hd_hols (hd_hols) wrote in hd_holidays,
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Happy H/D Holidays, accioscar!

Author: regasssa
Recipient: accioscar
Title: Chimaera
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, tiniest mention of Pansy/Neville
Summary: It's about time Harry returned Draco's wand, but he's taking his sweet time over it.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Slight filth, bad language, Draco wearing glasses, fingering, sex in an insensible place
Epilogue compliant? DH compliant. Epilogue compliant if you really feel like it.
Word Count: 6085
Author's Notes: I tried to include a good handful of your prompts, and was really intrigued by more of them than I could actually fit in. Betaed by S. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.


If Draco was generous, he might have said that Potter was preoccupied. He wasn't. Harry Potter was most certainly avoiding him on purpose, and if he had received Draco's owls, Draco didn't know about it. That the owls always came back, and always without a reply, only served to make him more suspicious. What possible use did Potter have for his wand, after all? Maybe, Draco thought, it was simply laziness. It was a possibility. Then again, Potter could simply be protecting his public image by not communicating with a known Death Eater. It wasn't a good enough excuse.

If it wasn't for his house arrest, Draco would have hunted Potter down and strangled him.

He sat back, folding and unfolding one corner of the sheet of parchment that he'd spread out in front of him. Writing was his only contact with the outside world, and the outside world wasn't writing back.

Pansy had recently written him a long and eloquent owl explaining why she was being 'seen in public' with Neville Longbottom, according to the Daily Prophet. It had, she said, a lot to do with her parents' incarceration, and Longbottom's pureblood status. Draco's status, she coldly remarked, was simply no good to her any more. There had been no more letters from her after his subsequent howler full of dragon dung, but he found a certain amount of comfort in knowing that it would have exploded all over her upon arrival. And hopefully Longbottom, too.

Goyle had stopped writing too, which led Draco to believe that he'd gone on the run. The only mail he now received all came from his father in Azkaban, and rambled on and on about how much responsibility Draco had to the household now, and how he must alone salvage the Malfoy name. The letters contained thousands of instructions, contacts and suggestions, along with numerous orders on how to 'keep' his mother. Most troubling, he realised, were the lists of pureblood families with eligible daughters, which his father seemed to have memorised by heart. He had almost two dozen pages of parchment alone explaining the advantages and disadvantages in marrying each of the bachelorettes; none of which, he suspected, would be interested in marrying a Death Eater anyway, so what was the point?

"You must find a wife," his mother had told him, when he'd sought her company one evening. "If you do not marry, you will not inherit."

Draco had sat up a little straighter. "Not inherit?"

"It was a stipulation we put into our bond. After all the bloodtraitors there have been in our family...but you will marry, won't you, Draco? How will you produce an heir if you do not marry?"

He had decided to say nothing; it wasn't worth disillusioning his mother of his aspirations for family. Instead he had turned back to the fire and watched the flames leaping and dancing in the hearth.

Draco stared at those same flames now, watched the ever changing patterns as they wound like serpents from the embers. When Draco closed his eyes he could almost remember the fire at the school, but so often now he thought that he was simply imagining it. He remembered being frightened, but the rest of it was no more than a blur.
Maybe today he wouldn't write. Maybe for once he'd just go to bed early and try again in the morning. The dreamless sleep potion made the early night easier to bear; kept the nightmares of years underneath Voldemort's command buried deep in his subconscious where they belonged.


- * - * - * -

"Master Malfoy, Sir! You has got to be getting up! Minty will be having her eyes pecked out by peacocks if you is not waking up!"

Draco waved one of his arms irritably, smacking the house elf on the end of her bulbuous nose, then groaning as he sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "What is it?" he asked, sourly. "I don't like being woken up."

"Please do not be punishing Minty! Mistress Malfoy demands it! Master and Mistress Malfoy is having a visitor! Harry Potter, Sir!"

"Potter's here?" Draco asked, suddenly quite lucid. He looked sharply down at the house elf, who had been wringing her ears but stopped instantly the moment he looked at her.

"Harry Potter is indeed here, in Master's house. Minty would have never have believed it, Sir, if she hadn't seen it for herself!"

"Enough," Draco snapped, sensing anarchy. "Go back to mother and tell her that I will be down presently."

When the house elf was gone, Draco turned his attention to his wardrobe, searching for something that looked appropriate. Potter. Potter was here. In his house. Intruding. Should he look frightening or lordly? Welcoming or scholarly? In the end, Draco chose something as simple as possible; as close to those robes that only last year he had been wearing to school, then turned to face the full length mirror as he pulled them over his shoulders. He looked awful. His hair was a mess, but that wasn't truly the worst of it -- no, there were dark lines under his eyes, and his whole expression was one of being tightly wound, as though the skin of his face had been stretched over the bones.

From his dressing cabinet Draco fetched something to alleviate the issue: a pair of thin framed half moon glasses, which he set very carefully on the bridge of his nose, just in the right place to conceal the darkness in his eyes. Apart from that, they had no purpose at all, but Potter wouldn't know that. They were simply to be used as Potter would use his invisibility cloak, or a noblewoman might use a fan to conceal parts of her face.

After dragging the tortoiseshell comb through his hair, Draco descended the stairs to find Potter pacing the drawing room, his mother sitting as eloquently as possible by the fireplace with her hands folded across her lap. It was obvious that she had been trying to make polite conversation, but that Potter had ignored her, by the sharp look she gave Draco as he entered, and the impatient one he received from Potter when he pivoted to face him.

"About time, Malfoy!"

Draco lifted his chin just slightly. "That would be Mister Malfoy to you, Potter."

"Then aren't you forgetting something, Mister Malfoy?"

"I do not believe so," Draco answered, sharply. It felt as though he'd suddenly been filled with an energy he hadn't possessed before. Where days had been passing with exhausting tempo, slowly drawing him into an endless tedium, he suddenly felt alive again. Within only a few seconds, Potter had reminded him of everything he had been losing his grip on over the last few months.

His mother, however, looked horrified. "Draco," she admonished. "That is no way to speak to our guest!"

"Oh, I don't think I quite qualify as a guest," Harry answered, his eyes on Draco. "Guests are invited."

Draco narrowed his eyes, glancing toward his mother. "If you don't mind, Potter and I would like to speak alone."

Narcissa seemed almost too pleased to escape, leaving Draco to turn toward Harry once more.

"First of all, what's with the glasses, Malfoy?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Potter."

"Fine. Then why the hell didn't you write to me yesterday? Answer me that!"

Now Draco stared at Potter, pursing his lips together so that his expression didn't give anything else away. "What do you mean? You never write back."

"No," Potter admitted, and now he wasn't looking at Draco any more. His eyes had drifted to one of the tapestries on the wall, but Draco's did not. He took advantage of the moment by scrutinising Potter more closely. "But," Potter went on, "I was surprised not to get one."

"Worried about me?"

"No," and now Potter's expression became defensive as his tone, "I was suspicious."

Snorting, Draco moved to the lounge chair and sat on the edge of it. "Of course you were."

"Of course I was," Potter snarled. "You're a Death Eater, Malfoy."

"And you saved me. What does that make you?"

For the first time since he'd arrived, Potter seemed completely dumbstruck. He stared at Draco until eventually he seemed to force himself to look away. Now Draco was allowed to really look at Potter, to study the lines in his face that had not been there the last time they'd seen each other, the way his green eyes seemed dull even in the bright light from the windows, the way his hands were tightly closed into fists, the scars on one set of knuckles more visible than ever.

"I ought to be going."

"Not so fast." Draco moved to his feet fluidly, crossing the room toward Potter who, for a moment, seemed something between excited and frightened, and took a half step back. His breath caught in his throat and a blush crossed his cheeks. Draco hesitated; what did Potter think he was going to do, exactly? He coughed, then spoke again, "I want my wand back."

"Oh," Potter said. "Oh, your wand. Well that's..."

"That's what?" Draco hissed.

"Going to be a bit tricky," Potter answered. "You see...that is...theministryconfiscatedit."

"What?!"

Potter seemed to go rigid, as though someone had stuck a broomstick to his spine, and said again "The Ministry confiscated it. For um...their museum."

"Museum?!" Draco hissed, disbelieving.

"It killed Voldemort," Potter snapped, as though that explained everything.

"Did it really? Do I look like I particularly care?!" Draco stepped forward, his chest heaving dramatically. He imagined his wand, locked forever in a glass case. "I want it back."

"What if I got you a new one?" Potter asked, nervously. "You're not exactly in um...the position to make demands."

"And how exactly are you supposed to do that?" Draco asked, itching to curse Potter but having no wand with which to do so. "I cannot leave this house; nor are you qualified to choose a wand for me."

"I think...I think I might be able to call in a favour," Harry answered. "I mean...he won't want to come back here himself. Not...after everything..."

Draco remembered Ollivander in the dungeons, leant against the cold wall, silent. Sometimes Draco had wondered whether he'd simply died down there... No, he wouldn't want to come back. And Draco wasn't sure he'd be best pleased to see him in his shop, either.

"You have a week, Potter."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll set a house elf on you," Draco growled.

When he slept that night, Draco's potion didn't work quite as well as it usually did. Caught in his mind was that vision of Potter standing in front of him, wide eyed, flushed, frightened. If it wasn't confusing enough, his own reaction upon waking was even more bewildering.


- * - * - * -


Harry didn't quite seem eager to return. He left his return visit to the very last evening, arriving at half past eight when Draco was already dressed in his pyjamas and curled up by the fire with quill and parchment with which to write him another rude letter. The startled House Elf that escorted the late visitor in without warning received a vicious glare that promised punishment, as Draco leapt cleanly to his feet, knocking ink everywhere. The house elf scurried to clean it up, but Draco dismissed it furiously, turning on Potter.

"What time do you call this?"

"Breakfast?" Harry asked, innocently, before crossing the room, a huge roll of wool twill under one arm. "You should be thanking me. Good evening, Mister Potter. How are you? Please take a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

"I don't need your opinion on my manners, Potter."

"What manners?" Harry countered, smirking. "Alright. Come here. I brought some wands."

Right in the middle of the rug in front of the fire, Harry stopped, dropped to the floor and unrolled the twill he'd brought with him, revealing a number of Ollivander's wands all sewn into pockets.

"On the carpet?" Draco asked, disbelieving.

"Afraid to get down on your knees, Malfoy? It's not like the floor's dirty."

Muttering to himself, Draco sank down on the floor beside Potter, reaching for the first wand in the line. Potter's hand snapped down on the back of his own, making him recoil.

"What was that for?"

"I don't trust you, Malfoy. I'll give you the wand, you try it, then you give it back. Got it?"

"And what happens when I find the right one? Will you confiscate it?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Malfoy. Just..." Harry frowned and pulled the first wand out, pushing it toward Malfoy as he withdrew his own.

Draco glanced toward Harry, and then, at wand point, began to work through the wands in front of him. None of them quite felt the way his first wand had felt. None, except, when he reached over accidentally and tried to take the wrong wand, when his hand closed around the tip of Potter's, and pure power pulsed through him. Their eyes had met for a moment before Draco had pulled away, and both blushing furiously, had turned back to the task at hand.

When all the wands had been checked, Draco sighed and sat back, looking up at the ceiling. "That's it, then. I'm never going to find a wand like that one."

"You give up pretty easily, Malfoy. These are all unicorn hair wands, Ollivander says, like the one you had before. But he says that you might need something else now. He said that your magic changed."

Draco glanced toward the wands as Harry began to fold them up. Unicorn hair...unicorns were revered for their purity of spirit, for their longevity, and their wisdom. Had Draco lost that innocence that he had once had? Had his magic changed? And if so, why?

"I'll come back next week," Harry said, standing up.

"You'll come back Monday, Potter. I'm not waiting another week for you to turn up."

"What?" Harry asked, scowling, "You think I like coming back here? To this hell hole?"

"This hell hole," Draco hissed, dangerously, "is my house. I'm not responsible for what happened to you, and I fail to see how I should be punished for it."

Harry glared back at him for a few seconds, and Draco thought that perhaps he had gone too far. Instead, Harry nodded, and then said, "I'm not at all intending to apologise for dropping that chandelier on you, if that's what you think."

Now it was Draco's turn to glare, but Potter was already out the door.


- * - * - * -


Harry came back on Monday, just like he'd promised, dropping to the floor without asking for permission as soon as the house elf escorted him in. Without a word, Draco joined him, going through the wands once more, impatiently.

Half way through, Harry folded the material up. "No more," he said. "Not until you answer some of my questions."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me just fine, Malfoy."

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh. Really! Potter was so...exasperating! "Get on with it, then."

Harry looked like he was itching to ask something, and frankly it was irritating having him sitting there and fidgeting. Finally, when he thought he might not be able to take it any longer, Harry finally spoke. "Why did you change your mind?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Potter," Draco snapped, fiercely. "Be more specific."

"After you tried to stop us. When Crabbe and Goyle..."

Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't change my mind."

"You're such a liar," Harry snapped.

"No, Potter. I am not. I did not change my mind after I tried to stop you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"

"It means," Draco growled, "that you're asking the wrong questions, Potter. Can we get on with this?"

"And that's even worse!" Harry barked, and now he was standing up, his hands parked on his hips. "What's the right question?"

"Must we do this now?" he hissed in reply, glancing up at the Gryffindor only briefly. He didn't dare look at him for too long, in case he betrayed anything.

"Yes," Harry answered, sharply. He still held his position, looking more and more like a pouting schoolgirl the longer Draco looked at him.

"Fine," Draco acquiesced. "Let's do it now. As you wish." He stood up, fixing a piercing glare on Harry. "If you're going to be so arrogant as to think..."

"Arrogant?!" came the scandalised interruption. "I'm not the arrogant one!"

The fire was a far more acceptable thing to glare daggers at than Potter, Draco decided, wheeling towards it. "Of course," he hissed, barely keeping his temper. "I'm the arrogant one."

"Damn right!"

Deciding not to even respond to that, Draco merely folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Potter to go on talking as he inevitably would. Oddly, the right question came. "When did you change your mind then?" If Potter didn't sound so exasperated, Draco might have credited him with some brains after all.

"My aunt taught me Occlumency in the holidays after fifth year. It was about that time." Draco decided not to mention what he'd been hiding; the longing for normal that had been denied to him, the imaginings of a life where he wasn't in Slytherin. He'd only discovered those feelings when he'd been at risk of having them ripped out of him, and then he'd spent the next few months trying his hardest to bury them away where they couldn't be found.

It hadn't taken long for things to begin to crumble around him...but it was a long time before the change of heart that Potter had witnessed. No -- that was only when he'd been capable of admitting it to himself.

"That's it?" Harry snapped. "That's all the explanation you have for me?"

"I don't have to explain anything to you, Potter. What part of that don't you understand?"

"And I don't have to be here, helping you choose a new wand."

Harry had almost reached the door when Draco managed to stop him, a burst of something static jumping between them as Draco's hand snapped down on the other's wrist. His reaction seemed instinctive, charged, and Draco gasped as his back found the wall, Potter's whole weight pushed into the palms that held him in place.

Draco caught his breath, unnerved by Potter's ferocity and his closeness, but more shocked at his body's reaction to that stimulus. It was thrilling...arousing. Harry stared, seemingly rendered speechless, and then, as though he'd finally worked out what he'd done, he peeled back, eyes flicking away divertingly. He had to wonder whether Potter was aroused too. That would explain the flush of embarrassment.

"I'll...come back," Harry said, but Draco moved sidewards, blocking the doorway.

"You won't come back if I let you go now, Potter. We're going to finish this."

"I don't want to argue with you any longer..." Harry protested.

"Who said anything about arguing? I want to choose a wand."

"Tough luck," Harry spat, vitriolic in his defence.


* - * - * - *


Getting Potter to come back again proved far more difficult than Draco might have thought. It ended up involving blackmail and several near-death experiences for the Malfoy post-owls. The eventual result was a rather aggravated looking Potter arriving on a windy Thursday evening, the by now familiar roll of twill tucked under his arm.

This time, Draco was ready for him.

"Come in, Potter."

"Come in," Harry mimicked, his lips pursing together in such a way that Draco had to bite his tongue to stop from laughing.

The study was just as he liked it; the fire burned high, the flames licking at the stone hearth in an effort to escape - only just restrained. The only other source of light was a single candle which now burned alone on the table beside Draco's abandoned book. The firelight reflected off every wooden surface in the room, giving the objects a warmth of their own.

"You're up to something."

Draco looked up, surprised. "Are you always this suspicious?"

"Of you?" Harry snorted instead of answering, and went over to kneel on the carpet, unrolling the twill with an impatient tug. "Let's get on with this."

"Why're you in such a hurry? Do you want something to drink?"

"No," and now Draco knew he was at the end of his tether, "I just want you to choose a wand so I can get out of here."

"I see."

Taking an inordinately long time to pour himself a glass of elf made wine, Draco contemplated how he would extend Potter's torturous stay. It was nice to have company - nice to feel the way that Potter made him feel; alive. He returned to his chair, rather than heading to the carpet to examine the wands.

"What are you doing?"

"Having a drink, Potter. Just because you didn't want one doesn't mean that I shouldn't enjoy mine."

"I'm going."

"You're not."

For a moment Potter looked like he might leave anyway, but then he seemed to see sense and settled down to glare at Draco instead.

The silence stretched on, and then Draco conceded, joining Potter on the rug. "Shall we start from where we were last time?" he asked, reaching for a wand half way along the set.

"There's no point," Harry said. "Ollivander changed them. He thinks this might be a better selection."

"Fine. What's so different about these ones?"

"They're all...well they're not the usual stuff. Dragonheart strings and unicorn hairs...we've tried all that."

"So...?"

"These are...all kind of odd things. Troll hair and phoenix feather -- stuff like that."

Frowning, Draco examined the wands, the other looking fiercely down at him as though expecting him to simply seize a wand and attack. When he picked up one of the wands, Potter visibly twitched.

"If you can't stop doing that, Potter, I will attack you."

Harry folded his hands into his lap, which was enough for Draco. He reached for the next wand, and then the next, and then he felt it, like something growing up his arm. It felt as though he had plunged his hands into a bath of warm water, the warmth sinking into the skin, prickling further up his arm. He couldn't let go, curled his fingers around the handle of the wand to hold it more firmly, fitting perfectly into the palm of his hand as though it belonged there.

"This is the one."

"You should put it down."

"But this is the one."

"I'm telling you to put down the wand, Malfoy. I mean it." Draco looked up, surprised to see Potter's wand pointing down at him. "I don't trust you."

Draco turned, just far enough to be able to look Harry in the eye comfortably, and then he raised his wand. "I don't care whether you trust me or not, Potter. I have as much right to this wand as you do. Some might say I have more."

"This isn't a game, Malfoy."

"And I'm not playing." Draco stood up, and still he met no retaliation. If Potter had never meant for him to have a wand he wouldn't have been bringing them, but there was still that hint of mistrust -- something in Harry's eyes that remembered the last few times that Draco had raised a wand toward him. "Try it," he pressed, trying to get a reaction.

He didn't expect Potter to lower his wand and physically push him back, stepping over him, his eyes glittering with menace. His shock at this action was nothing to the thrill that pulsed through him at the possibilities of the position.

"Is there a problem?"

Draco licked his lips, contemplating the answer.

"I see," Harry answered, and he knelt down.

"Potter...if my mother walked in now..."

"It'd be perfect."

"What?!" Draco tried to sit up, but Harry had put his wand away in order to put both hands on his chest. "Potter..." he tried, "Whatever you're up to, it has to stop. Now." Even if he was quickly realising that he didn't want it to stop. This was madness! "A few minutes ago you wanted to kill me!"

"I never stopped wanting to kill you, Malfoy."

"Potter...you don't realise what'll happen..." Draco was becoming anxious; hands were working down his chest, undoing the buttons of his robes carelessly. He could lose everything! Couldn't Potter understand that? His name, his inheritance! "Stop," he ordered.

"I don't think that's what you want."

"F...Merlin...Potter stop." His robes were being dragged down over his shoulders, nails raking across his skin in the process, leaving wicked raised scratches behind them.

"If you're so worried about being caught, you ought to be quieter."

"You have to stop this."

"I told you that it would be better if I didn't come back. Now you know why, Malfoy. And I know you want it. I've seen that look before -- the one you're wearing -- I've glimpsed it in the mirror, once or twice. You need this."

"Potter..."

It was Draco's last protest, because Harry's lips brushed against his chest and it was hard to deny the moan that accompanied the sensation.

For a few seconds, Draco thought that it would end there. Harry would stand up and laugh at him for being so pathetic, and then he would leave. It didn't quite turn out that way. Instead the kisses moved further down, and desperate fingers worked the clothing down further from his hips.

"Still want me to stop?" Harry panted.

"This is a bad idea," Draco whispered, but he wasn't sure if he cared quite so much any more. The rug felt rough and scratchy against his back, and Potter's skin felt hot and silky and wonderful. The rich smell of woodsmoke and soap assaulted him, and that combined with the flicker of firelight on Potter's face...his skin. He needed to see more of it. "Take off your clothes."

"That's more like it."

Draco was more than a little surprised when Potter complied. He pulled away his clothing as though he had been waiting impatiently for this moment since the first time they'd been in the same room together. He did look stunning in the firelight, Draco decided, his scars marked with glistening gold. He wondered whether he looked like that to Potter...like a piece of art that just happened to be edible. Somehow he doubted it; the scar that crossed his chest was nowhere near as beautiful as the marks around Potter's throat.

Harry's eyes had drifted to another scar; this one on Draco's left forearm. Where the Dark Mark had once been there was now a dirty great scar burned deep into the skin. But rather than being repulsed as Draco expected, Harry leant down and pressed a kiss to it; an action that sent more than just a shiver down Draco's spine.

"You like that?" Harry asked, sitting back slightly. "That's weird. You're weird." He still didn't move away -- instead he licked the scar, making Draco writhe underneath him. There was nothing for it...

"For..." No. No point speaking. Draco decided to illustrate his point instead, putting all of his strength into rolling Potter onto his back on the itchy rug, pushing him down firmly. "Enough. You don't understand anything, do you, Potter?"

"If I don't understand, you'd better..."

"Teach you a lesson," Draco finished, fearlessly.

Draco silenced Harry's laugh with a bite to his lips; desperation taking control. He felt like he was on fire -- back in that room -- and Harry was burning him wherever they touched. He wanted to be burned, and he would be if this continued; there was no coming back from it. But Potter had started this, and he wasn't going to get away without getting as good as he'd given.

"What're you doing?"

Glancing up from where he was fighting with Potter's remaining clothing, Draco snorted. "What does it look like? How do these things come off?"

With a broken giggle, Harry reached down between them, undoing his fly for a perplexed Draco. "Too Muggle for you, or too manly?"

"Shut up, Potter."

Draco felt a frightening sort of thrill at getting the other naked. Harry bloody Potter, naked on the floor, and anyone could walk through that door. His head was spinning off his shoulders and it was hard to imagine this ever making sense, even in retrospect. It was urgent, needy... He forced himself to touch Harry before he lost his nerve, wrapped his fingers around his cock and squeezed, firmly, letting the weight of it settle against his palm. And the result? A thrilling moan wrought from the other man's throat. It was like playing a musical instrument, only it was so intimate...Potter's moan; his creation.

"Do you know what you're...ah...doing?" Harry was having obvious trouble forming his words, but Draco wasn't helping him, stroking firmly now, experimenting with his new toy.

"Of course I don't," Draco lied, amused at the expression on Potter's face -- one of mixed fear and excitement. "I know exactly what I'm doing. Just enjoy it, will you?"

"I...but..."

"You going to back out now? I thought you had more courage than that."

"I do." Harry was lying; he didn't look the slightest bit courageous now. His skin was covered with goosepimples despite the heat of the room, his eyes dilated, his cheeks burning. It was a fascinating transformation from the Potter that Draco was used to. It was just his. Nobody else could see this.

"We'll see," Draco told him, and he moved forward enough to pull his own robes off, watching Potter's chest rise sharply as he revealed what was left of his body to show. Was it revulsion, Draco wondered? He didn't consider his own body to be at all beautiful, Potter's attack had put paid to that. "Now, let me see..."

This was enough to bring Harry to shiver, and Draco laughed despite his best efforts, raising his new wand. The fire it seemed to contain burned up his arm as he summoned a bottle from the cabinet. The delight of doing magic...he'd forgotten how it felt.

"What's that?" Harry asked, spoiling the moment.

"I thought I told you to shut up," Draco reminded him, firmly. "Stay still for a second and you'll see."

Draco reached for Harry's hands, pulling them up in front of him and opening the bottle with his thumb. "I'll enjoy this more if you do it," he told him. Harry seemed about to say something, but held his tongue until Draco had covered his hands with lubricant and guided them to his hips.

"No..." Harry said, "I couldn't possibly...what if I hurt you?"

"That's what the spell's for," Draco reassured him, reaching for his wand again. That blistering flame...it was wonderful. What was this wand made out of?! Harry was watching him, enraptured, swallowing thickly as Draco pushed his wand just far enough into his own body to cast the spell.

"Fuck. You're..."

Was that a compliment, snipped short? Draco drew the wand free, dropping it to one side. "Get on with it."

"I don't know how..." Harry protested.

"You put your fingers in, Potter. It's not complicated. Haven't you done this before?"

"With a girl, yeah...but..."

Draco shook his head, irritated. "Gryffindor idiot. The process isn't that different, you know."

Harry grit his teeth, and then with what seemed to be an insensible amount of concentration, pushed one slick finger into him. "That's it," Draco hissed, reassuringly, pushing back against him. Potter looked so very delicious right now -- surprised and a little scared. "Get on with it."

"H-how?"

"Just...just move the finger. Ngh...yeah, that's it. Good, Potter."

He didn't want to blink in case he missed something. Potter seemed to be getting the idea now, and as he gained confidence, so the smile drifted insidiously across his lips, his mouth falling open. It was a surprise to Draco when he pushed in the second finger.

"Like that, Malfoy?"

He could only moan in reply, sinking back against Harry's fingers wantonly. Things were blurring wonderfully at the edges. How could this be reality when it was so surreal? Potter's fingers, twisting, buried deep inside of him. It was unthinkable.

"Enough," Draco hissed, when it was too much to bear any longer, wrenching himself upward to free himself from Harry's infectious touches. "Enough. I need you, Potter."

The carpet grated at his knees as he moved into position, and just for a moment, Draco spared a glance for the door, knowing it was unlocked, somehow unable to care. In this instant, he could lose everything, but he would have gained so much more. Would Potter come back again. Yes, if he had anything to do with it. He twisted his hips, found Harry's erection pushing up against him invitingly, then slowly pushed down against it.

It hurt to force his body down over that resistance, to tear apart the ring of muscle until surely it must tear and break and then...then the worst of it was over, and with the head of Potter's penis inside, it was just so much easier to rock downwards -- all the way down -- until Harry had filled him completely.

If it felt this wonderful to him, it was nothing to the disbelieving bliss that came over Potter beneath him, the way his body twisted urgently on the rug, sweat beading across his brow. He flailed slightly, wrapped his hand around his own erection and squeezed hard, just enough to stop himself from losing control. Come oozed across his fingertips, betraying how close he'd been.

There was no way this was going to last long.

"Move," Potter hissed, and Draco complied, leaning forward just enough that when he pushed down Potter's arousal pulsed against his prostrate, spending bolts of pure pleasure shooting through his body, clouding his mind. It ached to need this so much; he had to move, and each movement made it worse -- made Potter writhe beneath him as though he were possessed.

It was impossible to talk; sometimes it felt like it was impossible to moan, too. He would forget to breathe in his efforts to move, forget to move in his efforts to breathe. His coordination failed him, and his movements became urgent, wanton, barely able to hold himself up, even with Potter's help, his hand moving in frenzied tempo over his erection, completely out and time with the rise and fall of his body. His head flew off as he orgasmed, twisting violently away from Potter, who seemed somehow coherent enough to catch him, push him hard onto his back and pinion him into position. His pounding thrusts were rough and messy -- they hurt -- but Draco had lost his mind and none of it mattered any more; not even when Harry exploded inside of him, come dribbling between them as he drove in a few more times, working off the pressure of his orgasm.

It felt amazing...he felt filthy. But even though it was over, it was still fantastic. His heart thundered against his chest and Potter's heartbeat roared in time, almost ticklish against the heat of his skin. Potter's head was on his shoulder, Potter's hair in his open mouth and Potter's cock was still buried inside of him. So real.

Still on fire, Draco let the world melt away around him, sank back into the carpet as it burned away from him and just let it all disintegrate, until there was only him and Potter and the heady stench of sex.

Harry roused him from his fantasy, dragging his lips across his collarbone in an effort to lift his head. "Draco?"

"Hmm?"

"That wand...it's got a chimaera flame core."

"Sounds about right."
Tags: [fic], rated: nc-17, round: winter 2008
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