Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, Ron/Hermione
Summary: Harry finds a way to relieve his sexual tension. It starts with cleaning and gets messier from there.
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Light bondage, graphic M/M sex
Epilogue compliant? No
Word Count: 6,048
Author's Notes: I really hope you like this! And thanks so much B for helping me whip this story into shape! It was a mess before you (:
Harry was grading essays when he noticed he was really, really late.
"Fuck!" he exclaimed, and jumped up from the couch. He had lunch with Ron and Hermione every Sunday afternoon, and Hermione wasn't fond of tardiness.
Harry bustled through his small professor's suite, yanking his robe off the hook by the door. He swung it around his shoulders and jumped when there was a shattering crash. A pair of picture frames had been caught in his robe. They now lay in a pile of broken glass on the floor.
"Bugger," Harry grumbled, dropping to his knees. He flipped over the pictures and froze.
Ginny Weasley glared up at him from one frame, indignant at being mistreated. To this day she was still as hot-headed as she had been six years ago. Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies, she had broken the record for the most fights in one match. Harry grimaced at his younger self, cowering in the edge of the frame. He never had been able to handle Ginny. It was good that she had left to travel with her team.
But this photograph didn't affect him as much as the second, more recent one. In this picture, neither photo-Harry nor the other man seemed upset at being tossed around. They never had been easily separated. Even now they still held each other, though they'd broken up over four years ago.
His name was Rick, and he had been Harry's first love. Their courtship had been short, sweet and perfect—and the sex had been mind-blowing. Swept up in the relationship, Harry had deluded himself into believing that what they’d had was reason enough for Rick, a travelling reporter, to finally settle down. But Rick had panicked. Harry woke up alone one morning and had been alone ever since.
"Dunno why I even have you out," he said to himself.
Pulling out his wand, he gave the broken glass a half-hearted Reparo and scooped up the restored photos. He crossed his flat to the hall closet where he stored all his junk, and which he hardly ever opened. It would be the perfect home for a couple of ex's.
But as he turned the handle the door sprang open and years of neglected memories crashed into the hallway. Harry was bombarded by flimsy cardboard boxes, stacks of newspapers, forgotten pictures, a broken bird cage, stinky old potions kits, and more. When it had all settled in a landslide around his feet, Harry looked about helplessly. He raised his arms, glaring at the photographs in each hand as if they had somehow had a part in this, and tossed them down into the pile of junk. Ripping off his cloak, Harry dove into the mess with a growl.
Harry startled when he heard his name.
Twisting around from where he sat on the floor, he found Hermione standing at the end of the hall, just on the edge of the piles Harry had been sorting. A few paces behind her was a grinning Ron. Harry gaped at them, his hands still buried in one of the boxes from the closet.
"We knocked but you didn't answer," Hermione explained.
"Shit!" Harry said, "Lunch! I forgot—I'm sorry, Hermione!"
Hermione scowled. "It's okay, I suppose, but what are you doing?"
"Erm...cleaning." Harry glanced about. He realised it certainly didn't look like he was cleaning. The hall looked even more like a hurricane had blown through than before.
"Why?" Hermione asked.
Without his permission, Harry's eyes travelled over to the stacks of photographs, on top of which sat the two he'd recently broken. Hermione, following his gaze, weaved through the mess and picked up the pictures. Harry noticed the pity in her expression and cleared his throat.
"I just realised how messy it had got and I wanted to—"
"You need to get out, Harry," Hermione interrupted.
"I do get out!" Harry snapped. He cursed the automatic response. Way to stay casual.
Ron had moved to Hermione's side and was gazing at the pictures she held.
"Forget getting out," he said. "You need to get laid—oof!" Hermione had elbowed him in the ribs.
Harry grimaced and turned back to the box he had been digging through, trying to seem unaffected.
"I'm just cleaning, guys." He tried to laugh. "There's no deeper, psychological meaning behind cleaning."
"There is when it comes to you," Ron said, eyeing the chaotic living room behind him.
Harry flushed and glared at the baggy t-shirt he pulled out of the box. It was one of Dudley's hand-me-downs. He tossed it into the garbage pile. In fact, the entire box was full of Dudley's old clothes. Harry chucked the whole thing, and then pulled a stack of newspapers toward him, breaking the string that was holding them together.
"Really, Harry," Hermione said cautiously, "when are you going to start dating again?"
Harry grunted in response. This wasn't a topic he enjoyed discussing. He unfolded one of the yellowing newspapers, glaring at himself on the front page. The Boy Who Lived Lives Again! it said, in big, bold letters. He tossed it and opened the second paper.
"Well then," she said, "what can we do to help?"
"Help?" Ron protested in a whisper. Harry heard the grunt that meant Hermione had elbowed him again. He smiled despite himself, then turned and pointed to a pile.
"That's all for the garbage," he said. "There are bags in the kitchen that you can put it all in."
Hermione looked pointedly at Ron, and he shuffled off reluctantly.
"Thank you," Harry said to Hermione. He turned back to the newspaper. This one was about the beginning of the Death Eater trials. He placed it in a ‘save’ pile.
"What's this?" Hermione asked.
Harry glanced over his shoulder. She was holding the dusty wand he had already come across in his cleaning. He grimaced at it and turned away.
"Draco Malfoy's wand," he said as he unfolded the next paper. He was shocked to find the man himself staring back at him, a storm swirling in his grey eyes. He had the strangest urge to stuff it away so it couldn't see him. The headline read: Draco Malfoy, Saved by the Savior!
"Why do you have Malfoy's wand?" Hermione asked as Ron re-entered with a box of garbage bags.
Harry shrugged, saving this paper and moving to the next.
"I won it from him that time we were kidnapped and taken to the Malfoy Manor," Harry explained. "After I got my wand back I guess I just forgot about his."
"You should return it to him," Hermione said.
Harry snorted at the same time Ron did.
"I'm sure he's replaced it by now," Harry said reasonably.
"That doesn't matter." Hermione looked indignant. "It's still stolen property."
"It isn't stolen!" Ron argued. "Harry's just said he won it from him."
"That doesn't make it Harry's!"
"It sure as bloody hell does!"
"Don't you curse at me, Ronald Weasley!"
Harry tuned out their familiar arguing—it never ended with those two—as he studied the next newspaper. Draco Malfoy looked up at him again, a pleased smirk on his face as the title of the article blared at Harry: Draco Malfoy Restores the Wizarding World and His Own Name.
In the photograph, Malfoy shook hands with Minister Shacklebolt as he cut the ribbon on the entrance to the newly repaired Diagon Alley. Of course Harry hadn't forgotten. Malfoy's name was on nearly everything these days, thanks to his multiple generous donations. But it was still strange to see his face. As a Hogwarts professor, Harry stayed isolated from the world most of the year and he liked it that way. This newspaper was a surprisingly bitter reminder that Malfoy had somehow stepped into Harry's place as poster boy—man—for the wizarding world.
Harry glanced up and eyed the wand Hermione was still flourishing angrily.
Malfoy Manor didn't look much different than it had six years ago.
The great wrought-iron gates still guarded the same exotic garden and the same gravel path. The Manor still loomed above the high hedges, carved neatly out of spotless white stone with diamond-paned windows. And there beyond the hedge, beside a gurgling fountain, was the same white peacock.
Harry snorted to himself as he twirled a wand between his fingers. What a fantastic rise he could get out of Malfoy if his peacock were to suddenly turn blue or lose all its elegant plumage. But, of course, Harry couldn't do that. It would be vandalism or harassment or something like that. Maybe he'd know if he'd become an Auror, as once was his dream. But that dream had set sail long ago. Things changed after the war—people changed.
The gates opened for Harry as he approached them, and he pocketed the wand as he started up the path. No reason to encourage temptation.
When he'd reached the looming double doors, he only had to knock once, and they were heaved wide open by a tiny house elf.
"I'm here to see Draco Malfoy," Harry said.
The little elf was just about to open his mouth to speak when a man cleared his throat. With a quiet squeal, the elf bowed and disappeared.
"If it isn't Harry Potter," the man said, and Harry craned his neck through the door to peer up the high, grand staircase.
Draco Malfoy stood at the top, looking as regal as ever in a pair of pressed black robes, with his hair slicked back. He smirked without malice as he descended slowly.
Harry scowled. The worst thing about that smirk was the arrogance in it.
"Twice over Saviour of the Wizarding World," he drawled, "the best Defence professor Hogwarts has ever seen, and three time winner of Witch Weekly's most eligible bachelor award. To what do I owe this great honour?"
"Nice to know you've been stalking me, Malfoy." Harry laughed, even as his spine tensed up at Malfoy's nearness.
Besides, Malfoy had been on excellent behaviour since the war—throwing charity galas, helping out at the Ministry, and working on the Minister’s Board of Advisors. And best of all, he hadn't bothered Harry once. In fact, this was the first time Harry had spoken to him since his trial, during which Harry had supplied the Wizengamot with memories that would secure Malfoy's freedom.
Malfoy smiled mockingly.
"Hardly," he said, gliding to a stop a good distance away from Harry. "It's nearly impossible not to keep up with all the publicity about the Boy-Who-Lived."
Harry grimaced and cleared his throat.
With a patronising smile, Malfoy changed the subject.
"What can I do for you, Potter?" he asked.
"Nothing," Harry said, clenching his teeth against a scathing remark. "I simply came to give you this."
Digging his hand into his robe pocket, Harry pulled out the wand he'd been twirling earlier. In the blink of an eye, Malfoy had dropped into a defensive crouch, his wand trained on Harry.
For a second, Harry's mouth hung open stupidly. Then his lips curled up into a smirk that would have given Malfoy a run for his money.
"A little jumpy, are we?" He held the wand away from his body in a gesture of innocence, and Malfoy straightened up with a little hiss.
"One can never be too careful," he said, smoothing out the creases in his robes.
Harry only grinned. He liked this—having the upper hand on Malfoy.
"What was it you came to give me, then?" Malfoy asked.
Harry wiggled the wand and delighted at the way Malfoy's shoulders tensed again.
"This," he said. "It's yours, I believe."
Malfoy's eyebrows rose in confusion, and he moved forward to take the wand from Harry. He held it up to his eyes to inspect it and then looked at Harry suspiciously.
"And why is it, Potter," he asked, "that after six years you've finally decided to return it to me?"
Harry shrugged. "I forgot about it. I was doing some spring cleaning, and when I found it, I thought you might want it back."
"What makes you think I'd want this?" Draco said, holding the wand gingerly, as if it was infected, "after six years? Did you imagine me sitting at home, helpless and withdrawn, just waiting for the great Harry Potter to grant me with magic once more? Or did you simply come to rub it in my face—the wand that won the war?"
Harry's eyes narrowed, and he had to breathe deeply before he spoke.
"Look, Malfoy," he began, the cold seeping into his voice despite his best attempts. "I just figured it'd be good manners to return it. I did take it without permission, after all. I only supposed you'd want it back."
For a long, silent moment, Malfoy scrutinised him. Then, with another suspicious look, he pulled out his wand once more from the folds of his robes and touched the tips of the two wands together.
"What?" Harry snorted inelegantly. "You think I cursed it?"
Malfoy only sneered and began a steady stream of mumbled spells beneath his breath.
Harry exhaled noisily and, without so much as a wave, turned on his heel and stormed out Malfoy’s front door. He Disapparated the moment he reached the gates.
I love my job, Harry told himself for the hundredth time that day.
It was suppertime at Hogwarts, and Harry was determinedly making his way through the corridors, against the current of the crowd. It had been a long day, and he was in no mood to deal with more shouting, whining, bickering students while he ate.
“Professor Potter! Professor Potter!”
Harry heaved a great sigh, reminded himself once more of his love for his work, and hitched a false smile on his face as he turned around. A tiny boy in Gryffindor robes was pushing through the crowd toward him. He was having a much more difficult time than Harry had been.
“Professor Potter,” he panted as he reached Harry. “Going to dinner, Professor?”
“No, Davis,” Harry said. “I think I’m going to skip dinner tonight.”
This wasn’t entirely true. He’d been on his way down to the kitchens to eat in solitude, with only the Hogwarts house elves as company. But he wouldn’t tell Davis that; the silly boy might ask to tag along.
Davis wasn’t perturbed. “What are you going to do instead? Grade papers? I could help! Would you like help, Professor?”
“Er, no thanks, Davis,” Harry said. “I have plans…I’m, erm…I’m going to—”
“He’s going to have dinner with me,” a man interrupted smoothly.
Harry spun, his gaze settling on the tall figure cutting his way through the crowd. Harry’s eyes narrowed.
Malfoy reached his side without looking at him. He stared down at Davis, his eyes so intense they were almost cold.
“Now why don’t you run along,” Malfoy said politely, but still with ice in his voice. “And stop harassing Professor Potter before he gives you a T.”
Davis’s mouth fell open, his lips wrapping silently around the word Troll. Then, before Harry could call him back to soothe his sudden fears, he’d disappeared into the sea of bodies.
“Well done, Malfoy,” Harry snapped. “Now the boy is probably going to have nightmares!”
“Going to?” Malfoy snickered. “He’s a suck-up, Gryffindor shrimp. I can assure you the Slytherins are already haunting his dreams.”
Harry harrumphed and spun on his heel, taking off down the corridor without another word. He prayed that Malfoy wouldn’t follow—that he was at Hogwarts to torment someone else.
“Potter,” Malfoy called after him, much to Harry’s dismay.
Harry turned the corner. The corridor here was nearly empty, most of the students already in the Great Hall.
“Potter!” Malfoy continued to shout. Harry had picked up his pace so much that he was almost running, dodging startled students in his path. “Hey!” Malfoy bellowed. “Scarhead!”
With a snarl, Harry turned on his heel, his wand already half-drawn. But he was too slow.
Harry tried to dive out of the way, but the spell caught him in the chest. He spiralled backwards through the air, smashing into an unforgiving wall, and crumbled to the floor in a heap.
He was only down for a few seconds, but it was long enough for Malfoy to disappear into the gathering crowd. Harry pushed himself to his feet with a groan, massaging the back of his head.
"Are you all right, Professor?" one of the students said.
"Should I get help?" someone else asked.
"Harry?" That was Hermione, pushing to the front of the ring of students. "What happened? I just saw Malfoy run past my classroom."
“I tried, Hermione,” Harry grumbled, pushing through the crowd with Hermione on his heels. “I tried to be nice to the prat—gave him his sodding wand back. And what does he do? He attacks me in the middle of the corridor!”
“Why did he attack you?”
“Well, I don’t bloody well know, do I?” Harry threw his hands in the air. “Last time I take your advice, though—good-for-nothing sneaking-Slytherin son-of-a-Death-Eater!”
"I have to get back to my class," she said coolly. "And since you’re not taking my advice, I won’t tell you not to do anything rash."
True to his word, Harry ignored Hermione.
This time as he made his way up the drive toward Malfoy Manor, he had no real objective. Maybe he was here to confront Malfoy or maybe he was just here for revenge. All he knew for sure was that rash was probably on the menu. That's when he spotted the peacock.
There was a split second, unconscious decision and a minute wand movement. And when the peacock shrieked Harry was as surprised as the bird to find its plumage had suddenly wilted like a flower.
For a minute, Harry could only stare open-mouthed at it. Then he tilted his head back and roared with raucous laughter. Soon, the peacock's cries and his own laughter had alerted the residents of the Manor, and he was not alone.
"What the blazes have you done to my peacock, Potter?" Malfoy shouted, running down the front steps.
Despite his immediate panic, Harry couldn't keep the smile from his face. He Apparated away just as Malfoy raised his wand.
But in the second before his body had vanished, a wicked purple hex grazed his shoulder, slicing cleanly through his robes.
“Don’t tell Hermione that I laughed at the peacock thing,” Ron warned, riffling through the wardrobe in his bedroom.
Harry nodded, but frankly, he no longer found anything amusing about the situation. Two inches to the right, and Malfoy’s curse could have severed Harry’s arm clean off! That wasn’t just leftover, schoolboy rivalry. That was serious.
Pulling out of the wardrobe, Ron tossed Harry a spare set of robes. Harry pulled off his torn robes and yanked on the spare set as Ron examined the rip, wiggling his fingers through the hole.
“You sure you want me to take this as evidence?” Ron asked. “We’d be ripping Malfoy’s case wide open again. I mean, you were the one who sealed his file up in the first place. Maybe it's a little bit stupid, mate.”
Harry scowled at the reminder. He’d expended so much time and effort on Malfoy’s trial, trying to convince the Wizengamot that there were bigger fish to fry. Was it really wise for him to accuse Malfoy now? But the thought that he might be acting irrationally didn't seem right to Harry. Everything seemed so much more personal when it was about Malfoy.
“Why don’t I just hold on to them for now,” Ron said, reading the conflict on Harry’s face. “And you can let me know later what you want to do.”
Harry nodded and left Ron's bedroom, dropping onto the couch in the next room. Ron followed him, taking a seat in a big leather armchair. Even away from the office he looked very much like an Auror. Harry still had a hard time digesting how much all his friends had changed in peacetime. Although, Ron had laughed about the peacock. Maybe he hadn’t changed too much.
“You look like you could use a drink, mate,” Ron observed.
Harry nodded, slumping into the cushions.
“I don’t know what it is about Malfoy,” he admitted. “He just makes me so angry!”
“Angry,” Ron said with a chuckle, “or…”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Or…?”
Ron smirked. “Or randy as a—”
BOOM!. The door of Ron's study blew open and Malfoy stood in the opening.
“Potter! You’ll pay for what you did to my peacock!” Malfoy brandished his wand. “Oppugno!”
Before Harry could even turn in his seat, a dozen books rose off the bookshelf across the room. They hovered in the air for a moment, and then launched themselves at Harry. Using his rusty Seeker reflexes, Harry was forced to dive right out of his chair.
"Argh!" Ron shouted as he was hit by one of the books. “That's an attack on an Auror! I could have your wand for that, Malfoy!”
And he did look prepared to bring down the full force of the law on Malfoy. But Harry was faster.
“Reducto!” he yelled from where he remained crouched on the floor.
Perhaps the spell was a little more violent than the occasion warranted, but Harry was blinded by rage. And besides, Malfoy ducked out of the way just in time, which left a crater the size of a kneazle in the wall next to the door.
“Erm, Harry,” Ron murmured, all malice gone from his voice. “I could have your wand, too, mate.”
Harry was beyond caring about consequences at this point. He dashed out the door, saw that Malfoy was already halfway down the stairs to the living room, and took off after him. He hardly noticed Ron shouting behind him
Harry kept his eyes on Malfoy’s back as he ran. They were headed for fireplace that Ron used for Floo transportation. When Malfoy dove into the empty grate, Harry was only ten metres behind him. Pushing himself even harder, Harry raced forward as Malfoy threw down the powder and cried out his destination. And just as the flames roared up around him, Harry charged into the grate, smashing into Malfoy and ploughing him over sideways.
They fell together in a spiralling rush of green fire and crashed onto the cold, marble floor of the Malfoy Manor vestibule.
Harry was immobilised by pain, and he tried to relax into the spasms of his protesting muscles. Beneath him, he was vaguely aware of Malfoy writhing and moaning in identical pain. Slowly, the haze faded, and Harry was conscious that his hand was still wrapped securely around his wand.
In a split second he had the tip pressed to Malfoy’s throat. He pushed up on one hand so he could glare down at Malfoy.
“Make one move,” he snarled.
“Or what?” Malfoy wheezed, still managing to sound threatening.
Harry was surprised to see a trail of blood running from the corner of his mouth. Before his brain had even processed the movement, he had rolled off of Malfoy and was crouched against the wall on the other side of the foyer.
“Uuugh!” Malfoy groaned. He slammed his fists down into the floor like a child throwing a tantrum.
Harry’s eyes widened.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, confusion dashing away his anger and hatred.
“Damn it, Potter, you’re so blind!” Malfoy snapped. He was still on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“Are you hurt?” Harry demanded.
Worry was beginning to creep up about him. Maybe Malfoy had hit his head harder than he’d thought. Harry was surprised and also relieved to find that despite everything, he hadn’t ever wanted to cause real harm.
Malfoy didn’t reply this time, just squeezed his eyes shut. And now the worry was really starting to eat at Harry. His eyes swept up and down Malfoy’s body, searching for apparent injuries. Harry found his gaze glued to the unexpected bulge between Malfoy’s legs, and his eyes widened with shock.
“What’s the matter?” Harry asked more slowly this time. “Malfoy, talk to me!”
The moment his name left Harry’s lips, Malfoy’s eyes popped open. Seconds later he had launched himself across the room. He forced his way past Harry’s uplifted arms and then his lips found Harry’s.
Harry’s hand scrambled frantically at marble, fabric, and skin. At first he was trying to throw Malfoy off, and then, suddenly, he was trying to clutch Malfoy tighter against him. Once again that day, his body reacted without thought, his lips parting in response to Malfoy’s soft tongue—his fingernails scraping desperately over Malfoy’s arms and back. He could taste Malfoy’s blood, but he didn’t care.
So long…He’d gone so long without this. He wanted it more than he’d realised. It awed him briefly that Ron—obtuse, unobservant Ron—had been spot on.
“But I h—hate you,” he gasped into Malfoy’s mouth. He tried to get his hands moving in the right direction, but still they pulled Malfoy closer.
“If you say so,” Malfoy said between kisses.
Malfoy’s arms came around Harry—one around his waist to drag him closer, the other twining into Harry’s wild hair.
“But you hate me,” Harry dared to whisper.
“I did,” Malfoy admitted. Then he nipped roughly at Harry’s chin and a rush of arousal bolted through Harry. He was beginning to think less with his brain and more with, well, other parts of his body.
With shaky movements Harry wrapped a generous chunk of Malfoy’s hair around his hand and yanked his head back.
“But you don't anymore?” he asked, and kissed his way down Malfoy’s jaw.
Suddenly, Malfoy’s hands clamped around Harry’s head and dragged he Harry’s lips back. He looked into Harry’s eyes.
“You saved my life, Potter,” he said. “And you kept me out of Azkaban when you owed me no compassion. Think of this as a belated thank you.” He smirked.
Harry laughed. He couldn't help himself. And then Draco was on his back in the next second, with Harry hovering over him. He'd made his decision. He wouldn’t care that this was a man with whom he had been exchanging hexes only moments ago, and he wouldn’t worry what his friends would think if they found out. For his whole life he’d been following rules, doing whatever others thought he should do.
Today, he would do what he thought he should do.
With determination, Harry reached forward and took the collar of Draco’s robes in his fists, preparing to tear them right down the middle. But in his nervousness his hands slipped, leaving only a small tear at the collar.
Draco snorted. He reached up and continued the tear with quick, jerky movements. Buttons scattered across the room, but Harry could only hear his own blood pounding in his ears.
Slowly this time, he brought his lips to Draco’s again.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he murmured against Draco’s mouth. “But first I’m going to make you beg me for it.”
Instead of answering, Draco let out a shaky breath and seemed to fall open beneath Harry. For a second, Harry revelled in his surrender. Oh, how people changed...
Then he bent his head and bit aggressively at Draco's lips.
He worked his way down Draco's neck, paying special attention to the skin stretched thinly over his clavicles. Draco breathed in short bursts as he tensed and relaxed with each bite. When Harry slid his fingers beneath the waist band of his pants, he was pleased with the way Draco's skin shuddered at his touch.
He slithered down Draco's body, laying hot, open-mouthed kisses in a trail down his bare chest. At the same time, he dragged Draco's pants down with him. And when he'd yanked them over Draco's feet and tossed them away, his mouth was close to an impressive erection.
"Suck it," Draco ordered.
"No," Harry decided. A grin curled his mouth as he brushed a barely-there kiss over the head of Draco's cock and then moved to his hip, sinking his teeth into the flesh there. Draco gasped and jerked, then groaned in frustration.
While Harry avoided his erection, he slicked up two fingers with his tongue and pushed Draco's legs up, hooking them over his shoulders. And on the next bite, at the juncture between pelvis and thigh, he slid his longest finger inside Draco.
"Augh," Draco grunted as he tensed around Harry's finger.
Harry's breath ghosted over Draco's cock. But when he didn’t move any closer, Draco arched up.
"My cock," he panted, less demanding than before.
Harry only chuckled and tried wiggling his finger to see what reaction he could get. When Draco moaned, he began working in a second finger. He grazed his teeth over Draco’s hip bone as he scissored his fingers gently into Draco’s tight arse. Beneath him, he could feel Draco’s hand working its way toward his own crotch. Harry drew back.
“Wait,” he said, clutching Draco’s wrist with his free hand.
“Harry,” Draco groaned, and despite what it did to Harry’s body to hear Draco say his name in that voice, he shook his head firmly.
With a pained groan, Draco’s hand fell away from his own cock. Satisfied, Harry bent his head to Draco’s stomach. He dipped his tongue into Draco’s navel as he reached for his wand. With a quick spell, his fingers were slicked up, and he slid them back into Draco's arse.
Moments later, Draco’s hand was back again, and Harry’s eyes narrowed. He sat up on his knees, his wand still in his hand.
“I said wait,” he growled, forcing Draco's hands above his head. “Incarcerous!”
Ropes twined thickly around Draco's wrists, and Harry secured the ends to the floor with a charm. Draco was spread naked, tugging at his bindings, his robes laying open around him like a black shadow.
The view was delicious.
And then he finally got what he'd been waiting for.
"Please," Draco breathed. "Please!"
Harry grinned wickedly.
"Please, what, Draco?" He reached his slick fingers for his own cock, rubbing the oil into his skin.
Draco watched him through half-lidded eyes. His mouth opened, but he said nothing more.
Harry leant forward on his knees and dug his fingernails into Draco's sides. Then, slowly and sensually, he raked them down his body.
Draco’s head thrashed, his wrists rubbing back and forth against the ropes. "Please, fuck me!"
And as if his words had been magically compelling, Harry drew forward, parting Draco's legs once more and tearing his own robes away. He'd barely got his own pants off his hips before he could wait no longer, and he drove into Draco's slick, tight passage.
Draco shouted incoherently in a mixture of pain and intense pleasure. His entire body tightened up and he moaned, long and loud.
"Merlin!" Harry gasped, as Draco spasmed around him. "You’re so—fucking tight!"
He tried to wait, but could remain still for only a few seconds. Then he had to move.
At first he went slowly, allowing Draco time to adjust. His forward thrusts were gentle, and he rotated his hips as he withdrew, but when Draco lifted his hips to meet him, Harry slid in so deep and fast that he propelled Draco across the marble floor a few inches. He wrapped his fingers tightly around Draco's hips, slid almost completely out of him, and slammed forward again.
Harry fucked him until he was dripping with sweat and hunched so low over Draco that he could lick his lips on every forward plunge. Draco was bucking and gasping with each thrust. Harry could feel it as Draco climbed higher and higher, and brought a hand down to Draco’s cock just as he reached the edge.
"No!" Draco shouted in a strangled voice. He jerked at his ropes and stared up at Harry with wide eyes. "No, please!"
Harry kept his finger and thumb wrapped securely around the base of Draco's cock as he thrust one last time. He buried his face into the crook of Draco's neck, biting down as he exploded. Beneath him, Draco thrashed and writhed in pained pleasure, drawing a moan out of Harry.
Finally he rose up, sliding one last time down Draco's body. When his face was level with Draco's neglected cock, he looked up from beneath his lashes.
"Come in my mouth, Draco."
He removed his hand, licked a long, hot trail up the underside of Draco's cock, and closed his mouth around it, sinking all the way to the base.
With a choked shout, Draco’s back arched, and he came down Harry's throat in long, pulsing spurts. Harry swallowed it all. Then he laid a fond kiss to the head and crawled back up Draco's body, his hands coming to Draco's wrists to untie the ropes.
The moment Draco's hands were free, he wrapped them in Harry's hair and dragged his head down to kiss him long and deep, breaking away only when they'd both run out of air. Then Harry collapsed onto his back next to Draco, breathing heavily.
“I hurt all over,” he grunted, staring up at the ceiling. He was almost surprised he had managed to shag after being blasted into walls, attacked by a flock of books, and thrown onto marble floors. And he hadn’t been any easier on Draco, either.
“Yes,” Draco agreed. “That was the most brutal form of foreplay I’ve ever experienced.”
Harry laughed. It was all worth it, he'd decided, all the fighting and all the anger. And later, when he would have to face Ron and Hermione, that would be worth it, too—worth it because he was happy—happy because Draco Malfoy wanted him. How odd.
“There's something I'm confused about," Harry said, turning his head to look at Draco. "If you fancied me, then why did you come to Hogwarts to attack me?”
“I didn’t come to attack you. I came to take you to dinner.”
“You did?” Harry asked, gaping slightly.
“And then you got angry and ran away from me. I can hardly be blamed,” he said, lifting his chin arrogantly. “I never could keep my temper around you.”
“I feel the same way,” he said, then raised an amused eyebrow. “You know, you could have just asked me out. I might have said yes...”
With a deep chuckle, Draco rolled onto his side, pressing his lips to Harry’s bare shoulder.
“Should I ask now?” he whispered.
“Hold that thought,” Harry said, pressing a finger to Draco’s lips. He rose up on shaky legs and began pulling on his clothes.
“Potter?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow.
When Harry was dressed, he crossed to the fireplace and dug a handful of Floo powder out of the pot on the mantle. He turned back and grinned at Draco, who was propped up on his elbows, still naked as the day he was born.
“There’s something I have to do,” Harry explained.
“Be quick,” Draco huffed, falling back to the ground. Then a wicked grin curled his lips, and he reached for his hardening cock. “Or I’ll have to continue without you.”
Ron entered his office with a scowl. He’d just spent the last hour with Head Auror Bones. Somehow she'd gotten word of the fight at his flat and he'd had to convince her that it wasn't necessary to press charges. He had also asked her to hold off on punishing Malfoy for provoking Harry, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. He would wait to hear from Harry first before he decided what to do. After all, if they were going to attack Malfoy using the law, they still had Harry’s robes as evidence.
Automatically, Ron found himself moving towards the wardrobe in which he had stored the robe. He pulled open the drawer, simply wanting a bit of reassurance. But the robes were gone, and in their place was a folded note with Ron’s name scrolled sloppily across the front. Ron unfolded it and read:
Changed my mind. Burned the robes.