FANDOM: Harry Potter
PAIRING/CHARACTERS: Harry, Draco
GENRE: Humour. Slash.
WARNING: None, but that this is my attempt at humour, trying to get away from angst, as per the recipient’s request. I do hope you like it, domina_malfoy!
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. They belong to J. K. Rowling.
ADDITIONAL DISCLAIMER: This author is not responsible for underage readers. Please observe the ratings, warnings, and age of legal consent for your country. Fanfiction posted in this journal is rated by the author following the indications of Motion Picture Association's film ratings.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Gift written for hd_holidays for rule_number_7.
ARCHIVING: Just let me know where.
BETA: cold_poet, who made me feel good about my writing. Thank you!
SUMMARY: He knew Malfoy was after him. He couldn’t say HOW he knew, he just knew.
Harry knew Malfoy was after him. He couldn’t say how he knew, he just knew. Like how he knew when to jump into danger, and when to stay well away. (Well, really, he didn’t actually know the latter, but he liked to pretend that he did.) And maybe it was that which made him just know that Malfoy was after him. Harry couldn’t possibly think of any reason why Malfoy would be after him. It’s not like Harry was hiding himself away in some non-existent magical room fidgeting with recalcitrant wardrobes, or anything. Hardly.
Harry was eating. Snacking away in the Great Hall on some delicious, if not nutritious, old pumpkin pie the elves had managed to scrounge up at a tap of Harry’s wand to the table top. He was on his third piece, face definitely smeared with the proof of his gluttony, when Malfoy strolled in. Pranced? Yeah, maybe that was better. Malfoy pranced in, arms swinging not-too-widely by his side, head held up, stride long and graceful. And what had always amazed Harry was Malfoy’s eerie way of being able to keep his steps silent, if he so desired. Even at a quick gait.
But this time it was noisy and boisterous and very much a look-at-me entrance. Harry paused, a bite half way to his lips and just stared. Because Malfoy was looking directly at him, paused on his way to his own table, with one hand on a hip and a sneer lifting his lip. It was the eyes, always the eyes, that told Harry he was soon to be dead meat, or history. Or some such rubbish as like to be spewed on those Muggle programmes Dudley liked to watch and Harry liked to spy on.
Slowly, Harry brought the bite to his mouth, opened his lips and closed them over the chunk. Of course, he got whipped cream all over his face, but it only added to the previous white smears on his face.
“Looking good, Potter,” Malfoy called out.
The other students, who’d also chosen the Great Hall for their free time, gasped in unison. At least, that’s how it sounded to Harry when the full meaning of Malfoy’s words made itself known as they impacted his brain and made him choke on his food. He gasped, wheezed, covered his mouth with his hand just as chunks wanted to escape. He pounded his chest, hit the table, succeeded only in flipping his plate with the pie on it and sending it spiralling into the air before landing, upside down on the table and splattering even more whipped cream onto his robes. Finally, when Harry could breathe again, he looked up with teary eyes and caught Malfoy’s grin.
“Like I said, looking good, Potter!” And then he was gone, joining his fellow cronies at the Slytherin table where they commenced a loud round of huge guffaws, pointing their knuckly fingers at Harry as he rushed to leave the Great Hall with a least part of his pride intact.
Yeah, Malfoy was definitely out to get him, trying to make him choke to death, with a comment like that. Who did he think he was, anyway? It was just whipped cream for Merlin’s sake! He grumbled to himself as he stomped down the hall, feeling his robes billowing about his legs, trying to snag on his ankles and trip him. Was everything out to get him? Did Malfoy charm his robes to be deadly destroyers of dubiously debauched destroyers of Dark Lords? Malfoy was perfectly capable of such nihilistic thinking.
Harry hid himself in the bathroom and tried—in vain—to perform a simple Cleaning Charm. It only succeeded in turning his robes glaringly white. So white, in fact, that Harry cried out in shock, lost his balance and fell backward, knocking his head on the porcelain sink with a ear-jarring crack!
When he came to, he was lying on his back and his head was pounding in league with his heart to try and attempt the first cranial explosion in history. He lay and waited for the inevitable splattering of bone and brain matter to dot and smear the never-pristine walls of Myrtle’s bathroom.
But before that happened, another ingredient was added to the mixture, its sole purpose surely to ensure the inevitable destruction of Harry’s head. A terribly out of tune sing-song voice, drifting down from the rafters (were there rafters in bathrooms in Hogwarts? Harry felt for sure those thick lines in his vision were rafters), wrapped itself around him and began pummelling his already sore head with needle-like jabs into his eyes and ears and skin. He cried out, closed his eyes and tried to move.
The sing-song voice only got louder and louder until Harry was sure it was trying some sort of spiritual fornication process by way of his flesh. “Stop, please, stop,” he moaned.
“Oooh, the boy is back,” said the voice and Harry knew—just knew—he’d died and gone to hell. What kind of ghost, if not a poltergeist, tormented pained people with their wispy version of a sultry voice? Moaning Myrtle, the one and only.
“Myrtle,” Harry groaned. “Go away. Please.”
It’s an odd sensation to find oneself beside a ghost, their cool—well, alright, damn cold!—bodies—no, wait, their essences—enveloping oneself in its veritable death-like shroud. But then, Harry found himself turning into Myrtle’s coolness as a satisfying balm to his tortured head. And then another odd sensation, and he opened his eyes, only to see the blurry image of the ghost hovering over him. He blinked, wiped his glasses, and looked again. Still blurry. And then he realized he was looking at Myrtle through her hand that was resting on his forehead. His body stiffened as his mind struggled to comprehend that the ghost was touching him, but he couldn’t feel it. Not really, I mean, yes, he could feel the coolness, but the flesh, his mind was yelling at him, just wasn’t there!
He scrambled, rolled and nudged his body away, and only succeeded in compounding the pounding in his head, so he leaned back against the sink and let his eyes roll back into his head.
“You have an owie in your head, Harry Potter?” she asked, sitting coquettishly, her legs folded beneath her all prim and proper, hands clasped in the dip of her folded legs and head tilted to the side, a small smile on her lips. Harry stared at that smile and winced. “Want Myrtle to make it better for you?” She leaned forward and began to crawl toward Harry, her eyes most definitely not on the head on his shoulders. It was only when she was a hair’s breadth away that the full meaning of Myrtle’s words—owie in my head?!?—and where her eyes were currently focused, crashed into him and he found himself scurrying away once again, the pain in his head be damned.
“No, my head is fine. My head—that is, this one!” he pointed to the one on his shoulders, “is just fine!” And no, Harry Potter did not just squeak in the presence of a girl!
Myrtle made a soft petulant sound and sat back down. “All I want to do is make you feel good Harry. Do you want to feel good?” Harry shook his head—damn that pain! “Or, maybe,” her eyes alit with something fierce and just this side of evil, “it’s a boy’s touch you need...?”
Harry’s mouth fell open. He tried to speak, to make sound come from his mouth, but the only thing that would come out was some sort of squawking, choked sound.
“Ooh, Harry Potter likes the boys!” She flew up, her dress fluttering in the sudden movement, and she hovered at the ceiling, swirling in lazy circles. “Harry Potter likes boys! Harry Potter likes boys!” she sang, at the very top of her lungs.
Harry forced himself to his feet and began swatting at the air. “Quit it! Stop it! Myrtle!” In a final desperate bid for silence, he aimed his wand and tried to think of some curse or hex that would work on ghosts. Myrtle twilled. “Oh, maybe ask your little friend, the female one! She’s good at her magic! She’d know! But Harry Potter doesn’t know! Doesn’t know ‘cause he likes the BOYS!!”
With a spittle-spewing huff, Harry shoved his wand into his pants—wincing as it slid dangerously close to his precious bits—and stomped from the bathroom. Choruses of “...BOYS!” and “...wants to change his bits with his wand!” followed him out. Grumbling and cursing he made his way to the Gryffindor common room, ground out the password and shoved his way into the tiny, short tunnel and emerged into the sanctuary of Gryffindor.
The screech reached his ears with death-defying speed and accuracy and he winced, his eyes closed and his hand outstretched as though to avoid any further onslaught to his precious person.
“Oh my god Harry—what are you wearing?”
Those words, said in that tone of voice, from that person, made Harry drop his hands and look down. His robes were still glaringly white. Hermione was staring at him, mouth hanging open. Beside her Ron wore a similar expression. Indeed, most of the occupants of the room seem to have shared in the same potion that made their mouths slack. Harry waved his hand, as though to toss about words, and said, merely, “accident.” Then he made his way to his dorm and threw himself on his bed.
Not a moment later Hermione’s jet-black robes appeared in his distorted, squished-against-the-mattress vision and he felt the tinkle of magic. When he angled a single eye downward he saw his robes were black again. He mumbled a ‘thank you’ and rolled over.
There was a dip in the bed and he knew, just bloody well knew, Hermione was sitting there and wanting some kind of explanation. Like he had one.
“Malfoy’s trying to kill me,” he said finally.
“Malfoy did this to you?”
“Well... not exactly.”
“Harry—” That was Ron, who never really quite understood Harry’s penchant for getting into trouble and would, on a regular basis, stare at his best mate as though Harry were suddenly growing antlers from his head and his skin was becoming a rainbow of colours. “Uh—Malfoy’s on our side, remember? He helped to bring down you-know—Voldemort.”
Harry remembered, of course. Except it didn’t explain the looks Malfoy kept giving him, like he’d like to have Harry sprawled naked, gagged and bound, and ready for whatever torture the blond git could think of, using his Father’s buried torture chambers as fodder for pain. And then, horrors upon horrors, Harry found his body didn’t quite react to that image like he thought it would. Instead of being disgusted at being at Malfoy’s mercy, he found his body—a certain appendage—actually rising to the offer, the thought, the images. He groaned again, buried his head in the pillow and curled himself into a ball.
“You okay?” came Hermione’s perpetually worried voice. He felt a hand on his back, then on the back of his head and the feel of skin made him think of Malfoy holding him down while he—
With a yelp Harry jumped up and ran to the farthest side of the room. “Don’t touch me!” he rasped.
Hermione and Ron stood, staring at him. “You okay? I mean, it’s not Voldemort giving you nightmares from beyond the grave is it?” Trust Ron to be the melodramatic one!
“And you didn’t explain how your robes were white,” Hermione added, making Harry remember the scene in the Great Hall that had precipitated his failed attempt at a first year-simple cleaning charm.
“It was—you see Malfoy—he said—and then I—” Harry shut up. Just how was he supposed to explain that a few simple words from Malfoy had caused Harry to almost die by his own hand, then almost kill himself with his own wand, and then be mocked, mercilessly, by a bloody ghost! It was preposterous so Harry just folded his arms across his chest and pouted. Absurd that he should be so embarrassed at something Malfoy had done.
Hermione was coming toward him, her hands outstretched, placating words dribbling from her mouth. Sasha DavHarry wouldn’t look at her, didn’t want to see the pity so evident in her eyes as it was in her voice.
“Mate, I’m gonna kill that git!” Ron suddenly said and Harry snapped his head around, body suddenly churning with coiled fury at the thought that Ron wanted to—what? Kill Malfoy? Isn’t that they all wanted? So why did he suddenly find himself wanting not to hurt the blond wanker?
Because you wank to the wanker! said a traitorous voice in his head. If it weren’t considered flirting with insanity, he would have answered it, in the very vocal sense too! Instead he merely closed his eyes and hung his head.
Malfoy wanted him, and Harry wanted Malfoy, though most likely not in the same way. In a tired, defeated voice Harry related the incident in the Great Hall and the subsequent one in Myrtle’s bathroom and waited for the inevitable honking guffaws from Ron, and the pitying looks from Hermione. He got neither, only silence. When he peeked open an eye, it was to see his two best mates staring at him in speechless shock.
“Harry—I think you need to talk to someone,” Hermione said. “It was just a look, like all his looks. You fell right into his hands.”
“Harry! What’s with you?” Ron exclaimed. “This is Malfoy! Why’d you let him get to you like that? All throughout the war, he bugged you and conned you and made you look like a pitiful excuse for a hero. Yeah, he gave us valuable information, but damn Harry, you have to learn to control your temper, mate!”
Harry glared at his best mates, hating them with a vileness he’d only rarely felt, mostly directed at Dudley and the Dursleys, and then transferred to Voldemort. He didn’t want them dead per-se, but it was definitely close. Very close. Because at that moment, they made him feel as big as a crouching ant, as disgusting as a wad of gum beneath his shoe, as useless as a mushed up blade of grass, a—well, just really bad, really.
He stalked from the room in a huff, swirling his now-black robes around him in a flighty sense of self-importance. Sometimes he reminded himself of Snape and his grandiose way of traipsing through Hogwarts like he owned the damned castle. He passed through the common room—no more gaping occupants, thank you very much! they were suddenly all intent on their essays—through the portrait and back into the corridors.
And there, in all his silvery and green glory, stood the very bane of Harry’s existence. Malfoy eyed Harry from top to bottom, his eyes doing a slow perusal of Harry’s body before coming back up to his eyes. Then he nodded. “Still looking good, Potter,” he said.
Harry could only stand there and gape at Malfoy’s obvious searching for weak spots. And then, at his oh-so-gloating words, Harry threw himself at the other, tackling him to the ground with a yell of such ferocity, there’d been a twinkle of a moment when Harry had wondered if he was at all sane. Down they went, Harry’s hands at Malfoy’s throat, his body propelling them backward and into the opposite wall. Pulling back, Harry swung his fist into Malfoy’s face and felt the squish of flesh shifting against bone and was momentarily pleased with his well-aimed punch. He swung again, and missed.
And then Malfoy landed a blow square to Harry’s gut and he felt himself fold over, his breath knocked fresh out of him. Down he went, a hand still clutching Malfoy’s robes. They landed with a soft thud, Malfoy atop Harry, a hand by Harry’s head. Harry struggled to catch his breath, angling his head up, stretching his throat, like that would let in more air. He gasped, felt the air go in but his clenching gut muscles wouldn’t expand.
Finally, bit by bit, he could breathe and he looked up—straight into Malfoy’s eyes. Were they Malfoy’s eyes? Did Malfoy’s eyes ever look like that?
“Potter. Not looking too good right now,” he said. And then smiled.
Harry stopped breathing. And then barked a rather undignified sound. “What’s your game, Malfoy?”
“What game? I’m not playing, Potter.” His voice suddenly wasn’t the sneering, loathsome bane-to-all-ears sound that had always had Harry’s shackles up. No, this time it was soft, a murmur of warm air against Harry’s skin and this other things rose up.
“I mean—you—what do mean when you—you know—say those things?”
Something was touching Harry’s ear, tickling it. He reached to swat at the bug—and felt flesh. Malfoy’s flesh. Malfoy was touching him, flicking his thumb against Harry’s ear. He jerked and tried to scurry away.
“Steady Potter, we’re right by the stairs. Would hate to go rolling down them—together.”
Harry choked. It seemed to be a day of choking, soundless shocks. “You—!”
“Yes, me,” Malfoy said, and smiled again.
Harry’s words were cut off, rather effectively, by a mouth covering his. His eyes bugged out, and his mouth gaped—again!? He could see Malfoy’s closed eyes and his eyelashes gently resting on his cheeks. He was moving, shifting his lips atop Harry’s and Harry could only lie there, his mind blank, his body stiff, his brain shocked into a veritable flatline. He couldn’t be alive, could he? With Malfoy kissing him? KISSING??
And then he felt it—something soft and gentle prodding his lips. At the same time his breath came back and he inhaled deeply—inhaled Malfoy’s scent and felt his eyes closing and a moan from his nose. Malfoy’s tongue touched his. It was an odd sensation, to be sure, and from Draco of all people! But it was there and it was good and Harry wanted more. He flicked his own tongue against Malfoy’s as he tested this new sensation: another’s tongue in his mouth. Malfoy moved his tongue, plunging it in, running it along Harry’s teeth, his palate, his cheeks, all over. And Harry found himself doing the same thing, wanting to feel more of this tongue invading the very personal space of his mouth.
It was a wet kiss, all slobbery and noisy but Harry found he didn’t mind that. Couldn’t even process that, in normal circumstances, it’d be mighty gross. It was when his head was held in Malfoy’s hands, steadying its movements while his mouth was plundered mercilessly and Malfoy shifting above him, letting Harry feel other things wanting to prod other places—and Harry’s mind snapped.
It must have snapped because one of his legs was coming up, wrapping around Malfoy’s rolling hips and pulling him in closer, pressing their groins together. His own hands came up and held onto Malfoy’s head, like Malfoy was going to leave him be in this horrible state of taut arousal, their very present erections doing the tango through their trousers. Harry held on tight, lifted his head and realized he’d never get enough of this, of Malfoy, of this kissing and touching, and frotting and—damn! What the hell was he doing? But it didn’t matter because it felt good, felt damn good, in fact. So good that, sooner than he thought, he felt the stirrings of his orgasm coiling in his gut and he moved faster, thrusting his hips harder into Malfoy’s, panting into his mouth, clutching his head, their tongues paring magnificently --and it hit. Shooting through Harry like a spike of white-hot pain-pleasure and he broke the kiss, threw his head back, and cried out.
It wasn’t what Harry had wanted to do—cry out like that. But there it was, a sound of unmitigated pleasure. Pleasure that he’d gotten with Malfoy.
Harry snapped his eyes open and—holy mother of the most unholy Merlin!—Malfoy was indeed above him, his head buried in Harry’s neck, his breath heating up Harry’s skin to uncomfortable degrees, and yet feeling rather nice. Harry mentally shook that thought away and pushed at Malfoy. The other made a soft noise, the sound tickling Harry and he bit his lip to keep silent, still pushing at Malfoy. “Geroff!” he said through gritted teeth. “If anyone sees us—”
“They already have,” came the muffled response. “Why do you think I’m hiding my face?”
Harry turned his head and—yep—lo and behold, practically the entire house of Gryffindor, plus a good smattering of every other house, were standing in the halls and on the suspiciously motionless staircases, all eyes fixed on the now motionless duo. Once again, Harry felt his chest seize up and no breath would go in or leave his body. He did make a sound, though, something like a dying toad.
“Fucking apparating laws of bloody Hogwarts,” he heard Malfoy mumble and found he couldn’t agree more.
Harry pressed his mouth to Malfoy’s ear. “Do you know how to cast a disillusionment charm?”
Malfoy shivered before responding. “Not perfectly. I might make us disappear but leave our bits on show,” Malfoy responded sotto voce and Harry felt something growing against him.
“Are you getting hard again?” he hissed.
“If you’d quit whispering against my ear, I’d be fine!”
“What?” Harry screeched, and then snapped his lips shut.
Malfoy flinched. “Well, that certainly did it.”
“Malfoy—make us disappear, or I’ll hex your bits right off!”
“Hmm, you might miss those bits. Are you sure you can aim properly, seeing as our bits are currently pressed rather intimately together?”
Oh gods—that thought made Harry’s own bits respond with their version of ‘please don’t hex us off!’
“Just do it!”
“Hex our bits off?”
“Make us invisible!”
The crowd was beginning to sound impatient, as though they were waiting for an encore, or something. Harry kept his eyes shut and began to pray. To God, to Allah, to Buddha, to Merlin, to any deity out there that could possibly feel it in their incorporeal entities to come to his aid.
Malfoy muttered something and Harry felt the trickle of magic. When he opened his eyes it was to see a very faint outline of Malfoy above him. He more felt than saw the other push himself off and stand, arranging his bits into a more comfortable place within his trousers. Harry did the same.
The crowd groaned and moaned and then dispersed.
“So, uh, Malfoy—”
Malfoy looked up then, and sighed. “Will you quit looking so damned good, Potter!” It was a weak cry, really, a protest that merely floated serenely to the ground, like a bubble that just burst quietly and was no more.
Harry stared at Malfoy, blinking. “What the bloody hell are you on??”
Again, another sigh and a pleading look toward the heavens. “Don’t you get it, Potter?”
Harry shook his head. “Get what?”
“All this time, and it’s gone right over your head? You really are bloody daft, aren’t you? What, did Voldemort run into your wand or something? How the bloody hell could you kill such a megalomaniac and not see what’s right in front of you?”
”Harry took a step forward. “You’d better start speaking some form of English, Malfoy, because I, er—”
Draco, too, took a step forward. “You, what, Potter?” he said, his voice dropping to that sultry, roll-off-your-tongue sexiness he’d used when speaking into Harry’s neck.
Harry rubbed at his neck, wondering at its sudden warmth. “Er—”
“Something got your tongue?” Malfoy tilted his head and made as though to look into Harry’s mouth.
Harry pursed his lips together. “Bugger off, Malfoy!”
“Well, I was sorta hoping it’d be bugger on, Potter.”
Harry’s eyes could have fallen from his head. He shook his head, as though this were the most preposterous thing—actually, it was the most preposterous thing Harry had never heard! “Malfoy—”
“Shut up and listen, Potter—Harry. You have got to be the daftest person I’ve never met. You make most men seem like clairvoyants. Now, instead of telling you, and have you completely misunderstand or, you know, not understand at all, I’m going to show you. A sort of show-and-tell, yeah?”
But that was as far as Harry got, as Malfoy, once again, insinuated his tongue, with clever quickness, into Harry’s mouth. And it began all over again.