy agrees.
“We won’t have to once school’s over.”
Malfoy tilts his head. “You can barely go into Hogsmeade without a picture of you landing up in the papers.”
“I don’t give a fuck what they say about me.” Harry looks bored. “Do you?”
Malfoy gives him a small smirk, narrowing his eyes slightly, a playful glint in the grey orbs.
“No,” he finally says after a pause. “No, I don’t.”
“Not even what your parents say?”
“No,” he repeats firmly.
There’s another bout of silence during which Malfoy softly grazes Harry’s thigh with his finger tips.
“You’re actually serious about this,” he says lightly, with the slightest hint of a question at the end, not looking up.
“Well, yeah...” Harry says lamely, his throat suddenly dry and his heart rate picking up. This is it, this is when he should just tell him.
Don’t ruin it, Potter, says a voice in his head, sounding a lot like Malfoy’s.
“Don’t you want to explore some more?” Malfoy smiles roguishly. “So many arses out there to fuck.”
“Is this your way of telling me that your arse is tired?” Harry laughs as Malfoy scowls instantly.
“My arse is fabulous and will long outlast your old cock, Potter,” he says icily.
“We’ll just have to wait and see.”
“So we will.”
“I don’t ever want to lose you.”
Harry bites his tongue, wondering where the hell that mush had come from. Malfoy is looking at him very seriously, his mouth a thin line but his eyes warm and intense.
“You won’t,” he finally says, sounding calm, blinking slowly. He stares at Harry for a few more seconds before rising gracefully and sliding across his lap, thighs hugging his hips as he wraps his legs around him, his mouth descending on Harry’s.
Holding him in a fierce grip, Harry kisses him with everything he has, angling his head so his tongue can worm in deep into Malfoy’s hot, demanding mouth. He breaks away to kiss that tiny, brown freckle, and then wetly sucks his way up Malfoy’s slender neck, gnawing and licking, pulling his head this way and that to get better access, until Malfoy lets out a needy whine and pulls his mouth back up to his, pausing only to impatiently pull off and chuck his glasses over his shoulder with an irritated huff.
Harry combs his fingers through the coarse blond curls between his legs before reaching for his cock, tenderly peeling down the foreskin, teasing the tip with his thumb and forefinger and earning a querulous mewl. Then wrapping gentle fingers around, he begins stroking languidly, his grip light and teasing around the shaft, moving his hand steadily until Malfoy moans with his lips still sealed around Harry’s and thrusts his cock up into his fist, the crack of his arse brushing tantalisingly over Harry’s eager erection. His cock nudges Harry’s chest, leaving a sticky trail of pre come, one thread still connected to the glans until Harry’s hand breaks it on an upstroke.
Malfoy whines when Harry releases his cock and pulls him closer, arching his spine, his long fingers creeping into the messy black hair when Harry bends to suck serenely at one peachy nipple, sighing as Harry runs his hands down his lean back. Reaching the soft dip of his tail bone, Harry spares a moment to trace teasing circles over it before he roughly pries Malfoy’s arse cheeks apart. Hurriedly rising onto his knees, Malfoy reaches back to press Harry’s cock inside himself.
With a loud oh! of pleasure, he sits down firmly all at once, and Harry swears loudly, his balls tightening threateningly. Malfoy quakes visibly, clenching and fluttering around Harry’s cock, biting his lip, his head thrown back. His hands tighten on Harry’s shoulders and Harry in turn squeezes his waist with his hands, gritting his teeth at the vice like heat around him.
“Wait,” he growls when Malfoy makes to lift himself. “Give me a sec.”
Pausing mid-action, Malfoy sinks back down, comfortably straddling him as he pants softly. He tugs Harry’s head back with a fistful of hair, running a moist tongue up his neck, biting over his jugular, and into the soft curve and across his shoulder. Harry gasps as the sharp white teeth mark him efficiently in neat intervals, steady suction over each bite pulling blood up, making his skin stand out angry red in round patches.
“Yeah?” Malfoy breathes after a few more seconds, moving his hips in a cautious circle.
Harry nods, hissing appreciatively. “Yeah.”
Fluidly, Malfoy begins to move, and Harry stops breathing for a beat or two as he watches him. Rising up on his knees until Harry nearly slips out, and then grinding back down until his arse presses into Harry’s thighs, Malfoy fucks himself in smooth, undulating movements while he arches and gasps, his eyes rolling back, his nails digging into Harry’s shoulders, looking utterly glorious.
He keeps his pace unhurried, sedate, leaning forward every now and then to give Harry lingering kisses and stroke his face tenderly, murmuring faintly against his cheek. Harry presses kisses wherever he can, his arse lifting off the bed with each gentle upward buck into Malfoy.
“So good,” Malfoy whispers, his hair tousled, his eyes closed, his mouth wet and swollen, picking up the pace and making Harry groan. “Merlin... Always so good.”
“Fuck!” Harry gasps at a particularly forceful grind that makes the mattress under them bounce a little, Malfoy’s breath whooshing out hot on Harry’s face. “Fucking – yes!” he moans, tightening his grip on the other boy.
“Potter.” Malfoy’s breathy voice hitches higher. “Potter...”
Harry presses open mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Malfoy...” He curls his fingers around the steadily weeping cock bouncing against his belly, eliciting a loud moan from Malfoy, who then knocks away his hand, now lifting up and impaling himself harder on Harry’s cock.
Harry bends his knees so Malfoy can lean back against his thighs, his own nails leaving crescents in the soft flesh of Malfoy’s waist. He’s never been buried this deep inside Malfoy and the sight of him bouncing wantonly on his cock along with the unspoken words between the two of them and the meaning of it all is nearly overwhelming and he’s so close and it’s all too much --
He lifts Malfoy bodily by the waist and slams him back down onto his cock while ramming upwards, both of them crying out, Malfoy’s hand scrabbling urgently on Harry’s skin.
“Again,” Malfoy chokes out, grabbing Harry’s biceps. Harry repeats the action, roughly fucking up into Malfoy while shoving him down onto himself, Malfoy helping by throwing all his weight downwards.
“Come here,” Harry pants helplessly, leaning forward.
Malfoy, being vigorously fucked open and barely even aware of himself, presses into Harry, obligingly opening his mouth and returning the kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around Harry’s neck, grinding down hard so that Harry’s cock presses into his prostate in one long, steady press –
“Potter!” he cries, devastated, arching back so suddenly and dangerously that Harry has to tighten his hold on him anxiously, pulling him back towards himself even as Malfoy comes in long jets, his body going taut and still, eyes screwed shut, biting his lip bloody in the effort to stifle his scream.
Drawing in a huge breath, Malfoy lets out a broken sound like a choked sob, pressing his forehead to Harry’s as he shivers, his cock lazily spurting out the last of his climax, urged on by Harry’s tight fist.
“Fuck,” he sounds almost shocked, and then groans when Harry thrusts up, claiming his mouth once more.
Harry bites into the kiss, his grip on Malfoy unforgiving now, thrusting up hard, nearly dislodging him. Malfoy eggs him on, continuing to bounce in perfectly timed movements, his arse gripping tightly around the glans of Harry’s cock, licking his own blood off Harry’s mouth, whispering filth into his ear until Harry seizes him roughly and starts to come, his growl rumbling right out of his chest. He snaps his hip up so violently that Malfoy is finally thrown right off his lap.
Harry rolls over onto him, still buried inside as he lifts the pale legs up, his hips pumping erratically as he groans into Malfoy’s throat. Malfoy holds him tight, gasping into his hair, smoothing his hands up and down Harry’s back, his knees hooked over Harry’s shoulders.
As Harry comes down from the high, he’s coaxed into another slow, burning kiss, Malfoy licking his way into his mouth between bouts of nibbling and sucking. Harry finally pulls back with a wet sound and nods once, prompting Malfoy to turn over immediately.
He sighs as Harry moves down, pulls his arse open and begins to suck, jerking slightly, moaning when bitten gently. Pushing his tongue sharply into the moist, quivering opening, Harry licks lazily, squeezing handfuls of the pert bottom, gently kneading. Malfoy bucks, whimpering, and Harry licks his way out and places a final kiss on his arsehole, suckling leisurely.
"God." Malfoy sighs again.
He crawls back up, licking a wet trail along Malfoy’s spine before he throws himself next to him with a content huff, gathering up the other boy and pulling him close, spooning around his tightly curled back.
“You coming to the party tomorrow?” he asks sleepily. Malfoy grunts. “Didn’t catch that.”
“Such a waste of time,” Malfoy mumbles.
“You’ve got something better to do?”
“Don’t we both?” He smirks over his shoulder and Harry leans forward and kisses him soundly.
“Come have one drink,” he says, nuzzling the smooth white shoulder.
“Maybe we could...”
Harry sighs. “Something... I dunno.”
“For heaven’s sake, Potter.”
“Don’t be such a brat, Malfoy.”
“Bratty and proud.”
“Just come?” Harry laughs. “I’m going to wait for you, alright?”
“You’ll be waiting all night.”
“God, such an arse.”
“Yes, what about my arse?”
“Why, thank you, you crass oaf.”
“Come to the party.”
“Go to sleep.”
“Don’t sulk now. Goodni- aaargh! Stop pinching me, you barbarian!”
Harry grins, watching Seamus climbing atop the makeshift bar they’d put up for the party. The Irishman, pissed to the point where it’s useless trying to contain him, sways on the spot as he bellows at Parvati Patil that she resembles an ancient Indian goddess and how desperately in love with her he is.
Parvati, blushing dark red and attempting to melt into the wall behind her, is hiding a reluctant grin as the room erupts into catcalls, applause and hoots of laughter. Harry checks his watch for the enth time and looks on as Dean disentangles himself from Ginny and jogs over to his best mate, stopping him at the last second from stomping into a jug of Butterbeer that the Ravenclaw behind the bar has just placed there.
Looking around the room, Harry sees Hermione pressed into Ron’s chest as she talks to Hannah, Ron’s arm wound tightly around her waist. Relieved that their attention was finally off him, Harry slips out of the room, reaches under his t-shirt and pulls out his Map, nodding and flashing quick smiles at a few seniors heading back into the party.
He peers in the general area of the Slytherin dungeons and then scans the first two floors, his frown deepening as he fails to locate Malfoy. Hurriedly, he checks the old Charms corridor and their room, to no avail.
Just as he’s covering the fourth floor, his eyes snag on two names, written so close together that the letters nearly clash, Malfoy’s one of them.
“McLaggen?” Harry frowns in bewilderment. Stuffing the Map into his pocket, Harry sets off at a quick trot, checking his watch again. It’s eleven thirty, half an hour until the next year.
He checks the Map again as he descends into the fourth floor and still frowning in puzzlement, walks down the corridor towards the third year Transfiguration classroom at the end.
He’s about to round the corner into the cul-de-sac on the left when he hears it – the steady slap of skin on skin, now such a familiar sound to his ears.
Heart suddenly racing painfully, Harry freezes on the spot and noiselessly checks the map once more to confirm what he suspects, his gut clenching as his eyes pause on Malfoy’s name.
Gritting his teeth, his fists clenching on the map unwittingly, Harry takes one step forward and peers around the suit of armour.
Draco Malfoy is bent over, his hands resting on the ledge of the window, his trousers and pants pooled around his feet, Cormac McLaggen fucking him from behind, his thrusts hard enough that Malfoy is jerking forward with every stroke.
Harry stops breathing – the air around him has disappeared, how is he even supposed to breathe?
He can’t see Malfoy’s face; he's is standing with his head hanging down so that his hair falls forward, the moonlight falling in sharp beams across his pale arms and platinum hair; he’s very still even as his slight frame is jostled roughly.
McLaggen is grunting, his fingers clenched on Malfoy’s hips – Harry can see the bruises already beginning to form on the translucent skin. Malfoy finally stirs.
“Please,” he whispers, still looking down, his knuckles turning white as his hands clench on the stone windowsill. “McLaggen.”
How many times had he whispered Harry’s name like that?
“Take it,” McLaggen pants. “Take it! Yes – oh fuck – yes!”
He curses loudly, arching backwards, his pelvis pressing into Malfoy’s back as he pants quietly.
Harry turns on his heel and walks away. He’s suddenly deaf; there’s literally no sound reaching his eardrums. As he climbs up to Gryffindor Tower, Malfoy’s soft panting echoes in time with his steps.
He’s mercifully blank as he makes his way up to his dormitory. He doesn’t feel a thing as he undresses and puts on his pyjamas. Not a single thought crosses his mind as he gets into bed and lies there, staring blankly at the canopy, his fingers laced on his stomach.
He hears the giant bell in Hogsmead chiming midnight and can hear the celebratory screaming of the Gryffindor juniors from the common room below.
He turns, reaches out blindly and grabs two full vials of Sleeping Draught, downing both in a single gulp. He takes off his glasses, pulls up his covers and suddenly feels something warm under his head.
Reaching under the pillow he pulls out the charmed Galleon.
‘Happy New Year, Potter.’
The letters scramble and then form another message.
‘You still at the party?’
He throws the galleon onto his bedside table, draws the curtains around his bed and waits, his mind still utterly devoid of thought.
The Cruciatus hurts less; it would also probably hurt less if somebody shoved their hand down his throat and ripped his heart out.
Or disembowelled him.
Or set him on fire.
You’re a dramatic ponce, Potter.
He shakes his head violently to get that voice out of his head, his head swimming with the action.
Along with incessant buzzing in his mind, the burning rage coursing through him and the series of mental images flashing in front of his eyes, there’s an excruciatingly painful, tightly clenched knot in his chest that refuses to loosen up.
It’s agony. Every single minute spent with Malfoy seems to replay itself for his benefit. The pointed, striking face looms before him all day. Every gasp, every cry, every moan seems to echo in his ears. The uninhibited, ringing laughter that he’d heard for the first time on Christmas Day seems to play itself on a loop until Harry muffles his face into his pillow and screams.
He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he comes face to face with Malfoy again. To say that he misses him is a gargantuan understatement – every fiber of his being aches with how much he misses Malfoy. His bones seem dried up and shriveled inside him, thirsting for Malfoy, yearning for him with a kind of vicious intensity and he spends all his time mentally cursing himself in a steady mental rant to try and counter it.
‘Serves you right for letting him in so deep; serves you right for actually falling for him – I mean, who fucking does that?! Malfoy?! Of all people?! Him with his sly, slimy smirks and huge, cold eyes and beautiful, golden hair… Ugh. You’re literally beyond hope.’
He doesn’t go to class. He doesn’t eat. Ron seems to actually believe he’s ill and Hermione, worried sick, begs him to go to the hospital wing.
For two days, he doesn’t get out of bed. He ignores the steadily pulsing orange glow from the Galleon next to his bed, the ebbs of warm light only seeming to further fuel his fury.
On the third day, Hermione and Ron burst through the drawn drapes around his bed and ambush him, Neville hovering nervously behind them. After Hermione’s aggravating attempt at wheedling him and a heated argument with Ron that leads to Harry slowly drawing his wand, his eyes cold and dead, they simply sit down at the foot of his bed and refuse to go down to dinner without him.
He takes in their identical mulish expressions, glances at Neville who simply shrugs, and sighs. He’s beginning to feel pathetic. He’s got to get his sense of pride back, for Godric’s sake.
Ron helps him dress, Harry’s hands shaking and fumbling like a child’s from low blood sugar, and the four of them make their way down to dinner, Hermione discreetly holding Harry’s arm in a death grip.
He chews like he’s eating cardboard, looking fixedly into his plate, concentrating on bringing his fork to his mouth, bite after bite. When he finally can’t stand it any longer, his eyes lift and reluctantly find the grey ones boring into his from across the room. When Malfoy gets to his feet, glaring at him unblinkingly, and makes his way out, Harry is on his feet before he can help himself.
“Sit down,” Hermione hisses. “Finish your--”
“Need to be sick,” Harry mutters. “Don’t,” he says shortly as Ron makes to get up and accompany him.
The strength he hasn’t felt in nearly three days suddenly shoots through his veins as he sprints up the stairs, his eyes fixed on Malfoy as he disappears round the second floor landing.
The moment he turns the corner, he spots Malfoy leaning against the wall, forehead lined with worry, his face white and drawn, dark bags of exhaustion under his pale eyes.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he snaps as Harry slowly approaches him. “And why do you look like death warmed over?”
Harry walks up to him, the adrenaline he’d felt earlier slowly freezing into a bone chilling rage that made him want to hex Malfoy blind.
“Why do you care?” he asks, and his voice is an icy hiss.
Malfoy’s eyebrows shoot up.
“So we’re angry,” he says calmly. “Is it because I didn’t go to the stupid party?”
“Don’t be juvenile, Potter.” Malfoy sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Tell me why you’re upset and I’ll buy you a lollipop to make it better.”
“You’re just so fucking smooth, aren’t you?” Harry is now standing close enough that he can smell the incredible scent of Malfoy, can see that little brown freckle that he absolutely fucking loves. “Always put together; and you know everything, don’t you?”
Malfoy doesn’t respond, looking at Harry warily, finally realising that it’s grimmer than he’d anticipated.
“I do, usually, yes,” he says softly. “But right now, I’m as blank as Weasley is during Advanced Potions. Kindly enlighten me as to why--”
“I know,” Harry grits out, his face inches from Malfoy’s. “I fucking know, Malfoy. Stop fucking playing dumb. I know!”
Malfoy’s eyes flare with...something for a second before the shutters crash down once more.
“Great.” His lip curls. “Now if you’d tell me what you’re talking about so I’d know too?”
Harry’s breath huffs against his face and his blonde lashes flutter slightly, but aside from that he maintains unwavering eye contact.
“I went looking for you that night,” Harry says softly, his voice sounding poisonous to his own ears. “Didn’t know I’d get to see a show, though.”
Something roars inside Harry as horrified understanding finally dawns across Malfoy’s face, as if realising that his worst fear has come true, and the last smidgen of colour drains out of it, leaving him standing there, whiter than a ghost, trembling, his fists clenched at his sides, staring at Harry with wide eyes.
“Tell me,” Harry says with forced casualness. “Was he better than me? Cormac McLaggen,” he spits.
“Potter,” Malfoy says in a low voice, his lip trembling.
“Did you tell him how much you love getting come sucked out of your arse?”
“Shut up,” Malfoy grits out, before appearing to forcibly calm himself. “Potter,” he tries again.
“Did you come while he was still in you? Sorry, I didn’t stick around for the finale.”
“Will you just shut your face for a minute?”
“I heard you,” Harry says with sadistic relish. “I heard you beg him. ‘Please’,” he mimics, his voice high. “Oh, McLaggen, please.”
“Potter, please,” Malfoy says desperately, his eyes wild.
“No no, McLaggen, remember?”
“Will you give me a chance to talk?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Harry suddenly bellows, shoving his face into Malfoy’s so that he actually gasps and shrinks back into the wall. “You fucking piece of shit!”
“Potter.” Malfoy’s mouth is trembling uncontrollably as he holds his hands out placatingly. “Harry,” he suddenly says beseechingly, stroking his fingers gently down Harry’s face, making him break out in shivers at the warm, tender touch.
He snarls and slaps away the spidery hands.
“I don’t know what I was expecting, really,” he says in a voice of forced calm. “I mean, we were just fucking right? That’s all it was to you. I don’t what I was thinking, trusting a Death Eater slut--”
For a man so thin, Malfoy is incredibly strong.
The force with which he punches Harry right on the mouth is enough to send him flying back before he slams painfully into the opposite wall and crumples onto the floor.
“You know nothing,” Malfoy hisses, his eyes burning, his expression one of pure, unadulterated anguish, hands clenched tightly, the knuckles on his right hand torn open on Harry’s teeth, his whole body trembling uncontrollably.
He stands there for a second longer, watching as Harry spits out a mouthful of blood and looks up at him woodenly, before he turns without a word and strides down the corridor, finally breaking into a run and disappearing round the corner.
“Mr.Potter!” Madam Pomfrey seems rather pleased when he knocks at her office door. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you in here. Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” she adds quickly and Harry finds himself smiling reluctantly. “How can I help you?”
“Er... Yeah, I need some more Sleeping Draught.” Harry doesn’t meet her eyes, instead staring over her shoulder at the filing cabinet behind her. Madam Pomfrey frowns. “I have a prescription,” Harry adds quietly.
“I know you do,” Madam Pomfrey says at once. “Doesn’t mean I approve... You’re all of eighteen,” she continues muttering as she gets to her feet and makes her way over to a large wooden shelf that occupies one wall of her office. She begins poking through the vials, the quiet clinking of the glass somehow soothing Harry’s frayed nerves. He’d run out of the potion two nights ago, the night he’d confronted Malfoy, and hasn’t slept since. Exhaustion added to the mix of ear-ringing rage and near constant mental anguish certainly didn’t help in his endeavour to pretend nothing was wrong.
He hasn’t seen Malfoy since then either, though he did bump into Cormac McLaggen as he’d been entering the Great Hall for breakfast that morning. He’d grinned at Harry and nodded a quick apology before hurrying around him and disappearing while Harry stood there with his hands shaking and Ron frowning in confusion at him.
“This ought to last you a month.” Madam Pomfrey’s voice makes him start slightly and he watches as she packs a bunch of the slim vials filled with the pale blue potion into a little box. Harry reaches out but she doesn’t hand it over, instead frowning thoughtfully at Harry. “You’ve grown thin since I last saw you,” she suddenly says.
“Are you quite alright?”
“Haven’t been sleeping well, I guess.” Harry holds his hand out stubbornly. Pomfrey slowly hands over the box, the vials clinking quietly against each other.
“You’re of age now, Mr.Potter,” she says seriously. “And I know all of you think we have no place to be telling you what to do anymore – especially after all you’ve been through – but do let me warn you that it’s as difficult to shake off potion addiction as it is easy to get addicted to them.”
“I’m not addicted,” Harry mumbles, slipping the box into his robe pocket. “I just need to sleep. Thank you,” he adds loudly when she opens her mouth to argue. He nods and turns to leave and then is nearly bowled over by the young nurse-in-training, who gallops in, her eyes wild.
“Madam Pomfrey,” she pants. “Come at once. There’s been a—oh, all that blood—I think it was a suicide attempt...”
Startled, Harry immediately follows Pomfrey and the nurse out. He stops short when he sees Parkinson, Goyle and a Slytherin seventh year grouped around a bed.
Parkinson’s face is streaked with tears and blood, Goyle, usually vacant-looking, now looks horrified, the seventh year looks slightly nauseated, and Harry suddenly can’t breathe.
“No no, I think it was an accident,” Parkinson is insisting as Harry edges nearer, holding his breath and vaguely breaking out into silent prayer. “I tied my tie around it, is that—did that help?”
“Out, all of you,” Madam Pomfrey barks.
“Is he dead?!” Parkinson shrieks hysterically, Goyle pulling her out by the hand, just as Harry finally sees through the gap between the drapes and Pomfrey’s shoulder – a flash of platinum blond hair, and blood – Jesus fucking Christ, so much blood, what the fuck.
“Malfoy,” Harry murmurs, vision doubling, the room spinning.
“Out!” Pomfrey bellows. “Potter! You too! Out!”
He’s aware of being ushered out by the intern, his eyes never leaving the supine form of Malfoy lying limply on the bed, practically drenched in his own blood, a blood soaked Slytherin tie around his left wrist...
He’s pushed out and the hospital wing doors close firmly behind him while Harry stares blankly at the opposite wall, his mind quite literally empty; even the buzzing that had never ceased to stop since that night of the party, seems to have suddenly evaporated.
“Don’t you dare tell anybody about this,” Parkinson is threatening the seventh year as Harry watches numbly. “I’ll—oh hell, I will ruin you!” she spits, tears steadily dripping off her jaw, her eyes burning as she crowds into the seventh’s personal space.
“Pansy.” Goyle’s voice is a deep, calm timbre. “He won’t. Will you, Michael?” he asks softly.
“Of course not!” the boy says furiously, holding up blood drenched hands.
“Off you go.” Goyle nods, and then sighs, putting his arm around Parkinson’s trembling shoulders as the seventh year hastily makes his way back down the corridor. “He’s lucky we found him, and thank Salazar everyone was at dinner... Merlin.”
“He was doing better.” Pansy is staring fixedly at a spot on the wall, her arm curled around her stomach. “He was so much better.” She looks up at Goyle, her chin trembling. “He said he wouldn’t try anything like this again—he’d promised me--” She breaks off, her eyes suddenly swivelling around to find Harry standing there impassively. “What are you still doing here?” she spits, her lip curling. “Don’t you have to go tell your fan club all about this?” She pauses, her breath coming in huge gasps, tears flowing freely. “Go on, then. T-tell everyone!”
Goyle shushes her, pulling her into his chest. He’s got blood on his robes.
“He’s done this before?” Harry blinks and then realises he’s the one talking.
Parkinson looks at him, wiping her nose with her hand and leaving another smear of blood on her face.
“What do you care?” she hisses. “Get the fuck out of here, Potter.”
“He filled his pockets with rocks and walked into the lake behind his house last summer,” Goyle murmurs, his eyes fixed on Harry’s face. “Right after his father was sentenced. He’s been like this since the War. Okay, Potter? Now could we have some privacy?”
Harry nods, his mind blank, his whole body quaking at what Goyle just told him, and walks away on unsteady legs.
He doesn’t stop walking until he suddenly blinks and finds himself at the Great Lake where he suddenly drops onto the ground, his legs unable to hold him up any longer.
Malfoy had walked into a lake – was it as large and deep as this one? Who had saved him from drowning? What if... oh, God, what if they hadn’t?
He doesn’t even have a cloak on and the cruelly frigid wind bites into Harry’s skin, the frozen ground under him steadily spreading a bone deep chill through his body.
He doesn’t want to allow the faint screaming trying to press itself into his blank mind; he’d not survive the ensuing guilt if it did. He can’t shake the image of Malfoy from his mind as he continues to blankly stare over the surface of the frozen lake, his hands shaking in his lap.
Malfoy lying in his own blood, his hand hanging limply over the side, dripping blood onto the floor, his pale hair streaked with crimson...
Malfoy has been suicidal since the War; Malfoy, who’d been threatened into taking the Mark; who was forced to live with Voldemort for months; who had been repeatedly raped by his uncle.
Malfoy who had saved Harry by refusing to identify him.
Malfoy who felt like heaven in his arms; who smelt like vanilla and whose skin was softer than satin; Malfoy with his fantastic smelling hair that always threatened to tease a sneeze out of Harry as he buried his face under Harry’s chin like an affectionate cat; Malfoy with his sharp tongue and teasing barbs, soft kisses and hot, sweet mouth.
Malfoy and the way he’d sometimes carefully fold away Harry’s glasses before they began kissing, other times just flinging it away mid-sex, they way his slender fingers would fervently grip and pull at Harry while they fucked, his thin wrists that were oddly ticklish, and that lovely, tiny brown freckle on his left cheek that inexplicably drove Harry absolutely wild, much to Malfoy’s perpetual amusement.
Harry presses his fingers desperately into his temples as if to try and stem the sudden gush of painfully vivid mental images that floods his mind. He has to see him, he has to make sure he’s fine, he can’t just sit here... Not when...—he loves Malfoy for fuck’s sake. Fuck everything else.
He scrambles up to his feet, slipping on the frost, nearly falling half a dozen times as he bolts back towards the castle. He doesn’t stop running, sprinting up to Gryffindor tower, gasping for breath as he slips in through the portrait and slinks up to his dorm.
“There you are.” Ron is sitting up in bed, Neville sitting on his, both of them in their pyjamas. Seamus and Dean are already asleep. Harry only realises now that it’s late – past midnight. He genuinely doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting out by the lake.
“Harry, you’re shaking.” Neville frowns. “Have you been outside all this time?” he asks incredulously.
“What are you doing?” Ron asks quietly as Harry scrambles around in his trunk, pulling out the Invisibility Cloak with a rough tug. “Where are you going?” He swings his feet off the bed as Harry gets under the cloak.
“Later,” Harry says shortly, walking back towards the door.
“Harry, mate, where--” Ron starts.
“Later, Ron, please!” Harry shuts the door behind himself with a soft click.
The box of vials in his pocket swings against his thigh as he runs to the hospital wing, his pants loud in his ears under the cloak. He dodges the Fat Friar who floats by, humming, and turns into the right corridor, his shoes squeaking quietly as he jogs up to the door, and after giving himself a few seconds to catch his breath, he pushes inside.
It’s dark, lit only by the moonlight slanting in through the windows between each bed. The drapes are drawn around each of the few occupied beds and he can hear the quietly ragged breathing of a couple of the students.
He creeps up to the far end of the room where they’d laid Malfoy, holding his breath, suddenly stopping short when he comes up to the right bed.
The drapes are drawn but there’s someone standing inside them, crouching over the bed, and Harry can hear quiet murmuring.
He sidles behind the bed next to Malfoy’s and coming up to the headboard, leans forward to try and see who it is.
His gut clenches with such ferocity that he has to press a hand over it – it’s Cormac McLaggen.
He holds his breath, leaning forward, trying to catch some of the quiet muttering.
“—know you’re awake, Malfoy,” McLaggen is hissing. “Answer me before I press a fucking pillow to your face. Whom have you told?”
“Nobody,” Malfoy suddenly whispers, and McLaggen shifts slightly at that point so suddenly Harry can see Malfoy’s pale, pointy face on the pillows. He’s nearly colourless, even paler than his usual milk white, and he has his eyes closed and face turned away from McLaggen. Harry watches as his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, clenching his fist at the sight of him lying there, perfect and broken.
“You sure?” McLaggen asks. “’cause let me tell you something, Malfoy. If you tell anyone what happened and they come and start asking me all these questions, our deal is off.”
Malfoy doesn’t answer, simply pressing his cheek into the pillow so he’s facing away. McLaggen reaches out a hand, grabs a handful of the golden hair and tugs his face around to look at him.
“I did not rape you,” McLaggen spits, his face close to Malfoy’s – Malfoy who looks petrified. “I did not do anything without your consent, got it? It was not blackmail.” He shakes the fist still clenched in Malfoy’s hair and Malfoy hisses in pain. “Say it.” Malfoy doesn’t answer. “Say it, you worthless piece of shite. Or I swear the deal is off – I will write to my cousin in the Prophet and tell him what I saw outside the Prefect’s bathroom; that your boyfriend, the Saviour, is nothing but a big cock sucking, arse fucking fag--”
“Shut your ugly face!” Malfoy surges up from his pillow, his eyes burning. “I told you, I haven’t told a fucking soul.”
“And that’s how it’s going to stay.” McLaggen straightens up, his profile lit up by the satisfied smirk he’s wearing. “But now that I’m here--” He begins fumbling with his trousers.
“What- what are you doing?” Malfoy whispers, the rage that had burnt in his face a second ago suddenly replaced with terror. “McLaggen, please, I told you, I haven’t told– I won’t tell anybody.”
“That’s good to know, Malfoy.” McLaggen sniggers and then there’s the unmistakable sound of wanking and Harry finds himself sagging to the floor, his lungs struggling to draw air.
This cannot be happening, he cannot be actually sitting here watching McLaggen’s hand flying over his cock while Malfoy begs him in weak whispers, tears leaking out the corner of his eyes and trickling down his temple.
“Fuck, yes,” McLaggen groans and then he’s coming onto Malfoy’s face as he cries out softly, turning his face away, his hands coming up to shield himself, his wrist still bound, the white hospital issued bandaging glowing faintly with the healing spell.
Harry slaps a hand over his mouth, a soft whimper escaping him as he watches McLaggen finish, Malfoy’s face painted with sticky come, the picture a cruel parody of the time he, Harry, had come on his beautiful, eager face, grey eyes shining, pink mouth laughing...
There’s the quiet rustling of clothes as McLaggen tucks himself back in, wiping his hand on Malfoy’s bed.
“Not a word, blondie,” he breathes one last time, and then he’s turning around and striding to the door, opening and closing it noiselessly.
Harry keeps his eyes shut, because he can’t – he can’t.
He simply cannot bear to look at Malfoy right now. He can hear the weak sobbing, the rustle of bedclothes and can picture him fumbling for his wand, struggling to sit upright and spell himself clean.
Suddenly though, Harry finds himself on his feet and running again, praying he doesn’t make a sound as he lets himself out of the hospital wing, and then sprinting to the nearest bathroom, his Cloak falling to the floor with a sigh as he rushes in.
He slams into a sink and heaves up into it, vomiting violently, his head spinning uncontrollably, his gut nearly turning itself inside out as he retches on and on, rising onto tip toes with the force of it, his body shuddering, his temples pounding.
He blindly turns on the faucet, washing his mouth with cold water, his other hand clenched desperately on the rim of the sink, huge, wet sobs escaping him as he straightens and stumbles backwards, backing into a wall and sinking slowly to the floor, drawing his knees to his chest and letting out a hoarse wail. The muffled, accusatory screams he’d been blocking out since he’d seen Malfoy in the hospital wing that evening, suddenly burst free of the wall Harry had put up, now deafeningly loud in his head, filling him with icy horror and guilt that burnt like Fiendfyre, all at once.
“God,” he whispers, pulling off his glasses, his face crumpling and the tears beginning to scald their way down his face. “No, god. No no no. Oh, please, god, no.”
He pushes his face into his hands and breaks down completely, his whole body convulsing with his sobbing, guilt burning through his body, filling him up right up to the tips of his hair.
How does one get themselves into something like this? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Is there even a way to right this? How the hell can he make up for this, oh god, please let there be a way to make up for this.
“Please,” Harry pleads hoarsely into his hands. “Malfoy, oh god, I’m so sorry.”
He tells Ron and Hermione. They’d been waiting for him in the Common Room, talking quietly, their faces lined with worry, when he’d stumbled in after dragging himself off the floor of the bathroom and back to Gryffindor Tower, the Cloak falling off him as he’d pushed in through the portrait hole.
Hermione had shot to her feet, practically flying towards him, reaching him just in time to hold him up as he’d nearly hit the floor again. They’d helped him to a chair by the fireplace, the empty Common Room dark and dead silent as he’d spoken, his voice hoarse from crying.
He tells them everything – how he and Malfoy had started and what it had turned into; about what he’d seen at New Year’s and the subsequent showdown. When he gets to the part about McLaggen in the hospital wing, he breaks down once more, crying in quiet, soundless desperation into his own hands as Hermione presses her cheek to his, hugging him tightly, her hands rubbing warm circles on his back as she murmurs soothingly.
Ron looks disturbed as he sits there chewing his lip, waiting until Harry dries his eyes on the back of his hands to say, “Well, at least now all those love bites are explained.”
“Ron!” Hermione whispers fiercely as Harry snorts.
“What, I didn’t say anything?!” Ron immediately flares up.
“I love him,” Harry says abruptly.
None of them speak for a moment.
“Good for you, mate,” Ron finally says, awkwardly. “I... I really hope you fix this, then.”
Hermione looks rather shocked as she stares tenderly at Ron.
“Just go talk to him,” she finally says softly. “Apologise. Tell him everything, and tell him how you feel.”
“How?” Harry croaks. “Hermione, I accused him of cheating on me, when he was actually raped. And he’s been--” He stops short suddenly. He can’t betray Malfoy by telling them about Lestrange. That was something he’d told only him, only Harry.
And he was done betraying Malfoy.
“He tried to kill himself,” he whispers, fresh horror washing over him. “Because of me. Because I didn’t protect him – I promised to protect him, and...”
He can suddenly hear Malfoy’s voice echo in his head, ‘You know nothing.’
“Mate, it’s not all your fault,” Ron hurriedly says. “His friends say he’s been off his rocker for months now, right?” His voice fades away as both Harry and Hermione glare at him in silence.
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy, I mean, he’s still Malfoy, he’s not bound to make this simple for you” Hermione says then, sympathetically. “But you’re going to try, right? You’re not going to simply box away your feelings and let this go like it’s a lost cause... right?”
“’course he’s not going to do that,” Ron says frowning. “He’d never be able to live with himself.” There’s a pause. “Mate?” he adds uncertainly.
“I love him,” Harry whispers again quietly. “I can’t be without him.”
“He’s been discharged.” Hermione slides into her seat next to his and Harry’s spine stiffens.
“Did you see him?”
She shakes her head. “He went straight down to the Slytherin dorms. Pansy told me.”
“I still can’t believe my girlfriend is friends with Pansy Parkinson and my best friend is in love with Draco Malfoy,” Ron grumbles under his breath, poking at his shepherd’s pie.
“How am I supposed to get into the Slytherin Common Room?” Harry asks stonily, pushing his lunch away. “Will Parkinson tell you the password?”
Hermione stares wordlessly at him over her pumpkin juice. “No,” she says slowly. “And you don’t go barging into the Slytherin quarters to speak to Malfoy. You wait until you find a moment alone with him later.”
And so Harry waits. He waits breathlessly for a glimpse of Malfoy but doesn’t get one until dinner, by when Malfoy is already at the Slytherin table when Harry enters.
Harry watches him unblinkingly, drinking in the sight of him, pale and drawn and beautiful as he eats in small bites and keeps his eyes firmly on his plate. When he’s done eating, he gets to his feet and walks out so quickly that by the time Harry springs up and hurries out after him, he’s disappeared down the stairs to the dungeon.
Harry runs down, nearly falling and breaking his neck when he leaps down the final four steps. He doesn’t slow down as he turns into the corridor leading to the Slytherin Common Room and then abruptly stops short as he sees Malfoy up ahead. Malfoy slows down before turning around looking rather startled, his expression darkening when he sees Harry.
“Malfoy,” Harry pants, taking a step towards him. He’s lost weight, and still retains those dark bags under his light grey eyes, his cheekbones sticking out much sharper than usual over his sunken cheeks.
Malfoy quickly takes one step back, his nostrils flaring.
“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly.
“I need to talk to you.” Harry speaks quickly, his words tumbling over one another. He’d known Malfoy would ask him that and he’d decided he’d open with that line.
Now he doesn’t know how to proceed. Malfoy however clenches his hands into tight fists, his eyes completely shuttered.
“Nothing to talk about, Potter,” he says softly. “Kindly fuck off.”
“Please,” Harry says desperately. “I just want to say--”
“You said plenty the other day.” Malfoy is talking tonelessly and that more than anything else is making Harry’s knees tremble. He wants Malfoy to scream and yell, draw his wand and hex Harry, to throw punches and kick him and growl about how big an arsehole Harry is.
“Malfoy, please.” Harry is suddenly reminded of how Malfoy had tried desperately to get Harry to listen to him that day. He has to clench his fists, let his nails dig into his palms, to still the lump steadily rising up his throat.
“No, Potter,” Malfoy says calmly. “We’re done, you and I. Nothing for you or me to say anymore. Leave. Now.”
He turns around and begins to walk away.
“I’m sorry,” Harry blurts out, his voice ringing up and down the damp, freezing cold corridor. “I’m so sorry, Malfoy. Please.” Malfoy pauses, but doesn’t turn back around, simply standing there with his back to Harry, the light from the nearest torch lighting up his fair hair and dancing over the white skin on the back of his long neck.
Harry takes a step forward, the need to touch him almost unbearably powerful. But something tells him that he hasn’t been granted that liberty – not yet.
“I’ll do anything,” he whispers to the back of Malfoy’s head and watches as the boy in front of him literally sags, his sigh loud and pained.
“Anything, Potter?” he asks quietly, still not turning around.
“Anything,” Harry rushes to say. “Name it, Malfoy, and I’ll do it, I promise.”
“Stay away from me,” he says softly, turning his face so that Harry can see his profile, sharp and aristocratic. “I want you to stay away from me, Potter.”
Harry stands there, his heart somewhere near his feet, watching Malfoy’s retreating figure, long and thin and pale, until he disappears into the hole that opens up in the wall at the end of the corridor.
Harry wills himself not to think, not to let himself be filled with the despair that he’d fought so hard to banish out of his system all of last night. He wouldn’t give up so easily – he couldn’t! He had to win Malfoy back, he had to let him know just how important he is to Harry. He cannot imagine his life without Malfoy, and he’d do anything it took to get the git to see that. He has no pride remaining as far as Malfoy is concerned, he’d do anything, he’d follow him anywhere.
He pauses outside the Great Hall, knowing full well that under no circumstances would he be able to down any dinner. So he makes his way up slowly to Gryffindor Tower, Malfoy’s voice echoing incessantly in his head, ‘Stay away from me.’
He blinks stupidly at the Fat Lady while she stares back in bewilderment.
“Password?” she asks, looking worried. “Potter?”
The portrait is pushed open from the inside at that point and Harry can’t help but notice that the Fat Lady looks quite relieved. He stumbles forward unthinkingly and the person getting out knocks into him hard enough to make him flail wildly to catch his balance.
“Shit, wait a second, won’t you,” a deep voice snaps and Harry blinks. “Oh. Oh, I’m sorry, Potter.”
It’s Cormac McLaggen, gesturing courteously for Harry to go in, a small smirk on his troll like face.
Fury unlike anything he’s ever felt suddenly roars to life and something inside Harry snaps.
Cormac McLaggen is found deep in the Forbidden Forest three days later, nearly dead from the cold, his clothes ripped and in tatters, his right leg broken at the knee, seven ribs fractured, his collar bone shattered, his face beaten to a near unrecognisable state, his skull bruised, and all memory of the past six months of his life completely wiped out.
It’s Bane, the centaur, who stumbles upon him and sends out a message to Firenze at the castle. McLaggen’s unconscious body is Levitated quietly into the castle, setting off a fervent buzzing that spreads its way quickly and steadily around until it shapes itself into a rumour about a new Dark Lord lurking in the Forbidden Forest.
Harry is in the library, writing an essay on Shrinking Solutions when it reaches him, and he snorts loudly when he hears two Hufflepuffs whispering about whether Harry Potter would manage to defeat this one as well.
The two sixth years jump in their seats and turn red when they realise that Harry is seated one table away and has heard them. He keeps his eyes firmly on his homework and doesn’t look up even when Hermione speaks.
“Please tell me that there is no way to trace it back to you,” she murmurs quietly, a thin line of worry between her brows.
Ron’s head snaps up. “What?!” he hisses. “Oh, shit, I can’t believe I didn’t put that together,” he suddenly whispers, his eyes glazing over.
“Harry,” Hermione presses.
“There is no way to trace it back to me,” Harry says calmly, dipping his quill into his inkwell and continuing to write, even as renewed satisfaction creeps its way back into him at the memory of the pained grunts and the feel of McLaggen’s face breaking under his fists until it was just pulp he was punching. “I had the Cloak.”
His thigh suddenly grows warm and Harry drops his quill, his breath catching. He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out the lightly glowing Galleon.
“Isn’t that-?” Ron frowns but Harry is already on his feet, and picking up his bag.
“Is it Malfoy?” Hermione whispers hopefully. Harry nods, his heart thudding painfully as he makes his way out, where he finally breaks into a run, the image of Malfoy’s message burnt into his mind.
Harry stands by the bed, leaning his thighs against it, looking out of the window at the setting sun, his heart beating a thunderous tattoo in his chest. He unthinkingly casts a Warming Charm around the room and lets his finger tips graze across the rumpled sheets, trying not to think about the last time he and Malfoy had slept here together, the expression on Malfoy’s face when Harry had told him that he didn’t want to lose him, the calm reassurance Malfoy had offered him.
He hears the door creak open and the quiet murmur as Malfoy locks the door and throws out their usual Silencing and Proximity Charms before there’s silence but for the thudding of Harry’s heart in his ears that he’s sure even Malfoy can hear. With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn around.
Malfoy stands by the door, his usually neat hair sticking up on the sides, his eyes wide and shocked, his mouth slightly open as he pants quietly, his thin chest rising and falling as if he’s run here. Harry curls his toes inside his shoes to stop his feet from carrying him forward and pulling Malfoy to him so he can simply hold him. Maybe forever.
“What did you do?” Malfoy whispers, looking horrified. “Potter, what did you do?”
Harry decides not to insult Malfoy by feigning ignorance. So he simply shrugs, keeping his expression neutral.
“When did you-?” Malfoy breaks off. “How did you find out?”
Malfoy takes one step closer to him, so Harry mirrors the move with a step of his own.
“I came to see you on—I was at the hospital wing that night he--” Harry pauses abruptly when he sees the way Malfoy’s eyes widen even further before they cloud over, turning dark and angry. “Malfoy, I saw him. And I... I couldn’t stop him.”
Malfoy simply stands there, still panting, his hands trembling at his sides.
“You wiped his memory,” he whispers. “You actually wiped his—”
“Seemed like the perfect way to finish it,” Harry replies coldly.
“Potter, even you could get arrested if they find out--” Malfoy starts.
“They won’t,” Harry interrupts softly. “They won’t, Malfoy. Unless you plan to tell them,” he adds, suddenly uncertain. Malfoy’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t speak immediately.
“How much of an idiot are you?” Malfoy hisses finally, taking another step forward. “Such an utterly imbecilic thing to do, Potter.”
Harry shrugs again, taking another step of his own towards Malfoy. They’re still stood several feet apart and the distance makes Harry’s insides ache.
“Why?” Malfoy asks quietly, the dusk light shining on him like a fiery spotlight, making him look almost dangerously beautiful. “Why’d you do it, Potter?”
Harry just looks at him, drinking him in, memorising his face, searching desperately for that little freckle that he knows he won’t be able to see unless he’s standing a mere few inches away from him.
“You know why,” Harry finally answers. Malfoy silently shakes his head, looking away for a moment before his eyes circle back to Harry. “And you know he deserves it.” Harry waits but Malfoy doesn’t say anything as he stands there, looking at Harry through slightly narrowed eyes. “He blackmailed you, he insulted you... He actually dared to touch you,” Harry grits out the last bit, his teeth bared. “And I wish I hadn’t let him live.”
Malfoy’s breath shudders out of him in a long exhale and Harry can see his outline quivering in the flame orange light.
There’s a long stretch of silence during which they simply stand and look at each other, Harry desperately screaming apologies in his head, willing Malfoy to hear them somehow.
“I should hate you,” Malfoy whispers suddenly, taking a step towards Harry.
Harry however can’t bring himself to move, ignoring the sharp, painful twinge in his chest at Malfoy’s words.
“I should hate you for the rest of my life, Potter.” Malfoy continues walking forward until, oh Merlin yes, he’s standing close enough for Harry to be able to spot that little brown dot on his sharp cheekbone. “I should despise you for eternity,” he whispers.
“Well... don’t,” Harry requests beseechingly. Malfoy’s lip curls.
He raises a thin, long fingered hand and in a flash of creamy white skin, he slaps Harry sharply across the face. Cheek stinging, Harry’s head swings around to one side with the force of the slap, but other than that, he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even make a sound.
“I will,” Malfoy spits, fury in his eyes. “I will hate you, Potter.” He slaps Harry again, following it with a rough shove to his chest. “You arrogant bastard!" Bony fingers strike him sharply, repeatedly, sending his glasses skittering to the floor, and Harry just hangs his head and takes it, unable to watch the wetness gathering in Malfoy’s silver eyes. “You didn’t even give me a chance to talk!” His nails dig into Harry’s collar bones as Malfoy grips him by the collar of his robes. “Why shouldn’t I hate you?!” He roughly shakes Harry. “Look at me!” he screams and Harry finally looks helplessly back into Malfoy’s eyes, tears streaming down his own cheeks. Malfoy glares at him, chin trembling, face contorted with fury.
“I’m sorry,” is all Harry can force out, his voice an anguished whisper.
“Of course you are,” Malfoy hisses, sneering at him. “But I don’t care. I don’t care, Potter, because I’m going to learn to hate you again.” His voice breaks and he violently shakes Harry once more. “I’m going to learn to hate you even if it takes me forever. I hate you!” he grits out, his eyes finally brimming over. “You fucking bastard, I hate you,” he repeats, his hands releasing Harry’s robes to suddenly lash out and strike Harry again, all the while screaming, “I hate you, Potter!”
Until he finally collapses against Harry and is lifted off his feet with how tightly Harry grabs him in return.
“Malfoy,” Harry whimpers into his neck, his arms tightening around the shaking form, his tears falling unchecked, moistening Malfoy’s skin. “Oh god, Malfoy. Please, please, I’m so sorry--”
Malfoy’s arms are around his neck, squeezing, his grip tight enough to hurt, and he’s pressing damp kisses along Harry’s neck, his feet hanging a foot off the floor.
“Hate you,” he mumbles, his mouth moving across Harry’s jaw. “Hate you. Hate you.”
Harry kisses that little brown freckle, pressing his mouth over it and groaning into Malfoy’s cheek, kissing over that little dot again and again until Malfoy tips his head back.
And then Harry kisses him, and he has to hurriedly stumble backward so he can lean against the bed, because the feel of Malfoy’s mouth against his, in his, is enough to make his knees buckle.
Malfoy moans, fists tightening painfully in Harry’s hair as he slants his face, pushing his tongue in recklessly, sucking and nipping into the kiss.
“Can’t live--” Harry presses his nose into the crook of Malfoy’s neck and inhales deeply, his eyes fluttering shut at the incredible scent of him. “--without you, Malfoy. Can’t--” he growls as Malfoy kisses him again. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“Yes, you will, because I hate you.” Malfoy hisses as Harry bites and sucks a mouthful of his neck. “Can’t stand you. I hate—oh, Merlin, fuck me already, you piece of shit.”
Harry turns and sits him gently down on the bed, standing between his legs, fumbling with his robes. Malfoy leans forward and buries his face in Harry’s hair, and Harry can hear him breathing in deeply, his hands creeping into the mess of tangled black.
“Malfoy.” Harry pulls back and speaks against his mouth, moaning at the feel of Malfoy’s fingers carding through his hair. They kiss again, urgent and needy, Malfoy finally pulling away with a gasp.
“Potter." he grabs Harry’s arse, pulling him in towards himself so that their rapidly hardening cocks rub together in a way that has them both whining. “Off,” he snaps, tugging at fistfuls of Harry’s clothes.
Harry makes quick work of his clothes, willing his hands to stop shaking. He tugs off Malfoy’s robes, managing to undo only a few of his shirt buttons before impatiently pulling it up over his head, leaving his hair on end. He leans forward, using his weight to push Malfoy onto his back as he closes his mouth over one rosy nipple, blowing gently over the wetness, making Malfoy arch up into his mouth for more.
He lingers for a few more seconds, laving and sucking at the sensitive buds, before pulling back and peeling off Malfoy’s pants, his trousers coming along with it. Both their shoes and socks follow and then Harry is hooking one arm under Malfoy’s back and turning him so his head is on the pillows before climbing on, knees bracketing the slim, fair hips as he covers Malfoy’s body with his own, claiming his mouth once more.
“In me, in me,” Malfoy is murmuring fervently. “Come on, get in me.” He’s pressing wet kisses wherever he can, throwing his head from side to side as Harry trails his mouth down his body placing hot, sucking kisses along his torso.
“Wait,” Harry begs him, wanting desperately to map his body again, to feel the familiar skin under his hands, to taste every inch of him. “Let me touch you.”
“Not now,” Malfoy pants, and then cries out piercingly when Harry swallows his cock, sucking sharply, licking off the pre-come hungrily.
Malfoy thrashes and Harry hurriedly pulls off, pushing his legs apart, pressing his knees next to his hips on the bed and moving his mouth down to suckle at his urgently fluttering opening.
“Fuck!” Malfoy bucks into his mouth. “Oh, Merlin, oh god!”
Harry’s world is reduced to the tiny, pink, delicious muscle of Malfoy’s arsehole. He licks his way in quickly, Malfoy opening up willingly for him as he pulls him open with his lips and tongue, loosening him up methodically.
“I won’t last, Potter,” Malfoy is warning him, his voice sounding from afar. “I’m too close, I won’t last.”
Head swimming, Harry straightens up, breathing loudly, and stares down at the quivering, shaking mess of a boy before him.
The light from outside is fast fading as Harry, his eyes never leaving Malfoy’s, rubs the pad of his thumb against the tips of his first two fingers. Suddenly, there’s lube, and he quickly fingers some into Malfoy, coating his insides, making him arch off the bed, head thrown back, face crumpled with pleasure.
“Just kill me, why don’t you,” Malfoy chokes out as Harry coats his own cock and lines himself up.
“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice is quiet and the grey eyes instantly snap to his. He presses forward, not blinking, not breathing, and it’s perfection – the feel of Malfoy’s wet heat eagerly welcoming him, clutching at him, the way Malfoy’s legs automatically wrap around him, ankles locking firmly, the long fingers pressing into his back, pulling him closer – it’s all just perfect.
Malfoy’s mouth falls open as Harry bottoms out, his balls pressed against Malfoy’s arse, but his eyes remain wide open and fixed on Harry’s.
“Don’t hate me,” Harry murmurs, gently brushing the blond fringe out of the grey eyes, pressing his mouth to Malfoy’s forehead. “Don’t leave me.”
“Fuck me,” Malfoy replies shortly, bucking up and making Harry hiss.
Harry begins to move, pumping consistently, his forehead pressed to Malfoy’s, their breath mingling warmly. Malfoy is moaning loudly, gripping Harry’s arse and pulling, as if he were afraid that Harry would stop moving.
He doesn’t; he thrusts steadily, powerfully, groaning at the heat coiling in his belly, watching unblinkingly as Malfoy comes apart completely under him.
“Come on, Potter,” he urges. “Harder.” Harry pulls out and rams into him as he lets out a sharp cry. “More!”
Losing what precious control he’d held on to, Harry begins slamming in and out of him, the headboard rattling, and their cries echoing around the tiny chamber. Malfoy’s heels press into the small of his back and his blunt nails scrabble desperately over his sweaty back, his eyes finally fluttering shut, his back arching off the bed.
Malfoy comes beautifully and the very sight is enough to steal the breath right out of Harry’s lungs. He watches, his hips still pumping furiously, as Malfoy shudders and convulses, letting out a tremulous moan as Harry continues pounding his prostate, his come warm and slippery between them.
His own orgasm brings on a sudden, fresh wave of tears and he pushes his face into the soft crook of Malfoy’s neck and shoulder, crying quietly as he empties himself into him, shaking from the intensity of his climax, grateful for the way Malfoy holds him close and tight.
“Ssshhh,” Malfoy soothes as Harry’s arms give away and his breath comes out in muffled sobs. “Potter... It’s alright. Ssshhh.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?!” he asks harshly. “Why wouldn’t you just fucking tell me?!”
“Who’re you, my mother?” Malfoy says softly, teasingly.
“You tried to kill yourself!” Harry’s voice rises hysterically as he pulls back and grabs wildly for Malfoy's hand. He turns it over, pressing trembling lips to the bony inside of his wrist, emitting a small, whimper of a sob when he sees the new, white, recently healed scar across the green veins.
Malfoy clears his throat uncomfortably, his fingers pushing into the nest of black hair as Harry licks the scar tenderly. “I’ll admit, I don’t make the best decisions when I’ve consumed nothing but Firewhiskey for two days straight.” A pause. “It was cowardly, and I’m not proud of it.” Harry's breath shivers against his wrist as he kisses it again, more tears leaking out of the green eyes. "Potter..." Malfoy says gently, lightly flicking away a tear with the pad of his thumb, fingers lovingly cupping his cheek.
And Harry cries harder, his arms wrapping themselves around Malfoy’s soft body as he sobs huge, heartbreaking sobs, his forehead resting on Malfoy's shoulder.
“Come now,” Malfoy whispers, running his hands over Harry’s back, his legs staying firmly wrapped around him. “Don’t be an idiot, Potter. It’s alright.” He presses kisses into Harry’s wet cheek, combing his hands through his hair, gently wiping his tears away with the heels of his hands. “Do stop crying, Potter,” he murmurs, lifting his head to press a kiss onto his mouth.
Harry holds his head up with one hand and kisses him back, deep and long and hard, until Malfoy is panting and pressing up into him. They break apart for air and Harry simply holds him, sniffling quietly into his neck, crushing his slight body against his own.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. Malfoy sighs under him.
“I know, Potter,” he replies softly.
“Don’t hate me,” Harry pleads. “I’m sorry... Please. Don’t hate me.” He waits but Malfoy doesn’t respond. “Malfoy,” he whispers.
“I don’t,” comes the quiet answer, finally. “I can’t.”
Something finally unclenches inside Harry, after days, making him breathe out a relieved sigh. He begins pressing hard, forceful kisses onto Malfoy’s neck, his rough movements making Malfoy’s head tip this way and that, Malfoy moaning under him, his involuntary clenching causing Harry’s cock to stir inside him.
He rocks his hips forward and Malfoy gasps quietly, letting his head fall back, begging silently for more of the hard, biting kisses. Harry delivers, gnashing his teeth against the flushed, sweaty skin, licking and sucking, nibbling at sharp collar bones, pulling hardened nipples into his mouth, growling into his skin and urgently rocking his cock back into hardness within seconds.
“Nobody else is ever going to touch you again,” he promises fiercely. “I’ll kill the next one, I swear to God.”
Malfoy gasps. “Potter! Oh, Merlin.” He grabs Harry’s hair roughly, half sitting up in his urgency to kiss him. “Say more things like that.”
“You’re mine,” Harry says immediately, pushes him back down and kisses him again. “Never letting you go again.” He bites along Malfoy’s clenched jaw. “Mine.”
“Yours,” Malfoy assents fervently, nipping his earlobe. “You fucking wanker. All yours, only yours. Who else’s would I be?!”
“I’ll kill them all,” Harry hisses into his shoulder, and Malfoy keens softly. “Every last one.”
“Promise me,” he implores. “I swear I’ll fucking murder you in your sleep, Potter--”
“I’ll kill them all,” Harry grits through bared teeth. “I promise I’ll die before I let anything happen to you again. I promise, I fucking promise.”
“Don’t die.” Malfoy sinks his teeth into the side of his neck. “You’re no use to me dead.”
Harry laughs quietly, shuddering at the way Malfoy sucks at his neck. Pulling back he, squints at Malfoy in the thickening darkness, at the way the grey eyes glimmer up at him seriously.
“The next time you make assumptions about me, or you doubt me,” he says quietly. “I’ll saw your cock off with a blunt, rusted knife, Potter.”
“I actually believe that,” Harry says solemnly.
“Good.” Malfoy nods. Harry kisses him in reply and doesn’t stop until his hips have started moving on their own accord, thrusting lightly into Malfoy.
He wishes he had more words to convince Malfoy, wishes he could somehow delve into his head and read his thoughts and pick out each doubt in there and plant more promises. He presses down, wanting to be as close to Malfoy as humanly possible, even though they’re wound around each other as tightly as they are. It’s not enough.
Malfoy is whimpering under Harry now, hands clutching helplessly at the headboard behind him, arching and pushing and pressing into Harry, his cock fully hard once more between their bodies.
It’s dark now and neither bothers to light his wand, lost in each other, determinedly rebuilding what had broken, desperately kissing shut wounds and sealing promises.
They move together, slowly, unhurried, kissing loudly, hands and mouths always seeking, searching, caressing. Harry doesn’t lift his mouth off Malfoy for a single moment, his arms trapping Malfoy tightly. It’s not enough.
Harry suddenly finds he can’t be close enough to Malfoy, even as he roughly crushes their bodies together, even as he lets Malfoy press their cheeks together, murmuring quietly into his hair, even as he urgently runs his hands over whichever part of Malfoy he can reach. It’s not enough.
He brings Malfoy’s knees over his shoulders and slides his arms under Malfoy’s back, bending him so that he can wrap his body around as much of Malfoy as he can. Malfoy welcomes it, sighing blissfully into Harry’s shoulder, moulding himself to fit against him as Harry nudges his head back for access to his neck. Malfoy moans, back bowing, pressing himself even closer, impossibly close. It’s not enough.
Harry pulls his mouth off the angry love bite he had been steadily biting bigger, and captures Malfoy’s swollen mouth in a hungry, unrelenting kiss that soon has Malfoy begging in wordless desperation for mercy, not stopping even as Malfoy goes limp, finally pulling away from his mouth to let him gasp in a loud breath, his whole body flushed pink, his hands knotted in Harry’s hair, pulling his head back down for more. It’s not enough.
It isn’t enough but Harry is already so close, and Malfoy is biting painfully at his lips and thrashing up into him and Harry loses it.
He comes with a hoarse groan, bending Malfoy’s body easily, his hips moving incessantly, one hand quickly reaching down to pull vigorously at Malfoy’s cock until he's screaming his climax, twisting under him as he comes, mouth blindly seeking Harry’s.
They stay in pressed together in a tangled heap of limbs until their breathing returns to normal. When Malfoy stirs weakly, Harry pulls out and shifts the boneless body under him so that they’re facing each other. He pulls Malfoy’s legs between his own, bringing his arms around the thin body and pressing it to himself, his lips stuck firmly to the little brown freckle, protectively cradling him.
“Missed this,” he mumbles, grazing his teeth over the dot.
“You’re weird about that freckle, Potter.”
“It’s gorgeous,” Harry insists, kissing it again. “Missed you,” he adds in a murmur.
Malfoy sighs, pushing his face under Harry’s chin and burrowing, his sharp nose brushing Harry’s throat, his hair tickling Harry’s nose, his fingers interlaced and locked over Harry’s back, his tongue darting out to lick his neck, making Harry smile and bury his face in the sweet smelling hair.
“What dyu mean, why?!”
“Why are you asking me this, Potter?”
“Why the hell not, Malfoy?”
“I don’t know, I’m asking you.”
“Because...” Harry struggles for words in his indignation. “Because it makes sense!”
Malfor raises an eyebrow, taking off his reading glasses and staring down his nose at Harry. “You’re asking because... it’s logical?”
“No! I mean, yes. But also because...”
“It’s what people who love and respect each other, and have been together for so long, do!”
“Following the flock, eh, Potter?”
“For heaven’s sake, Malfoy!”
“Well, if you’re going to get all shrill and screechy.” Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Fine.”
“Say it properly, please,” Harry requests irritably. Malfoy sighs.
“Yes, I will marry you, Potter.” A beat of silence.
“Really?” Harry’s eyes light up.
“Put that ring on my finger before I change my mind.”
“Do you like it?”
“Oh, it’s rather lovely, Potter. Now kiss me, please.”
Harry stands up and does so, soundly and deeply.
“Celebratory tea?” he asks, pulling back.
“Yes, please.” Malfoy picks up his book again as Harry heads towards the kitchen, but pauses with his glasses hovering mid air. “Did you say something about ‘love’, Potter?” he asks quietly.
Harry turns, frowning thoughtfully. “Oh yeah, I might’ve.”
“Have we ever said ‘love’ before?”
“I really doubt it.”
“Eleven years, and not a single time?”
“Hmm.” Another pause. “Well, do hurry up and say it, you clod.”
“I love you, Malfoy.”
“I love you too, Potter.” He returns Harry’s soft, besotted grin. “Am I really going to have to ask you to kiss me again?” Harry hurries back to him. “Honestly,” Malfoy shakes his head as he opens his mouth to Harry’s tongue.
“I thought we’re... having tea,” Harry pants, half on top of Malfoy on the sofa, his fly being undone with swift fingers.
“Sex first, tea after.”
“I do love you.”
“I know, Potter. I love you too.”